“There you go.” Win risked a quick glance at Myron. “Take any action snapshots, perhaps a videotape?”

“No, that would be you,” Myron said, “or maybe an extra-perverse rock star.”

“Shame.”

“Yeah, shame, I got that.” Quality derrifere? “So what's wrong with Esperanza?”

Terese finally disappeared through the front door. Win sighed softly and turned toward Myron. “The yacht will take half an hour to refuel. We'll leave then. Mind if I sit?”

“What happened, Win?”

He did not answer, choosing instead to sit on a chaise longue and ease back. He put his hands behind his head and crossed his ankles. “Til say this for you. When you decide to wig out, you do it in style.”

“I didn't wig out. I just needed a break.”

“Uh-hmm.” Win looked off, and a realization smacked Myron in the head: He had hurt Win's feelings. wStrange but probably true. Win might be a blue-blooded, aristocratic sociopath, but hey, he was still human, sort of. The two men had been inseparable since college, yet Myron had run off without even calling. In many ways Win had no one else.

“I meant to call you,” Myron said weakly.

Win kept still.

“But I knew if there was a problem, you'd be able to find me.” That was true. Win could find a Hoffa needle in a Judge Crater haystack.

Win waved a hand. “Whatever.”

“So what's wrong with Esperanza?”

“Clu Haid.”

Myron's first client, a right-handed relief pitcher in the twilight of his career. “What about him?”

“He's dead,” Win said.

Myron felt his legs buckle a bit. He let himself land on the chaise.

“Shot three times in his own abode.”

Myron lowered his head. “I thought he'd straightened himself out.”

Win said nothing.

“So what does Esperanza have to do with this?”

Win looked at his watch. “Right about now,” he said, “she is in all likelihood being arrested for his murder.”

“What?”