That surprised Myron. “Oh.” Then: “Who specifically did Greg hire?”
“Me,” Sadie said. “But we are all on the team, including as of right now, you. You’re a bar-appointed New York City attorney, correct?”
“Correct.”
“So everything we say to one another is covered under attorney-client privilege. We clear?”
“Crystal.”
“That’s the reason why Win wasn’t invited to participate. Just to clarify. I would never leave him out otherwise.”
Myron looked at Esperanza then back to Sadie. “I know you guys have done great work protecting your clients from rapists and stalkers, but have you done much criminal defense work?”
“Much? No. Some? Yes.” Sadie took off her glasses and put one earpiece in her mouth. “And to answer your next question, no one at the firm has done a murder trial. I explained this to Greg.”
“So if you don’t mind me asking—”
“Why us?” Sadie finished for him.
Myron nodded. “I don’t mean any disrespect.”
“None taken. That would be my first question too, if I were you. And I asked Greg that. To cut right to it, Greg knows me, he likes me, he trusts me. He knows I’m good and I’ll fight like hell for him, and even though I’ve never done an actual murder trial before, he knows I’ll find the right people to help.”
“Greg knows me, he likes me, he trusts me,” Myron repeated.
“You want to know how,” Sadie said. “Understandable. You are familiar with Greg’s ex, Emily.”
Myron glanced again at Esperanza. Esperanza shrugged.
“I am.”
“Of course you are. I was being facetious. Greg told me the whole sordid tale that is your history. Do you remember Emily’s younger sister?”
“Judy.”
“Judy Becker now. Judy was my college roommate. We’re very close. Like you and Win at Duke, I guess. That’s how I met Greg. I’ve done light legal work for him and Emily for years. In fact, Greg introduced me to Win a few years back. It’s why I thought of him when I needed office space.”
Myron took this in for a moment. He looked once again at Esperanza.
“Why do you keep looking at Esperanza?” Sadie asked.
“We’re close friends.”
“I know. What do you think I’m not telling you?”
“Nothing.”
“Then knock it off. It’s distracting.”
“Sorry. Old habit. I assume you talked to your client.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And — shock of shocks — Greg says he didn’t do it.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Is this the part where I say it doesn’t matter or I don’t care or whatever? I’m not getting into that right now, okay?” Sadie checked her watch. “I’m taking too long to spit this out, so let me just get to it. There’s something weird about this case. Right now, the FBI is keeping it very hush-hush but there’s a bizarre rumor going around.”
“The rumor being?”
“They think this isn’t the first time Greg murdered someone.”
Myron almost turned to look at Esperanza, but then, remembering Sadie’s reaction, he thought better of it. “Who else do they think he murdered?”
“Don’t know.”
“Do you know about the murder of Jordan Kravat in Vegas?”
Sadie nodded. “Esperanza filled me in.”
“That’s probably the murder the rumors are about, no?”
“I think,” Sadie said slowly, chewing on the earpiece of her glasses, “it may be more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those FBI agents came to your office.”
“So?”
“So the FBI doesn’t usually handle murders.”
“That’s a little bit of a TV cliché,” Myron said, “that whole ‘crossing state lines’ thing. They help out a lot. Also, Greg was high-profile and supposedly dead. I figured that put it in their jurisdiction.”
“Did you look up Special Agent Monica Hawes?”
“No.”
“Her area of expertise is profiling,” Sadie said. “As in serial killer profiling.”
Myron blinked. “They think Greg is a serial killer?”
“Don’t know. But I’m getting a vibe. Not a good one either.” Sadie put her hands on the table and leaned forward. “That’s why you’re here. I’m hoping you could help us.”
“How?”
“I know you and Win have a past with the FBI, and yes, I know that from Esperanza so you can now turn your head and look at her for confirmation. You have a contact in the FBI. An upper-echelon one, right?”
Myron immediately thought about his old boss PT. “I may.”
“You’re cute when you’re coy. Actually, you’re not. Anyway, please give your contact a call. We need to know what we’re up against. Then please report back to us what he tells you.”
Myron filled Win in on his conversation with Sadie and Esperanza. He understood why Sadie had to be careful about attorney-client privilege, but in the end, there was nothing said in that room that needed to be kept quiet anyway. Not that Win would talk. Not that they could ever get a guy with his resources on the stand. But even if they did, at the end of the day all Sadie wanted to know was what the FBI had on her client. There was nothing incriminating about that.
“I know you already spoke to PT,” Myron said.
“And he made it clear he knows more,” Win said. “No harm in reaching out.”
Win put his office phone on speaker and dialed PT’s number. He threw his feet up on the desk as the first ring trilled. Myron sat across from him and waited. On the third ring, the familiar gruff voice came through.
“Is Myron with you?” PT asked without preamble.
Myron said, “I am.”
“Lunch at Le Bernardin. Just the three of us.”
He clicked off.
“It’s like he was expecting our call,” Myron said.
“Indeed.”
“What do you make of it?”
Win thought about it a moment. “The FBI must have a hell of an expense account if he’s taking us to Le Bernardin.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
PT was one of those old men who seemed to get stronger with age. He was big, bald, and intimidating. His hands looked like baseball gloves, his fingers thick as sausages. Win’s hand vanished into the baseball glove when they shook. Then Myron’s did the same.
“It’s been too long,” PT said to Myron.
It was an odd comment. Myron hadn’t seen PT in nearly two decades. Even back in the day, PT had mostly been a voice on the phone. There are men who live in the shadows of our government. PT was the shadow. Myron didn’t even know his real name.
“It has,” Myron agreed.
“You look good, Myron.”
“So do you.”
“I hear you got married.”
“We invited you to the wedding.”
“Yeah, I know.”
PT didn’t say why he couldn’t attend. Then again, Myron hadn’t expected him to. Some might think that odd, but a relationship with PT was never a normal one.
They were in a private room above Le Bernardin’s main restaurant. One wall was taken up by a Ran Ortner painting of the ocean. Ortner’s work seemed to be more marine photograph than painting — simplistic and minimalistic in most ways, and yet Myron found it hypnotic, beguiling. Myron took a moment and stared at it. There was something about Ortner’s oceans that slowed Myron’s heartbeat so that it matched the imagined rhythm of the waves.
PT put a hand on Myron’s shoulder. “Good, right?”
Myron nodded.
“Always take that second to appreciate art,” PT said. “Our lives have too much chaos in them as it is. It’s a reminder of why we do what we do.”
Myron smiled. “Aren’t we philosophical today?”