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Hawes’s gaze met Myron’s. “Let’s stop with the games, Mr. Bolitar. Where is Greg Downing?”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”
“You don’t want to cooperate?”
“If you’re telling me the truth—”
“We are.”
“If you’re telling me the truth,” Myron started again, “if Greg is alive—I can’t talk.”
“Why not?”
“Attorney-client privilege.”
“I thought you were his agent.”
“That too.”
“I’m not following.”
When young Myron realized that his knee would never heal properly, when he realized his playing days were over, he doubled down on “moving on.” He had been a good student at Duke. He channeled his basketball focus into studying for the LSAT, aced it, got accepted to Harvard Law School, graduated with honors. After he passed the bar, he opened MB Reps (then called MB SportsReps because—try to follow with help from the italics—at first, he only represented athletes or people in sports). By being a true bar-associated attorney, Myron was able to offer his clients the fullest protection under the law.
It helped, especially when a client had a legal issue.
Like now, he guessed.
“We were told you’d cooperate, Mr. Bolitar.”
“That was before I knew what this was about,” Myron said. “Please leave. Now.”
They both took their time standing up.
“One more thing,” Myron said. “If you find Mr. Downing, I don’t want him questioned without my presence.”
Young Beluga’s reply was a scoffing sound. Hawes stayed silent.
Myron sat there as they started to circle around the table. Greg. Alive. Forget the murders for a moment. How the hell can Greg be alive?
Young Beluga stopped and bent down over Myron. “This isn’t over, asshole.”
He had no idea how right he was.
CHAPTER TWO
Win’s office was one floor below Myron’s.
When Myron got off the elevator, he still auto-braced for the hustle and bustle and pure volume of screaming traders shouting out buy-sell orders for stocks and bonds and investments, and, uh, financial stuff like that. Myron wasn’t good with monetary instruments and the like, and he was okay with that. Win handled all money matters for the clients. Myron handled the agenting work—negotiating with owners and executives, soliciting endorsement deals, increasing a client’s social-media compensation, branding, upping appearance fees, taking care of life’s mundanities, whatever.
In short: maximizing earning potential.
Myron’s job involved bringing in the money; Win’s job was to invest and grow it.
The lack of workplace cacophony had something to do with how trades were made online or via computers nowadays. There was still the occasional shout across the room, but for the most part, every head was down, every eye was on a screen. It was creepy.
Win’s private corner office was, not surprisingly, the largest. It faced both Park Avenue and uptown. There was the pretty bitching view, but there was also dark wood paneling and period art and the feel of a nineteenth-century men’s club in central London.
“You know something,” Myron said.
