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Win spread his hands. “It’s good to be me,” he said.
PT smiled. “Truer words.”
“Why do you ask?” Win asked.
“Because I changed the trajectory of your lives,” PT said.
Myron never really thought about that, but it was true. PT had recruited them young for a brief and clandestine stint with a subgroup of the Federal Bureau of Investigation under the code name Adiona. There were reasons PT had selected them, trained them, put them out in the field, but that was long ago. Still, PT was right. That was where it started for Myron and Win. It had forged them, made them think they could do this. They had saved many. They had lost some too. Myron flashed back to that tombstone, the name Brenda Slaughter, but then he blinked and moved on. Great competitors had that ability—to move on. To be the best in any sport, you must have the reflexes, the physical ability, the mental attitude, the scary-ass competitive drive—but you also had to hone the simple ability to forget. Did you blow the save? You forget it. Miss the putt? Forget it. Make a big turnover down the stretch? Shrug and onward.
The great ones know how to forget.
“Sit,” PT said.
There was a round table in the center of the room that could probably hold ten, but right now there were only three place settings.
“I took the liberty of asking Eric to order for us,” PT said.
Eric, Myron assumed, referred to Eric Ripert, the co-owner and head chef. Myron didn’t know him. Win did. So, Myron guessed, did PT. A waiter appeared and poured white wine. Myron didn’t like drinking wine during the day. It made him fall asleep. But if PT had ordered it at Le Bernardin, it was probably worth trying.
“What brings you to Manhattan?” Myron asked.
The one thing they did know about PT was that he lived in the Washington, DC, area—close enough to reach the president with a moment’s notice.
“Work.”
“I thought you retired,” Myron said.
“I often retire,” PT said. Then he added, “But my help is needed here.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Almost never,” PT said, taking a sip of the wine. “Only when an important matter requires great sensitivity.”
“And the Greg Downing case fits that category?” Myron asked.
“It does indeed,” PT said.
“It’s a murder case,” Myron said. “A double murder. That shouldn’t be enough to bring you out of retirement.”
“A double murder would not be enough, no.”
“Then it’s not a double murder?”
“Before we get into that,” PT said, “I assume you reached out to me here because Greg Downing is a client of yours.”
“That’s right,” Myron said.
“So we all know what’s what: You wish to help his defense. You’re on Greg Downing’s side.”
“I guess,” Myron said. “What side are you on?”
PT grinned. “I have no dog in this fight. I just want to get to the truth. If that means Greg Downing fries, he fries. If it means he is innocent, I’m all about clearing him too.” The waiter came in and served the first course. “So I have a bit of a dilemma.”
“That being?”
“There are things you should know. Check that. There are things I want to tell you, even though our new director would not like me confiding in you.”
“Do you like the new director?” Win asked.
