Think Twice

Young Beluga took that one with a side of relish: “Skin cells,” he said. “Your, uh, ‘dead’ client? His DNA was found under the victim’s fingernails.” He sat up a little straighter and lowered his voice à la a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, like when a helpless victim is desperately scratching and clawing to save their own life? Like that.”

Myron’s head reeled. This made no sense. Young Beluga smiled with teeth too small for his mouth, thus adding to his overall beluga appearance.

“Under which victim’s nails?” Myron asked.

“None of your business.” It was Hawes this time. “You and Greg Downing go way back, don’t you? Basketball rivals. High school. College. Both of you were drafted in the NBA’s first round. Downing had a great pro career. Became a beloved coach after he retired.” Hawes put on a sarcastic pity pout. “You, on the other hand...”

“...have a cool-ass office with a pretty bitching view?”

Quick backstory: Not long after the draft, during Myron’s first preseason game as a twenty-one-year-old Boston Celtics rookie, an opposing player named Big Burt Wesson slammed into Myron, twisting his knee in a way no joint should ever be twisted.

Bye-bye, basketball.

Hawes and Beluga thought this still bothered Myron, that it would be a good way to needle him and get under his skin.

They were two decades late for that.

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.

“I know lots of somethings.”

“You’re being coy. You’re never coy.”

“Sometimes I’m coy with the ladies,” Win said. Then: “No, wait, I mean coquettish.”

“Did you know Greg was alive?”

Win considered that. He spun toward the windows and looked out at his view. This too was something he almost never did. Then Win said, “A columbarium.”

“What now?”

“You told the agents that Greg Downing was in a mausoleum.”

“Right.”

“A mausoleum is designed to hold a corpse,” Win said. “A columbarium houses cremated remains.”

“I stand corrected. Thanks for the vocabulary seminar.”

Win spread his hands. “I give and I give.”