Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(52)

“Won’t happen. We both know that. Myron isn’t built that way.”

“And what about you, Win?”

“We aren’t talking about me,” I say.

“Well, we can change topics. You’ve changed, Win. I used to think you and Myron were yin and yang—opposites that complemented each other.”

“And now?”

“Now I think you’re more like him than you know.”

I have to smile at that. “You think it’s that simple?”

“No, Win. That’s my point. It’s never that simple.”

*



Jessica wants to walk home alone. I don’t insist otherwise. In fact, even though the car is waiting for me, I choose to do the same. She heads south. I head west and start crossing Central Park by the Sixty-Sixth Street transverse. It’s a beautiful night and it’s a beautiful park and the walk soothes me for perhaps three minutes—until my phone buzzes. The call is coming from Sadie Fisher’s iPhone.

I have a bad feeling about this.

Before I have a chance to offer up my customary greeting, Sadie half snaps, “Where are you?”

I do not like the timbre in her voice. There is anger. And there is fear.

“I’m strolling through Central Park. Is there a problem?”

“There is. I’m at the office. Get here as soon as you can.”

She disconnects the call.

I find a taxi heading south on Central Park West. Traffic is light at this hour. Ten minutes later I’m back at the Lock-Horne Building on Park Avenue. Jim is working security at the desk. I nod at him and head toward my private elevator. It’s getting late now, north of ten p.m., but this building is filled mostly with financial advisors of one kind or another, many of whom need to work hours that coincide with overseas markets, many more of whom put in wastefully long hours to match the other guy vying for the same promotion. I press the button for the fourth floor, and especially tonight, with a few drinks in me, with images of Jessica Culver still swimming in my head, the memories of MB Reps—the M stood for Myron, the B for Bolitar, Myron would self-flagellate over the name’s lack of ingenuity—swirl though my skull.

Sadie greets me when I get off the elevator, though “greet” may imply a temperament that is not at all apropos. “What did you do, Win?”

“Nice to see you too, Sadie.”

She adjusts her glasses. It feels as though she is doing that more as a statement than a need, but whatever gets you through the night. “Do I really look in the mood?”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

Sadie steps into her office. I notice that Taft’s reception desk is empty except for a box of his belongings. Sadie sees me noticing and arches an eyebrow.

“I had visitors today.”

“Oh?”

“They braced me out on the street. Two huge guys.”

I wait.

“What did you do, Win?”

“Who were they?”

“Teddy Lyons’s brothers.”

I wait.

“Win?”

“Did they threaten you?”

“Well, they didn’t want to buy me a drink.”

“What did they say?”

“They accused me of sending a man to hurt Teddy.”

“What did you say?”

“What do you think I said?”

“That you didn’t.” Then I ask, “Did they believe you?”

“No, Win, they didn’t believe me.” She moves closer to me. “You were at that basketball game.”

“So were seventy thousand other people.”

“Are you really going to lie to me?”

“What exactly do you think I did, Sadie?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“It has nothing to do with you.”

“No, Win, that isn’t true.” Sadie gestures to the empty desk. “Taft told you what Teddy Lyons did to Sharyn, didn’t he?”

“As did you.”

“Not until after he was hurt. You know Teddy Lyons may never walk again.”

“Seems he’s able to talk though,” I say. “So you fired Taft?”

“I don’t like spies in my office.”

Fair enough.

“Do I need to find a new workspace?”

“That’s up to you.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that, Win. What were you thinking?”

“That Sharyn deserved justice.”

“Are you serious?”

I wait.

“We are law-abiding,” Sadie says. “We are trying to change hearts and minds—and laws.”

“Taft said Teddy was currently stalking someone else.”

“Probably.”

“He wasn’t going to stop because you wanted to change laws,” I say, realizing that I’m echoing the words I’d told Vanessa Hogan about the Hut of Horrors perpetrators.

“So you took care of it?”

I see no reason to reply.

“And now we have these goons coming after us.”

“I’ll handle them.”

“I don’t want you to handle them.”