Tad nodded. “I guess so.”

“We have to present you in a certain light. We have to control the story as much as possible.”

“So we do interviews?” Tad asked.

“Very few.”

“But if we want publicity—”

“We want carefully orchestrated publicity,” Myron corrected. “This story is so big, the last thing we need to do is create more interest. I want you to be reclusive, Tad. Thoughtful. You see, we have to maintain the right balance. If we toot our horn, it looks like we’re grandstanding. If we do a lot of interviews, it looks like we’re taking advantage of a man’s murder.”

“Disastrous,” Win added.

“Right. What we want to do is control the flow of information. Feed the press a few tiny morsels. No more.”

“Perhaps one interview,” Win said. “One where you will be at your most contrite.”

“With Bob Costas maybe.”

“Or even Barbara Walters.”

“And we don’t announce your big donation.”

“Correct, no press conference. You are far too magnanimous for such bravado.”

That confused Tad. “How are we supposed to get good press if we don’t announce it?”

“We leak it,” Myron said. “We get someone at the charity to tell a nosy reporter, maybe. Something like that. The key is, Tad Crispin must remain far too modest a fellow to publicize his own good deeds. Do you see what we’re aiming for here?”

Tad’s nod was more enthusiastic now. He was warming up. Myron felt like a heel. Spin-doctoring—just another hat today’s sports representative must wear. Being an agent was not always pretty. You had to get dirty sometimes. Myron did not necessarily like it, but he was willing. The media would portray events one way; he would present them another. Still he felt like a grinning political strategist after a debate, and you cannot get much lower than that.

They discussed details for a few more minutes. Tad started to look off again. He was rubbing the famed palms against the pants again. When Win left the room for a minute, Tad whispered, “I saw on the news that you’re Linda Coldren’s attorney.”

“I’m one of them.”

“Are you her agent?”

“I might be,” Myron said. “Why?”

“Then you’re a lawyer too, right? You went to law school and everything?”

Myron was not sure he liked where this was going. “Yes.”

“So I can hire you to be my lawyer too, right? Not just my agent?”

Myron really didn’t like where this was going. “Why would you need a lawyer, Tad?”

“I’m not saying I do. But if I did—”

“Whatever you tell me is confidential,” Myron said.

Tad Crispin stood. He put his arms out straight and gripped an imaginary golf club. He took a swing. Air golf. Win played it all the time. All golfers do. Basketball players don’t do that. It’s not like Myron stops at every store window and checks the reflection of his shot in the mirror.

Golfers.

“I’m surprised you don’t know about this already,” Tad said slowly.

But the creeping feeling in the pit of Myron’s stomach told him that maybe he did. “Don’t know about what, Tad?”

Tad took another swing. He stopped his movement to check his backswing. Then his expression changed to one of panic. He dropped the imaginary club to the floor. “It was only a couple of times,” he said, his words pouring out like silver beads. “It was no big deal really. I mean, we met while we were filming those ads for Zoom.” He looked at Myron, his eyes pleading. “You’ve seen her, Myron. I mean, I know she’s twenty years older than me, but she’s so good-looking and she said her marriage was dead.…”

Myron did not hear the rest of his words; the ocean was crashing in his ears. Tad Crispin and Linda Coldren. He could not believe it, yet it made perfect sense. A young guy obviously charmed by a stunning older woman. The mature beauty trapped in a loveless marriage finding escape in young, handsome arms. Nothing really wrong with it.

Yet Myron felt his cheeks go scarlet. Something inside of him began to fume.

Tad was still droning on. Myron interrupted him.

“Did Jack find out?”

Tad stopped. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I think maybe he did.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It was just the way he acted. We played two rounds together. I know we were competitors and that he was trying to intimidate me. But I kind of got the impression he knew.”

Myron lowered his head into his hands. He felt sick to his stomach.

Tad asked, “Do you think it’ll get out?”

Myron held back a chuckle. This would be one of the biggest news stories of the year. The media would attack like old women at a Loehmann’s clearance sale. “I don’t know, Tad.”

“What do we do?”

“We hope it doesn’t get out.”

Tad was scared. “And if it does?”

Myron faced him. Tad Crispin looked so damn young—check that, he was young. Most kids his age are happily pulling fraternity pranks. And when you thought about it, what had Tad really done that was so bad? Slept with an older woman who for some odd reason remained in a dead marriage. Hardly unnatural. Myron tried to picture himself at Tad’s age. If a beautiful older woman like Linda Coldren had come on to him, would he have stood a chance?

Like, duh. He probably did not stand a chance now.

But what about Linda Coldren? Why did she stay in this dead marriage? Religion? Doubtful. For the sake of her son? The kid was sixteen years old. It might not be easy, but he’d survive.

“Myron, what’ll happen if the media find out?”

But Myron was suddenly no longer thinking about the media. He was thinking about the police. He was thinking about Victoria Wilson and reasonable doubt. Linda Coldren had probably told her ace attorney about her affair with Tad Crispin. Victoria would have seen it too.

Who is declared U.S. Open champion now that Jack Coldren is dead?

Who doesn’t have to worry about out-choking the choker in front of a massive audience?

Who has all the same motives to kill Jack Coldren that Myron had earlier assigned to Esme Fong?

Whose squeaky-clean image might get soiled by a Coldren divorce, especially one where Jack Coldren would name his wife’s indiscretion?

Who was having an affair with the deceased’s wife?