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Again with the story. Myron threw up his hands. “What are you talking about, story?”
Young Beluga shook his massive white head as though Myron’s answer was a total disappointment to him, which, he guessed, it was.
“Where do you think he is right now?” Hawes asked.
“Greg?”
“Stop jerking us around, jerkoff,” Young Beluga snapped. “Where is he?”
Myron was getting a little fed up with this. “In a mausoleum at Cedar Lawn Cemetery in Paterson.”
“That’s a lie,” Hawes countered. “Did you help him?”
Myron sat back. Their tone was growing increasingly hostile, but there was also the unmistakable whiff of desperation and thus truth in the air. Myron didn’t know what was going on here, and when that happened he had a habit of talking too much. Better to take a deep breath before continuing.
“I don’t understand,” Myron began. “What does Greg Downing have to do with the Callister murders? Didn’t the cops already arrest the husband?”
Now it was the two agents who exchanged a glance. “They released Mr. Himble this morning.”
“Why?”
No reply.
Here was what Myron knew about the murders: Cecelia Callister, age fifty-two, a semi-supermodel from the 1990s, and her thirty-year-old son, Clay, were found murdered in the mansion where they resided with Cecelia’s fourth husband, Lou Himble. Himble had recently been indicted on fraud charges related to his cryptocurrency startup.
“I thought the case was open and shut,” Myron continued. “The husband was having an affair, she found out, was going to turn state’s evidence on him, he had to silence her, the son walked in on them. Something like that.”
Special Agent Monica Hawes and Special Agent Young Beluga Whale exchanged another glance. Then Hawes repeated in a careful voice, “Something like that.”
“So?”
Myron waited. Win waited.
“We have reason to believe,” Hawes said, still using the careful voice, “that Greg Downing is still alive. We have reason to believe your former client is involved in the murders.”
The two feds leaned forward to gauge the reaction. Myron did not disappoint. Even though this accusation should have seemed inevitable by now, Myron went slack-jawed when he heard it out loud.
Greg. Alive.
How did he process that? After all the years—their on-court rivalry, Greg stealing Myron’s first love, Myron’s awful payback for that, Greg’s even worse payback, the years of reconciliation—and Jeremy, dear sweet, wonderful Jeremy…
It made no sense. Every part of his face registered complete and utter bafflement.
And Win’s reaction? He was checking the time on his vintage Blancpain watch.
“Please excuse me,” Win said. “I have a pressing engagement. My, what a delight to have met you both.”
Win rose.
“Sit down,” Hawes demanded.
“I don’t think I will.”
“We aren’t finished.”
“You aren’t, are you?” Win gave them both his most winning smile. It was a good smile, even better than Myron’s cooperative one. “I, however, am. Have a most pleasant afternoon.”
Without so much as a backward glance, Win sauntered out of the office. Everyone, including Myron, stared at the door as Win vanished from sight.
