“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

“If there’s nothing to hide—”

“I don’t want him knowing I told you this. Attorney-client privilege, remember? He won’t speak honestly to you anyway.”

“He will if you tell him to.”

Cross shook his head. “Gregory’s father controls him. He won’t talk.”

Myron shrugged. The senator was probably right. The only leverage he could apply on Gregory would be what Cross just told him. Cross had neatly arranged it so Myron couldn’t do that. He’d have to think of a way to end-run that. Caufield was an eyewitness. He’d be worth a few questions.

The two men shook hands, both making serious eye contact. Was Senator Cross a sweet old codger, a grieving father trying to protect his son’s memory? Or had he calculated that this would be the most effective strategy for dealing with Myron? Was he cagey or sympathetic or both?

Cross gave him the endearing off-center smile again. “I hope I’ve satisfied your curiosity,” he said.

He hadn’t. Not even close. But Myron didn’t bother telling him that.

20

Myron left the building and strolled down Madison Avenue. Traffic was at a standstill. Big surprise in Manhattan. Five lanes were merging into one on Fifty-fourth Street. The other four lanes were blocked by one of those purely New York construction sites with steam pouring up out of the streets. Very Dante. What was with all that steam anyway?

He was about to cut across Fifty-third Street when he felt a sharp stab in his ribs.

“Give me an excuse, asshole.”

Myron recognized the voice before seeing the taped nose and the black eyes. Fishnet. He was pressing a gun against Myron’s rib cage, using his body to hide the gun from any curious onlookers.

“You’re wearing the same shirt,” Myron said. “Jesus Christ, you didn’t even change.”

Fishnet gave him a little gun jab. “You’re going to wish you were never born, asshole. Get in the car.”

The car—the powder-blue Caddy with thick scratches on the side—pulled alongside of them. Jim, Fishnet’s partner, was driving, but Myron barely noticed him. His eyes immediately locked on the familiar figure in the backseat. The figure smiled and waved.

“Hey, Myron,” he called out. “How’s it going?”

Aaron.

“Bring him here, Lee,” Aaron said.

Fishnet Lee gave Myron a nudge with the gun. “Let’s go, asshole.”

Myron got in the backseat with Aaron. Fishnet Lee joined Jim in the front. The front seats were both covered with plastic where Win had dumped the maple syrup.

Aaron was dressed in his customary garb. Pure-snow-white suit, white shoes. No socks. No shirt. Aaron never wore a shirt, preferring to display his tan pectorals. They gleamed from some sort of oil or grease. He always looked fresh out of the wax salon, his body smooth as a baby’s bottom. Aaron was a big man, six-six, two-forty. The weight lifter’s build was not merely for show. Aaron moved with a speed and grace that defied the bulk. His black hair was slicked back and tied into a long ponytail.

He gave Myron a game-show–host grin and held it.

Myron said, “Nice smile, Aaron. Lots of teeth.”

“Proper dental hygiene. It’s a passion of mine.”

“You should share your passion with Lee,” Myron said.

Fishnet’s head spun. “What the fuck did you say, asshole?”

“Turn around, Lee,” Aaron said to Fishnet. Fishnet glared a few more daggers. Myron yawned. Jim drove. Aaron sat back. He said nothing, smiling brightly. Every part of him glistened in the sunlight. After two blocks of this Myron pointed at Aaron’s cleavage. “Your electrolysis missed a chest hair.”

To Aaron’s credit he didn’t look. “We need to chat, Myron.”

“What about?”

“Valerie Simpson. For once I think we’re on the same side.”

“Oh?”

“You want to capture Valerie Simpson’s killer. So do we.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Mr. Ache is determined to bring her killer to justice.”

“That Frank. Always the Good Samaritan.”

Aaron chuckled. “Still the funny man, eh, Myron? Well, I admit it sounds a bit bizarre, but we’d like to help you.”

“How?”

“We both know that Roger Quincy killed Valerie Simpson. Mr. Ache is willing to use his considerable influence to help locate him.”

“And in return?”

Aaron feigned shock. He put a manicured hand the size of a manhole cover to his chest. “Myron, you wound me. Really. We try to extend the hand of friendship and you slap it away with an insult.”

“Uh-huh.”

“This is one of those rare win-win situations,” Aaron said. “We’re willing to help you get your killer.”

“And you get?”

“Not a thing.” He settled back into his seat. “If the killer is found, the police will move on to other matters. We will move on to other matters. And you, Myron, should also move on to other matters.”

“Ah.”

“Now, there’s no reason to have a problem here,” Aaron added. When the sun hit his chest at a certain angle, the reflection dazzled the eyes. “This isn’t like some of our past encounters. We both want the same thing. We both want to put this tragic episode behind us. For you, that means finding the killer and bringing him to justice. For us, that means ending the investigation as soon as possible.”

“But suppose I’m not convinced Roger Quincy did it,” Myron said.

Aaron raised an eyebrow. “Come on now, Myron. You’ve seen the evidence.”

“It’s circumstantial.”

“Since when has that bothered you? Oh by the way, a new witness has come forward. We just got wind of it.”

“What kind of witness?” Myron asked.

“A witness who saw Roger Quincy talking to your beloved Valerie within ten minutes of the murder.”

Myron said nothing.

“You doubt my word?”

“Who’s the witness, Aaron?”

“Some housewife. She was at the matches with her kids. And to answer your next question we have nothing to do with her.”

“So why the big fear?”

“What fear?”

“What’s Ache so concerned about? Why hire Starsky and Hutch up there to follow me?”

Fishnet turned around. “What the fuck did you call me, asshole?”