Page 6 of Think Twice

Win’s full name is Windsor Horne Lockwood III. The skyscraper they currently sat atop was called the Lock-Horne Building. The italics are here to emphasize that the building was named for Win’s family and thus big bucks are involved. For many years, Myron’s sports agency MB Reps (the M for Myron, the B for Bolitar, the Reps because they represented people—Myron came up with that name on his own but remained humble) had been housed on the building’s fourth floor. A few years back, Myron stupidly sold his agency and moved out and now a law firm resided in that space. When Myron decided to come back two months ago, the top floor was the only available space.

Not that Myron was complaining. The pretty bitching view impressed clients, if not FBI agents.

Over the past two months, Myron had been working hard to woo back some of his old clients. He had overlooked Greg Downing for the simple reason that, well, the whole dead thing. Dead men make poor earning clients. Bad business.

The two agents were still staring at the door. When they finally realized that Win was not returning, Hawes turned her focus back on Myron. “Did you hear what I said, Mr. Bolitar?”

Myron nodded, got his bearings. “You claim a man who died of a heart attack—a man who had an obituary and a funeral and who, as you pointed out, I eulogized—is, in fact, still alive.”

“Yes.”

Myron looked back at the door where Win had just up and left. Yes, Win loved to play the aloof, elite, above-it-all snob because that was what he was, but Myron still found it hard to believe that Win would just walk out without reason. That made Myron pull up and try to take a more cautious route.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Myron asked.

Young Beluga did not like that one. “What are you, a shrink?”

“Good one.”

“What?”

“The shrink line,” Myron said. “It’s very funny.”

Young Beluga’s narrow eyes narrowed even more. “You being a wiseass with me?”

Myron did not reply right away. Thoughts about Greg’s family swirled in Myron’s head. He fought hard to keep them at bay. Greg’s wife, Emily. Greg’s… man, it was hard to even think about it… his son, Jeremy. So much past. So much history. So much misery and joy. There are people we stumble across who change things forever. Some are obvious—family and partners—but in the end, when Myron looked at his own life’s journey and trajectory, nobody altered Myron’s more than Greg Downing.

For the better or the worse?

“You hear me, wiseass?”

“Loud and clear,” Myron said, fighting to keep focus. “Can you prove what you’re saying is true?”

“About?”

“About Greg being alive. Can you prove it?”

The two agents hesitated, exchanged yet another glance. Then Hawes said, “Greg Downing’s DNA was found at the Callister murder scene.”

“What sort of DNA?”

Young Beluga took that one with a side of relish: “Skin cells,” he said. “Your, uh, ‘dead’ client? His DNA was found under the victim’s fingernails.” He sat up a little straighter and lowered his voice à la a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, like when a helpless victim is desperately scratching and clawing to save their own life? Like that.”

Myron’s head reeled. This made no sense. Young Beluga smiled with teeth too small for his mouth, thus adding to his overall beluga appearance.

“Under which victim’s nails?” Myron asked.

“None of your business.” It was Hawes this time. “You and Greg Downing go way back, don’t you? Basketball rivals. High school. College. Both of you were drafted in the NBA’s first round. Downing had a great pro career. Became a beloved coach after he retired.” Hawes put on a sarcastic pity pout. “You, on the other hand…”

“… have a cool-ass office with a pretty bitching view?”

Quick backstory: Not long after the draft, during Myron’s first preseason game as a twenty-one-year-old Boston Celtics rookie, an opposing player named Big Burt Wesson slammed into Myron, twisting his knee in a way no joint should ever be twisted.

Bye-bye, basketball.

Hawes and Beluga thought this still bothered Myron, that it would be a good way to needle him and get under his skin.

They were two decades late for that.

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