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“Present,” Win said in that haughty prep-school tone as he—to quote the opening lines of the Carly Simon song Win’s entire being emanated—walked into the party like he was walking onto a yacht. Win—aka the aforementioned Mr. Lockwood—was the dictionary definition of natty as he glided around Myron’s new conference table and took the seat next to him.
Myron spread his hands and offered up his most cooperative smile. “I understand you have questions for us?”
“We do,” Hawes said. And then without preamble, she dropped the bomb: “Where is Greg Downing?”
The question was a stunner. No other way around it. A stunner. Myron’s jaw dropped. He turned to Win. Win’s face, as usual, gave away nothing. Win was good at that, showing nothing.
The reason for Myron’s surprise was simple.
Greg Downing had been dead for three years.
“I thought you were here about the Callister murders,” Myron said.
“We are,” Special Agent Hawes countered. Then repeated the question. “Where is Greg Downing?”
“Are you joking?” Myron asked.
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
She did not. She looked, in fact, like she never ever joked.
Myron glanced at Win to gauge his reaction. Win looked a little bored.
“Greg Downing,” Myron said, “is dead.”
“Is that your story?”
Myron frowned. “My story?”
The young agent who looked like a beluga whale leaned forward a little and glared at Win. He spoke for the first time, his voice deeper than Myron expected. Or maybe Myron had expected a high-pitched whale call. “Is that your story too?”
Win almost yawned. “No comment.”
“You’re Greg Downing’s financial advisor,” Young Beluga continued, still trying to stare down Win; he would have had a better chance of staring down a duvet cover. “Is that correct?”
“No comment.”
“We can subpoena your records.”
“Gasp, now I’m terrified. Let me think on that one.” Win steepled his fingers and lowered his head as though in deep thought. Then: “Say it with me this time: No comment.”
Hawes and Young Beluga scowled some more. “And you.” Hawes swiveled back on Myron with a snarl. Myron guessed that Hawes had him, Young Beluga had Win. “You’re Downing’s, what, agent? Manager?”
“Correction,” Myron said. “I was his agent and manager.”
“When did you stop?”
“Three years ago. When Greg, you know, died.”
“You both attended his memorial service.”
Win stayed mum, so Myron said, “We did.”
“You even spoke, Mr. Bolitar. After all the bad blood between you two, I hear you gave a beautiful eulogy.”
Myron glanced at Win again. “Uh, thanks.”
“And you’re sticking with your story?”
