Think Twice

Myron hustled back to his rental car. The ride up from Manhattan had been a little under two hours. Win had made sure that Myron had come prepared. That meant a locked Kevlar bag that contained a handgun (over the years, guns had come in handier than Myron wanted to admit), zip-tie handcuffs (not handy), and a magnetic GPS tracking device (somewhat handy). Myron figured that if he could stick a GPS tracker on Grace’s blue Acura RDX he could follow at a safe distance.

He slid into the front seat and grabbed the Kevlar bag. He’d started working the spinning combo lock when a woman emerged from the Blush Boutique. Myron stopped. In every photo Myron had seen of her, Grace Konners had long, white-blonde hair. This woman had a short auburn cap. In every photo, Grace Konners had worn cropped and fitted flex-da-bod see-through summer whites. This woman wore high-waisted dad (or were they also mom?) jeans and a loose green sweatshirt with a cartoon camel on it.

Again, like with Bo, you wouldn’t recognize her unless you were really staring, but Myron had little doubt. This was Grace Konners now Grace Conte or whatever.

Bo/Brian and Spark’s mom.

Grace moved with purpose toward her Acura. Myron had little chance of cutting her off before she drove off. And did he even want that?

Better, he figured, to follow her.

She started the car and pulled out onto Main Street before turning left onto Route 302. Myron followed in his car. If the coordinates they’d gotten off Spark Konners’s phone were correct, the ride would be a short one. Three minutes later, the blue Acura RDX, yep, pulled into the driveway with the chain-link fence. The fence slid open. Grace Conte drove in. The fence started to slide back into place. Myron tried to pull in behind her, but the fence was already too closed for his car to fit. Myron threw it into park, turned off the engine, hustled out, and slid through before the fence completely shut again.

Now what?

There was no reason to hide anymore. She would see him. He started trekking up the driveway. He decided not to take the handgun. Win would have scolded him over that. Win always carried a gun. Always. More than one usually. He’d told Myron repeatedly to do the same because of situations like these. But Myron didn’t like carrying a gun. They were bulky. They were heavy. They chafed.

Not much to be done about it now.

He trudged up the dirt driveway. He had no idea how far up the house was. Also dumb. He could have probably checked that on Google Maps. As he continued, he cupped his hand around his mouth and started to call out.

“Hello? Grace? Ms. Conte? I just want to talk to you, okay?”

When he came to a turn about a hundred yards up the drive, he saw the house. He’d expected something rustic and charmingly decrepit, but the renovations on this particular A-frame were impressive. The house was pristine, white, with huge windows. There was something whimsical about it. The dirt road was gone now, replaced with a carefully laid brick drive. The yard was asymmetrically landscaped, as though the overgrown fauna and shrubbery were both completely natural and perfectly planned. It was a welcoming home. You could easily see yourself living here. Relax. Unwind. Enjoy a cup of coffee on the front veranda and watch the morning sun rise. That kind of thing.

“You’re trespassing.”

She was standing next to the Acura with the car door still open as though readying for a quick escape. She held up her phone. “I’m going to call the police.”

“I’m not here to hurt you, Grace.”

“Do I know you?”

“My name is Myron Bolitar. I was — I am — Greg’s agent.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Myron gave her a somewhat theatrical sigh. “Do we really have to play this game? Go ahead. Call the police. Let everyone, including Joey the Toe, know where you are.”

She didn’t move.

“I don’t want to get you or your family in trouble. And by family, I mean your son Brian aka Bo aka Montana bartender Stevie.”

Grace swallowed and finally lowered the phone. “How did you find me?”

“It doesn’t matter. No one else is onto you. Yet.”

“So what do you want?”

“I need to talk to Greg.”

“Greg is dead.”

“Yeah no,” Myron said.

“What?”

“He’s not dead.” Myron started walking to the house. “Is he here?”

“No, of course not. He’s dead. You’re his friend. You know that.”

Ah, so now she knows who Myron is.

“This house is awfully big for one person,” Myron said.

“Greg bought it for me before he died.”

“When?”

“That’s not your—”

“I can get the tax records.”

“I have a new boyfriend now.”

“Uh-huh. So how did Greg die?”

“He had cancer.”

“What kind?”

Slightest of hesitations. “Kidney.”

“Painful,” Myron said. “So was he hospitalized? In palliative care? Where did he die exactly?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“I spoke to his doctor. A mutual friend of ours named Ellen Nakhnikian. She said Greg was healthy.”

“Doctors can’t say anything. Patient-client—”

“Well, maybe. But Greg is dead, so Dr. Nakhnikian had no issue talking to me.”

She stuck out her chin. “Greg went to another doctor.”