Think Twice

Myron Bolitar was on the phone with his eighty-year-old father when the two FBI agents arrived to question him about the murder.

“Your mother and I,” his dad said from his retirement condo in Boca Raton, “have discovered edibles.”

Myron blinked. “Wait, what now?”

He was in his new penthouse office atop Win’s skyscraper on the corner of 47th Street and Park Avenue. He swiveled his chair to look out the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a pretty bitching view of the Big Apple.

“Cannabis gummies, Myron. Your Aunt Miriam and Uncle Irv swore by them—Irv said it helps with his gout—so your mother and I figured, look, why not, let’s give them a shot. What’s the harm, right? You ever try edibles?”

“No.”

“That’s his problem.” That was Myron’s mother, squawk-shouting in the background. This was how they always operated—one parent on the phone, the other shouting color commentary. “Give me the phone, Al.” Then: “Myron?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“You should get high.”

“If you say so.”

“Try the stevia strain.”

Dad: “Sativa.”

“What?”

“It’s called sativa. Stevia is an artificial sweetener.”

“Ooo, look at your father Mr. Hippie showing off his pot expertise all of a sudden.” Then back to Myron: “I meant sativa. Try that.”

“Okay,” Myron said.

“The indica strain makes you sleepy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You know how I remember which is which?” Mom asked.

“I bet you’ll tell me.”

“Indica, in-da-couch. That’s the sleepy one. Get it?”

“Gotten.”

“Don’t be such a square. Your father and I like them. They make us feel more, I don’t know, smiley maybe. Alert. Zen even. And Myron?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Don’t ask what they’ve done for our sex life.”

“I won’t,” Myron said. “Ever.”

“Me, I get giddy. But your father becomes a giant hornball.”

“Not asking, remember?” Myron could now see the two FBI agents scowling at him from behind the glass wall. “Gotta go, Mom.”

“I mean, the man can’t keep his hands off me.”

“Still not asking. Bye now.”

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.