Think Twice

Win’s face was already red from the drink. Myron had noticed that Win now drank more than he used to, or perhaps it was just showing up on his face now. They both held their drinks and sat in burgundy leather chairs. A nineteenth-century pashmina wool carpet from northern India covered the floor between them. The carpet was a deep scarlet with gold stars and azure lotus blossoms.

“I spoke to PT,” Win said.

Many years ago, when Win and Myron had done “favors” for the FBI, PT had been their contact. The public didn’t know him, but every president and FBI director since Ronald Reagan considered him an intimate.

“What does PT say?”

“Greg did it. The DNA evidence is overwhelming.”

“A little too overwhelming maybe.”

Win shrugged. “Sometimes the simplest answer.”

“And sometimes not. What else did PT say?”

“He didn’t know the feds were tailing you.”

“Would he have warned me if he did?”

“I don’t see why. You were doing the legwork for them.” Win put down his drink and steepled his fingers. “There is one other wrinkle.”

“Oh?”

“PT insists it has to remain confidential.”

“Okay.” Myron took a swig of the cognac. He didn’t want to know the price per swig. “So what’s the wrinkle?”

“The murder of Jordan Kravat.”

“What about it?”

“That’s the reason for the FBI’s involvement.”

Myron nodded. He had already put that together. “Two murders, two different states.”

“Ergo the FBI involvement,” Win added. “Correct.”

“Let me guess,” Myron said. He took another swig and realized that he was already feeling it. Happened fast with Win’s cognac. Maybe the rich even have ways of speeding up the alcohol-effects process. “Even though Joey the Toe was convicted of Jordan Kravat’s murder, they aren’t sure he did it.”

“You should drink cognac more often,” Win said. “Clears your thinking.”

“They think, what, Greg killed them both?”

“Something like that.”

“Do they have a motive?”

“Not a one.”

“A connection between the victims?”

“Not a one,” Win said again.

“Other than Greg.”

“Other than Greg, yes.”

“And they want to keep this, uh, was ‘wrinkle’ the word you used?”

“It was.”

“They want to keep this wrinkle confidential because if it gets out that Joey’s conviction isn’t completely righteous...”

“It would be très embarrassing,” Win finished for him.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“So where do we go from here?” Myron asked.

“Nowhere,” Win replied. “Greg no longer wants our involvement.”

“He never wanted our involvement.”

“True. Still, we did what we could.”

“‘What we could,’” Myron repeated, “was getting our client arrested.”

Win spread his hands. “I was being kind when I said ‘we.’”

Meaning, correctly, it was on Myron. “Why would Greg murder Cecelia Callister, Win?”

“No idea. But it’s not our concern. You’ve offered to help. He refused it. In sum, it is over. For us. We are done.”

Win had a point. Myron tried for another sip, but the glass was empty. He reached for the crystal decanter and refilled it. He let his thoughts bubble up, but he could feel the haze of exhaustion and drink start to wear on him. Myron rarely imbibed because despite his size, he’d always been what one might call a lightweight. Two drinks and he was toast.

He looked over at Win. Win’s eyes were closed, and there was a gentle snoring. That never used to happen. The two of them would sit up and talk all night or, if they were tired, just enjoy the comfortable silence. More and more often now, one of them fell asleep. Myron didn’t like that.

He felt the buzz from his phone. It was well past midnight. He checked the screen and saw the text was from Emily Downing.

Emily’s message was one word: Awake?

He let loose a breath and typed a reply: Yep.

The three moving dots that indicated Emily was typing appeared. Then:

I’m in the Hamptons. You might want to drive out.

Myron frowned and typed: Why?

Jeremy will be here soon. He wants to see you.

Chapter Seventeen

The first thing Emily said when she opened the door was, “I knew Greg wasn’t gay.”

She was in a very-white nightgown at her very-white summer house in the tony (very-white?) Hamptons. She and Greg had bought the beach house for $18 million. Myron knew this because Win had helped with the financing.

“Where’s Jeremy?” Myron asked.

“Where’s your car?”

“I took a car service. Where’s Jeremy?”

“His plane landed half an hour ago. He should be here soon.”

“Where is he flying in from?”

“He would only tell me it was someplace overseas. You know his rules of engagement.” She backed up so Myron could step inside. “So what happened?”

“I searched for Greg.”

“Right, I figured that.”

“The feds were tracking me. When I found him, so did they.”

“And he was with a woman, right?”

“Yes.”

“So my husband ran off with another woman.”

Myron looked at her. “I thought you were married in name only.”

“We were, but I was — am? — still his wife. Why not tell me he met someone? I would have been fine with it. Why would he just run off like that?”