Wendy looked across the table at Michele. She was on her cell now, talking low into the phone.
Walker said, “Word is, Grayson’s wife left him. She took the kid.”
“Maybe it was because of what he did to Dan.”
“Or maybe because he shot her brother.”
“Right.”
Walker sighed. “So how do we prove any of this?”
“I don’t know. Lemaine probably isn’t going to talk, but maybe you guys can push him.”
“Even so. He was shot in the dark. No other witnesses. And we already know that Grayson is damn good about getting rid of evidence.”
They sat in silence. Michele hung up. She took some more notes, drew big long arrows. She stopped, looked at the pad, and frowned.
Wendy asked, “What is it?”
Michele started writing again. “I’m not sure yet. But there’s something wrong with this theory.”
“What?”
“It might not be a big deal but the timeline is off. Lemaine was shot the day before Dan Mercer.”
Wendy’s phone vibrated. Call waiting. She checked the incoming number. It was Win. “I have to go,” she said to Walker. “Another call coming.”
“I’m sorry about my tone before.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I still want to call you when this is over.”
She tried not to smile. “When this is over,” she repeated. Then she clicked over to the other line. “Hello?”
“Per your request,” Win said, “I looked into the matter of Phil Turnball’s termination.”
“Do you know who set him up?”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Come to my office. I think you may need to see this.”
WIN WAS RICH. Superrich.
Example: “Win” was short for Windsor Horne Lockwood III. His office was located on Forty-sixth Street and Park Avenue in the Lock-Horne high-rise.
You do the math.
Wendy parked in the lot in the MetLife Building. Her father had worked not far from here. She thought about him now, the way he always rolled up his sleeves to the elbow, the act doubly symbolic—he was always ready to pitch in and never wanted to be thought of as a suit. Her father had tremendous forearms. He made her feel safe. Right now, even though he’d been dead for years, she wanted to collapse in her father’s big arms and hear him tell her that everything would be all right. Do we ever outgrow that need? John had done that too—made Wendy feel safe. That may seem antifeminist—this warm feeling of security coming from a man—but there it was. Pops was great, but this wasn’t his job. Charlie, well, he would always be her little boy and it would always be her job to take care of him, not the other way around. The two men who had made her feel safe were both dead. They had never failed her, but now, with all the trouble swirling around her, she wondered whether a little voice wasn’t whispering that she had failed them.
Win had moved his office down a floor. The elevator opened up to a sign reading MB REPS. The receptionist said in a high-pitched squeal: “Welcome, Ms. Tynes.”
Wendy nearly stepped back into the elevator. The receptionist was the size of an NFL nose tackle. She was squeezed into a coal black unitard that was like the nightmare version of Adrienne Bar-beau’s in Cannonball Run. Her makeup looked as though it had been layered on with a snow shovel.
“Uh, hi.”
An Asian woman in a tailored white suit appeared. She was tall and slender and model attractive. These two women stood next to each other for a moment, and Wendy couldn’t help but picture a bowling ball about to crash into a pin.
The Asian woman said, “Mr. Lockwood is waiting for you.”
Wendy followed her down the corridor. The woman opened the office door and said, “Ms. Tynes is here.”
Win rose from behind his desk. He was a remarkably good-looking man. Though he was not really her type, what with the blond locks, the almost delicate features, the whole pretty-boy persona, there was a quiet strength there, an ice in his blue eyes, a coil in his almost too-still body, as though he might make a deadly strike at any moment.
Win spoke to the Asian woman. “Thank you, Mee. Would you mind telling Mr. Barry that we’re ready?”
“Of course.”
Mee left. Win crossed the room and bussed Wendy’s cheek. There was that small delay, that awkward hesitation. Six months ago, they had knocked boots and it had been beyond awesome and pretty-boy features or not, that always stays in a room.
“You look spectacular.”
“Thank you. I don’t feel it.”
“I gather that you’re going through a rough spell.”
“I am.”
Win sat back down, spread his arms. “I’m willing to offer comfort and support.”
“And by comfort and support, you mean . . . ?”
Win made his eyebrows dance. “Coitus with no interruptus.”
She shook her head in amazement. “You’re picking the worst time to hit on me.”
“No such thing. But I understand. Would you care for a brandy?”
“No thanks.”
“Do you mind if I have one?”
“Suit yourself.”
Win had an antique globe that opened up to reveal a crystal decanter. His desk was thick cherrywood. There were paintings of men on a foxhunt and a rich Oriental carpet. An artificial putting green covered the far corner. A big-screen TV hung on one wall. “So tell me what this is about,” Win said.
“Is it okay if I don’t? I really just need to know who set up Phil Turnball.”
“Of course.”
The office door opened. Mee entered with an old man wearing a bow tie.
“Ah,” Win said. “Ridley, thank you for coming. Wendy Tynes, meet Ridley Barry. Mr. Barry is the cofounder of Barry Brothers Trust, your Mr. Turnball’s former employer.”
“Nice to meet you, Wendy.”
Everyone sat. Win’s desk was clear except for one huge pile of what looked like files. “Before we begin,” Win said, “Mr. Barry and I both need to know that nothing we discuss here will leave this room.”
“I’m a reporter, Win.”
“Then you’d be familiar with the phrase ‘off the record.’ ”
“Fine. It’s off the record.”
“And,” Win said, “as a friend, I want your word that you won’t divulge anything we say to anyone else.”
She looked at Ridley Barry, then slowly back toward Win. “You have my word.”