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Win stopped, spun slowly, looked around.
“You forget something?”
Win frowned. “I never forget something.”
“I’ve seen you forget umbrellas in downpours.”
“I don’t forget them. I leave them behind for others.”
“You’re such a man of the people.”
Win took out his phone and checked it. He frowned and started typing a reply.
“Problem?” Myron asked.
“No, just a family business matter. I’m going to helicopter down to Philadelphia. I should be back in a few hours.”
Within seconds, Win’s limo was on the scene. The driver opened the back door for him. Win started toward it, stopped, turned back to Myron. “Is it wrong that I want it to be a serial killer and that the serial killer is Greg Downing?”
Myron smiled. “You don’t forgive easily.”
Win said nothing.
“Yet you still worked with him,” Myron said. “You helped him with his finances.”
“It wasn’t my place to forgive or hold a grudge.”
“It was mine.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know about right or wrong,” Myron said. “I guess it would be easiest.”
“We never get easy.”
“Never,” Myron agreed.
Win disappeared into the car.
When Myron got back to his office, Big Cyndi met him at the elevator. She kept her voice low.
“You have a visitor, Mr. Bolitar.”
“Who is it?”
“Ellen.”
“Ellen what?”
Big Cyndi was whispering now. “She wouldn’t give me her last name.”
Myron moved into the waiting area by Big Cyndi’s desk. An elderly woman—Myron guessed her to be about his mother’s age—stood holding her purse in both hands. She was tiny—what some might call wizened—with short hair and a buttoned-up cardigan of matching grays. She wore pearls and cameo stud earrings. A white shawl was wrapped around her neck, held in by a brass brooch of a butterfly.
“Can I help you?” Myron asked.
“Yes please,” the woman said. “Can we speak alone in your office?”
“Do I know you?”
