“If only I had more time.”

“That’s what they all say. So what can I do for you, Myron?”

“Remember that death at the Bradford place when we were in high school?”

She stopped mid-bite. “A little,” she said.

“Who would’ve handled it for the department?”

She swallowed. “Detective Wickner.”

Myron remembered him. Ever-present reflector sunglasses. Very active in Little League. Cared about winning waaaaay too much. Hated the kids once they got into high school and stopped worshiping him. Big on speeding tickets for young drivers. But Myron had always liked the man. Old Americana. As dependable as a good tool set.

“He still on the force?”

Francine shook her head. “Retired. Moved to a lake cabin upstate. But he still comes to town a lot. Hangs out at the fields and shakes hands. They named a backstop after him. Had a big ceremony and everything.”

“Sorry I missed that,” Myron said. “Would the case file still be at the station?”

“How long ago this happen?”

“Twenty years.”

Francine looked at him. Her hair was shorter than in high school, and the braces were gone, but other than that, she looked exactly the same. “In the basement maybe. Why?”

“I need it.”

“Just like that.”

He nodded.

“You’re serious?”

“Yep.”

“And you want me to get it for you.”

“Yep.”

She wiped her hands with a napkin. “The Bradfords are powerful folks.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“You looking to embarrass him or something? He running for governor and all.”

“No.”

“And I guess you have a good reason for needing it?”

“Yep.”

“You want to tell me what it is, Myron?”

“Not if I don’t have to.”

“How about a teensy-weensy hint?”

“I want to verify that it was an accident.”

She looked at him. “You have anything that says otherwise?”

He shook his head. “I barely have a suspicion.”

Francine Neagly picked up a fry and examined it. “And if you do find something, Myron, you’ll come to me, right? Not the press. Not the bureau boys. Me.”

“Deal,” Myron said.

She shrugged. “Okay. I’ll take a look for it.”

Myron handed her his card. “Good seeing you again, Francine.”

“Likewise,” she said, swallowing another bite. “Hey, you involved with anyone?”

“Yeah,” Myron said. “You?”

“No,” she said. “But now that you mention it, I think I kinda miss Gene.”

Myron hopped back into the Jaguar. Win started it up and pulled out.

“Your Bradford plan,” Win said. “It involved prodding him into action, did it not?”

“It did.”

“Then congratulations are in order. The two gentlemen from the Bradfords’ foyer did a pass by while you were inside.”

“Any sign of them now?”

Win shook his head. “They’re probably covering the ends of the road. Someone will pick us up. How would you like to play it?”

Myron thought a moment. “I don’t want to tip them off yet. Let them follow us.”

“Where to, O wise one?”

Myron checked his watch. “What’s your schedule look like?”

“I need to get back to the office by two.”

“Can you drop me off at Brenda’s practice? I’ll get a ride back.”

Win nodded. “I live to chauffeur.”

They took Route 280 to the New Jersey Turnpike. Win turned on the radio. A commercial voice-over sternly warned people not to buy a mattress over the phone but, rather, to go to Sleepy’s and “consult your mattress professional.” Mattress professional. Myron wondered if that was a master’s program or what.

“Are you armed?” Win asked.

“I left my gun in my car.”

“Open the glove compartment.”

Myron did. There were three guns and several boxes of ammunition. He frowned. “Expecting an armed invasion?”

“My, what a clever quip,” Win said. He gestured to a weapon. “Take the thirty-eight. It’s loaded. There’s a holster under the car seat.”

Myron feigned reluctance, but the truth was, he should have been carrying all along.

Win said, “You realize, of course, that young FJ will not back down.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We have to kill him. There is no choice.”

“Kill Frank Ache’s son? Not even you could survive that.”

Win sort of smiled. “Is that a challenge?”

“No,” Myron said quickly. “Just don’t do anything yet. Please. I’ll come up with something.”

Win shrugged.

They paid a toll and drove past the Vince Lombardi rest stop. In the distance Myron could still see the Meadowlands Sports Complex. Giants Stadium and the Continental Arena floated above the vast swampland that was East Rutherford, New Jersey. Myron stared off at the arena for a moment, silent, remembering his recent shot at playing pro basketball again. It hadn’t worked out, but Myron was over that now. He had been robbed of playing the game he loved, but he’d accepted it, come to terms with reality. He’d put it behind him, had moved on, had let go of his anger.

So what if he still thought about it every day?

“I’ve done a bit of digging,” Win said. “When young FJ was at Princeton, a geology professor accused him of cheating on an exam.”

“And?”

“Na, na, na. Na, na, na. Hey, hey, hey. Good-bye.”

Myron looked at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Never found the body,” Win said. “The tongue, yes. It was sent to another professor, who’d been considering leveling the same charges.”

Myron felt something flitter in his throat. “Might have been Frank, not FJ.”

Win shook his head. “Frank is psychotic but not wasteful. If Frank had handled it, he would have used a few colorful threats perhaps punctuated by a few well-placed blows. But this kind of overkill—it’s not his style.”

Myron thought about it. “Maybe we can talk to Herman or Frank,” he said. “Get him off our back.”

Win shrugged. “Easier to kill him.”

“Please don’t.”