Think Twice

Myron hung up as Big Cyndi, his longtime receptionist, silently ushered the two federal officers into the conference room. The two agents stared up, way up, at Big Cyndi. She was used to it. Myron was used to it. Big Cyndi got your attention fast. The agents flashed badges and made quick intros. Special Agent Monica Hawes, the lead, was a Black woman in her midfifties. Her sullen junior partner was a pasty-faced youngster with a forehead so prominent he resembled a beluga whale. He gave his name, but Myron was too distracted by the forehead to absorb it.

“Please,” Myron said, gesturing for them to sit in the chairs that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows and said pretty bitching view.

The agents sat, but they did not look happy about it.

Big Cyndi put on a fake British accent and said, “Will that be all, Mr. Bolitar? Perhaps a spot of tea?”

Myron resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “No, I think we’re good, thanks.”

Big Cyndi bowed and left.

Myron also sat and waited for the agents to speak. The only thing he knew about this visit was that the FBI wanted to talk to both him and Win about the high-profile Callister murders. He had no idea why — neither he nor Win knew anything about the Callisters or the case other than what they’d seen on the news — but they’d been assured that they were not suspects or persons of interest.

“Where’s Mr. Lockwood?” Agent Hawes asked.

“Present,” Win said in that haughty prep-school tone as he — to quote the opening lines of the Carly Simon song Win’s entire being emanated — walked into the party like he was walking onto a yacht. Win — aka the aforementioned Mr. Lockwood — was the dictionary definition of natty as he glided around Myron’s new conference table and took the seat next to him.

Myron spread his hands and offered up his most cooperative smile. “I understand you have questions for us?”

“We do,” Hawes said. And then without preamble, she dropped the bomb: “Where is Greg Downing?”

The question was a stunner. No other way around it. A stunner. Myron’s jaw dropped. He turned to Win. Win’s face, as usual, gave away nothing. Win was good at that, showing nothing.

The reason for Myron’s surprise was simple.

Greg Downing had been dead for three years.

“I thought you were here about the Callister murders,” Myron said.

“We are,” Special Agent Hawes countered. Then repeated the question. “Where is Greg Downing?”

“Are you joking?” Myron asked.

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

She did not. She looked, in fact, like she never ever joked.

Myron glanced at Win to gauge his reaction. Win looked a little bored.

“Greg Downing,” Myron said, “is dead.”

“Is that your story?”

Myron frowned. “My story?”

The young agent who looked like a beluga whale leaned forward a little and glared at Win. He spoke for the first time, his voice deeper than Myron expected. Or maybe Myron had expected a high-pitched whale call. “Is that your story too?”

Win almost yawned. “No comment.”

“You’re Greg Downing’s financial advisor,” Young Beluga continued, still trying to stare down Win; he would have had a better chance of staring down a duvet cover. “Is that correct?”

“No comment.”

“We can subpoena your records.”

“Gasp, now I’m terrified. Let me think on that one.” Win steepled his fingers and lowered his head as though in deep thought. Then: “Say it with me this time: No comment.”

Hawes and Young Beluga scowled some more. “And you.” Hawes swiveled back on Myron with a snarl. Myron guessed that Hawes had him, Young Beluga had Win. “You’re Downing’s, what, agent? Manager?”

“Correction,” Myron said. “I was his agent and manager.”

“When did you stop?”

“Three years ago. When Greg, you know, died.”

“You both attended his memorial service.”

Win stayed mum, so Myron said, “We did.”

“You even spoke, Mr. Bolitar. After all the bad blood between you two, I hear you gave a beautiful eulogy.”

Myron glanced at Win again. “Uh, thanks.”

“And you’re sticking with your story?”

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.