Think Twice

Not now, a voice inside of you says. There is too much risk involved. Too many pedestrians. Too much CCTV. And there is also Win. Even now. Even as Win starts walking again with that nonchalance, his sunglasses blocking his eyes, he seems to be looking everywhere at once, like one of those Renaissance portraits whose gaze follows you around the room.

You know Win’s reputation. You know what he did in Las Vegas.

Too risky.

Stick to the plan.

For Myron, the horror will soon be over.

For him, the nightmare will have just begun.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It was a fifteen-minute walk from Le Bernardin back to the Lock-Horne Building. Win threw on a pair of badass mirrored sunglasses that reminded Myron of his parents’ except for being in fashion terms the direct opposite. For the first few minutes, Myron and Win didn’t speak. They headed east on 51st Street.

Finally, Win said, “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

“You don’t trust PT.”

Myron knew where Win was going with this. “You’re wondering why I didn’t say anything about Greg getting roughed up in that basketball game.”

“It could explain how his DNA ended up at the crime scene.”

“I think revealing that would be a violation of attorney-client privilege,” Myron said.

“And you want to save that information,” Win said.

“Yes. There’ll always be time later to say something.”

“Like as a courtroom surprise.”

“Probably nothing so dramatic,” Myron said, “but I don’t know the FBI’s agenda here, do you?”

“I don’t, no.”

“I don’t see why we’d give them a head start on this.”

“Even if it exonerates Greg.”

“If it does,” Myron said, “then we can be the ones who find it and control it.”

Win nodded. “Makes sense.”

They continued down 51st Street.

“There are too many hidden interests at play here,” Myron said.

“Like?”

“Like, if the FBI believes a serial killer is out there, why are they keeping it a secret?”

“To avoid panic.”

“The public should know,” Myron said. “Sadie Fisher, as Greg’s attorney, should know.”

“We both know why,” Win said. “We discussed this before — with Joey the Toe’s conviction.”

“Exactly,” Myron said. “That’s what I mean about hidden interests. The FBI is afraid that if this gets out, then all those convictions — especially Joey the Toe’s — would get overturned.”

“So,” Win said, “it is prudent for them to wait.”

“But is it? Why? So they don’t embarrass some overzealous DAs? There may be innocent people serving hard time in prisons for crimes — murders no less — that they didn’t commit. Can you imagine a greater nightmare for them?”

“If the FBI reveals it now, they create a big issue. If they keep it to themselves, well, the same.” Win thought about it. “Neither option is desirable when you think about it.”

“So side with being open.”

“And create panic by telling people there’s a chance a serial killer is on the loose?”

“You underestimate the common man.”

“You overestimate him,” Win said.

“Ben Franklin said that it’s better that a hundred guilty men go free than one innocent man suffers in prison.”

Win nodded. “Blackstone’s ratio.”

“Yes.”

“And you agree with that?”

“Blackstone actually said ten guilty men, not a hundred,” Myron said. “But yeah, if the feds harbor the slightest doubt about these people’s guilt, they should speak up now.”

When they reached St. Patrick’s Cathedral at Fifth Avenue, the foot traffic picked up and conversations in myriad languages wafted in the air.

“I trust PT,” Win said.

“So do I.”

“So for now, we honor that. We can’t say anything.”

“Why do you think he told us?” Myron asked.

“You know why.”

“He’s already thought of all the things we are saying now,” Myron asserted. “About revealing the truth to the public.”

“Yes.”

“And the only way out of this dilemma for him is to solve this fast.”

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.”