Myron did not respond. They had been down this road many times since they were freshmen at Duke. It never led anywhere.

Win's office was pure, elitist WASP. Paintings of a fox hunt adorned paneled walls. Burgundy leather chairs ideally complemented the deep forest-green carpeting. An antique wooden globe stood next to an oak desk that could double as a squash court. The effect – not a subtle one, at that – could be summed up in two words: Serious. Cash.

Myron sat in one of the leather chairs. "You got a minute?"

"Of course." Win opened a cabinet in the bar behind his desk, revealing a small refrigerator. He took out a cold Yoo-Hoo and tossed it to Myron. Myron shook the can as per the instructions (Shake! It's Great!) while Win mixed himself a very dry martini.

Myron started off by telling Win about the police visit to Duane Richwood. Win remained impassive, allowing himself a small smile when he heard how Dimonte had called him a psycho-yuppie. Then Myron told him about the powder-blue Cadillac. Win sat back and steepled. He listened without interrupting. When Myron finished, Win rose from his seat and picked up a putter.

"So our friend Mr. Richwood is holding something back."

"We can't be sure."

Win raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Do you have any thoughts as to how Duane Richwood and Valerie Simpson are connected?"

"Nope. I was hoping you might."

"Moi?"

"You knew her," Myron said.

"She was an acquaintance."

"But you have a thought."

"About a connection between Duane and Valerie? No."

"Then what?"

Win strolled to a corner. A dozen golf balls were all in a line. He began to putt. "Are you really intent on pursuing this? Valerie's murder, I mean?"

"Yep."

"It might be none of your business."

"Might be," Myron agreed.

"Or you might unearth something unpleasant. Something you would rather not find."