“Comes with age. You happy, Myron?”
Weird question, Myron thought, but: “Sure.”
“Win?”
Win spread his hands. “It’s good to be me,” he said.
PT smiled. “Truer words.”
“Why do you ask?” Win asked.
“Because I changed the trajectory of your lives,” PT said.
Myron never really thought about that, but it was true. PT had recruited them young for a brief and clandestine stint with a subgroup of the Federal Bureau of Investigation under the code name Adiona. There were reasons PT had selected them, trained them, put them out in the field, but that was long ago. Still, PT was right. That was where it started for Myron and Win. It had forged them, made them think they could do this. They had saved many. They had lost some too. Myron flashed back to that tombstone, the name Brenda Slaughter, but then he blinked and moved on. Great competitors had that ability — to move on. To be the best in any sport, you must have the reflexes, the physical ability, the mental attitude, the scary-ass competitive drive — but you also had to hone the simple ability to forget. Did you blow the save? You forget it. Miss the putt? Forget it. Make a big turnover down the stretch? Shrug and onward.
The great ones know how to forget.
“Sit,” PT said.
There was a round table in the center of the room that could probably hold ten, but right now there were only three place settings.
“I took the liberty of asking Eric to order for us,” PT said.
Eric, Myron assumed, referred to Eric Ripert, the co-owner and head chef. Myron didn’t know him. Win did. So, Myron guessed, did PT. A waiter appeared and poured white wine. Myron didn’t like drinking wine during the day. It made him fall asleep. But if PT had ordered it at Le Bernardin, it was probably worth trying.
“What brings you to Manhattan?” Myron asked.
The one thing they did know about PT was that he lived in the Washington, DC, area — close enough to reach the president with a moment’s notice.
“Work.”
“I thought you retired,” Myron said.
“I often retire,” PT said. Then he added, “But my help is needed here.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Almost never,” PT said, taking a sip of the wine. “Only when an important matter requires great sensitivity.”
“And the Greg Downing case fits that category?” Myron asked.
“It does indeed,” PT said.
“It’s a murder case,” Myron said. “A double murder. That shouldn’t be enough to bring you out of retirement.”
“A double murder would not be enough, no.”
“Then it’s not a double murder?”
“Before we get into that,” PT said, “I assume you reached out to me here because Greg Downing is a client of yours.”
“That’s right,” Myron said.
“So we all know what’s what: You wish to help his defense. You’re on Greg Downing’s side.”
“I guess,” Myron said. “What side are you on?”
PT grinned. “I have no dog in this fight. I just want to get to the truth. If that means Greg Downing fries, he fries. If it means he is innocent, I’m all about clearing him too.” The waiter came in and served the first course. “So I have a bit of a dilemma.”
“That being?”
“There are things you should know. Check that. There are things I want to tell you, even though our new director would not like me confiding in you.”
“Do you like the new director?” Win asked.
“I do not,” PT said. “But I still respect his office. So to be clear: If you are here as advocates for Greg Downing—”
“We are,” Myron said.
“Then we should just enjoy the lunch.”
PT picked up his fork.
“I’m not an advocate for anyone,” Win said.
“Win.”
Win turned toward Myron. “I’m not here to protect Greg,” Win said to him. “He ended your career. He faked his own death. His DNA was found at a murder scene. If he murdered Cecelia Callister and her son Clay, then I don’t want any part in getting him off. You don’t want that either, do you?”
“No, of course not. But—”
“You also are not his attorney on this. Greg hired Sadie, not you.”
“She made me part of his legal team.”
“Then you should leave,” Win said. “I’m not here to help Greg Downing get away with murder.”
PT took a bite, closed his eyes, murmured something about gods and ambrosia.
“Neither am I,” Myron said. He turned to PT. “You know our situation.”
“I do,” PT said.
“You knew when you agreed to meet with us.”
“True.”
“So let’s stop with the semantics,” Myron said. “You know me. I won’t obfuscate justice to free a murderer.”
PT looked over at Win and arched an eyebrow. “Obfuscate.”
“I bought him a daily vocabulary calendar for his birthday,” Win said.
PT put down his fork and dabbed the sides of his mouth with his napkin. Nothing in the room seemed to change, but everything seemed quieter now, still. This was one of the things about PT. He had almost supernatural magnetism, charisma, the kind that made you sit up and listen no matter how mundane his words might be. When he was ready to speak — as he was now — everything else around him seemed to stop.
“When we first started studying serial killers seriously at Quantico — I’m talking about the seventies, eighties — I would estimate there were hundreds, perhaps even a thousand, serial killers across the United States. But now? We estimate there are only five, ten at the most who are active. That isn’t because we have fewer psychopaths or that people have somehow grown kinder as a species. It’s because it’s harder to get away with being a serial killer in today’s world. There is so much technology, inescapable CCTV, tracking tools, surveillance methodology — you are seen hundreds of times a day by the government or private enterprise. Big Brother is indeed always watching. Plus our citizens — the serial killer’s desired victims — are more cautious nowadays. They are educated on that matter via TV or movies. They don’t let themselves be easy targets. No one hitchhikes anymore, for example. If someone is involved in sex work, it isn’t as clandestine as it used to be. They tell their friends or coworkers where they are. They carry smartphones that track their movements. Our computers can analyze all the clues, the DNA, the fingerprints, the surveillance, all the mountains of information in seconds nowadays. In short, modernity has made the serial killer nearly extinct.”
Myron and Win waited.
“But I feel one may be at work here.”
The door opened. The server appeared, but PT waved him away. He slipped back out, closing the door behind him.
Myron said, “You think Greg Downing is a serial killer?”
“Before I get ahead of myself, let me say this: Most of my colleagues in the FBI believe that this is indeed a normal murder case. We don’t have a strong motive yet, but Greg Downing knew Cecelia Callister, albeit tangentially. That’s enough for most. We stick with what we know. We follow the evidence and when we do, when we adhere to protocol and procedure, what we have on Greg Downing is overwhelming. He will go down for it.”
“And your other colleagues?” Myron prompted.
“Others believe that Greg Downing is a serial killer and that the Callisters are just two more of his victims—”
“—I don’t see how—”
“—while still others — a somewhat small yet wise group — believe that Greg Downing may be a victim.”
“A victim?” Myron said. “Of a serial killer?”
PT took another sip of wine.
“How can Greg be a victim?”
“Here is where I need your expertise.” PT pushed his plate to the side. “I know that you two took a good look at the murder of Jordan Kravat in Las Vegas.”