Think Twice

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Myron crossed Fifth Avenue and entered Central Park just south of the Met. The walk, he knew from experience, would take fifteen minutes. He headed around the back, past Cleopatra’s Needle, an obelisk commissioned by Pharaoh Thutmose II nearly 3,500 years ago. Years later, Cleopatra supposedly used the obelisk in building a Roman temple dedicated to her main squeeze Julius Caesar, ergo the nickname Cleopatra’s Needle. It has been in Central Park since 1881.

Myron knew all this — and distracted himself with thoughts about it — because Win was a history buff and loved this park. He hurried on. The fairy-tale Belvedere Castle rose over the Ramble, a seemingly magnificent hybrid of Romanesque and Gothic, though in reality the building was merely a “folly,” oft defined as a costly ornamental building with no practical purpose. This one had an observatory, a visitor center, and a weather tower, but the idea of a folly — something created to look like something more impressive — kept weighing on Myron.

He thought about the phone Emily had found. He thought that maybe, in its own way, it was a folly too.

He took out his own phone and called his mother. She answered on the first ring.

“I’m glad you called now,” Mom said to him.

“Everything okay?”

“Oh yes, fine. But your father and I just took our edibles, and you know what that means.”

Myron closed his eyes. “Yeah, no.”

“We haven’t taken one in a week.”

“Uh-huh.”

“They’ll hit soon, and then your father will start chasing me around the apartment.”

“Hello? This is your son on the phone. Your son doesn’t need to hear this.”

“Truth be told? I’m not hard for him to catch.”

“Mom?”

“Oh stop being such a prude. Be happy for us.”

“I am. Really. I can just do without the visuals.”

“What’s wrong with the visuals?”

No point. “So I guess Dad is feeling better?”

“Yes. Everyone called. Your brother. Your sister — oh, and she’s coming in from Seattle tomorrow.”

“That’ll be nice.”

“It will be. And Terese called.”

Myron started south along the path.

“She’s growing on me, Myron. I like her a lot.”

“I’m glad.”

“She’s substantial.”

“She is.”

“You know I had worries.”

He did. Terese can’t have kids. His parents already had three grandchildren — his brother Brad’s son Mickey being the oldest — but Mom and Dad knew that Myron had always wanted children too.

His phone beeped that another call was incoming. He checked the caller ID and saw that it was PT.

“Mom, I have to take this, okay?”

Mom picked up on the tone of his voice. “Go,” she said quickly.

She hung up before he did.

“PT?”

The gruff voice did not sound happy. “Anything you need to tell me?”

“Like?”

“Like we found a receipt for a burner phone bought at a Walmart in Doylestown. Do you know where Doylestown is?”

Doylestown was, Myron knew, an hour north of Philadelphia.

“Yes.”

“Oh good. This particular burner phone called the Prine Organization and made threats. With me so far?”

Myron did not like where this was going. “I am.”

“Guess what we just did, Myron?”

“You pinged the burner phone?”

“We did more than that. We woke up the phone and then geographically pinpointed the location through triangulation using the nine-one-one and one-one-two emergency beacon provisions on the network.”

“Didn’t know you were so up on your techno.”

“I’m not,” PT said. “I’m reading verbatim from a report sitting on my desk. Do I need to explain the rest?”

“Give me an hour,” Myron said.

“You’re joking, right?”

“The phone is at Emily Downing’s apartment. I know.”

“So you’re going to lie to me?”

“I’m not lying—”

“The phone isn’t at the apartment anymore,” PT said. “And neither are you.”

“What?”

“The phone is in the middle of Central Park. And guess what? We’ve also geographically pinpointed your phone, so we know that you’re crossing the park with it.”

Myron’s eyes widened. He did not break stride. He did not look behind him.

“You have my exact location?”

“It’s on my screen. You’re traveling southwest through Central Park.”

Myron swallowed. “And the burner phone?”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you telling me you don’t have it on you?”

“I don’t.”

“Shit.”

“How precise are the locations?”

“A hundred meters maybe.”

So someone was following him. Only two possibilities here. Greg or Emily.

“Look, we got agents on the way,” PT said. “It shouldn’t take long. Tell me about the phone.”

Myron debated a subtle turn-and-look to see if he was being followed. But then what? Suppose it was Greg. What was the plan here? Myron reached the walkway up to Strawberry Fields. Through the trees up ahead, he could make out the fortresslike exterior of the Dakota. Almost there. This was good. He would hurry up the path. He would get to the end of it and duck behind a tree. Then he could wait and see who was following him.

“Myron?” PT said. “What’s with the phone?”

“It’s a long story.”

Myron walk-ran up the path, glancing behind him as he did. There was a family of four. Two parents and two girls who looked to be twins. There was a tour group of maybe thirty behind them being led by a woman holding up a French flag so she was easy to follow.

No Greg. No Emily.

On the bench up ahead, Myron spotted a bearded busker with a guitar and microphone and amp, and QR codes so you could tip him by Venmo or Zelle. Street musicians had gone high tech too. He sang about a banker who never wore a mac in the pouring rain, which he found very strange. Great lyrics until you really thought about them. Myron rushed past him. There was a large group of people lined up to take photos with the “Imagine” mosaic. Dave, the button vendor Win sometimes chatted up who also scheduled the Strawberry Fields buskers/musicians, was gone from his usual spot. That’s where Myron veered off the path. He found a thick tree and hid behind it.

He looked out. No Greg. No Emily.

“Where’s the phone now?” Myron asked PT.

Before PT could answer, Myron’s phone buzzed again. It was a text from Esperanza in full caps. Esperanza never uses caps.

Myron didn’t bother saying goodbye to PT. He just hung up and hit Esperanza’s line.

“What’s up?”

“Oh shit, you were right.”

“What?”

“That hidden bank account,” Esperanza said. “The one Greg and Grace used for the house in Pine Bush. You told me to look into it.”

“And?”

“They got a credit card issued in the name of Parker Stalworth. Someone using that card rented a car in Horsham, Pennsylvania, two days ago.”

Horsham, Myron thought. Not far from Doylestown or Philadelphia.

It was suddenly all coming together.

“How do we trace this down?” Myron asked.

“Already done,” Esperanza said. “A screenshot from the rental-car surveillance video is coming to both of us now. Check your texts.”

Myron heard the buzz from the incoming photo. He glanced again down the path. No Greg. No Emily. No one he knew. Then he put the phone on speaker and looked down at the screen. The screenshot was too small to see. He tapped the photo to enlarge the image. It took a few moments to load.

The image, like all CCTV surveillance images, was shot from above. Myron saw the back of the rental-car employee’s head. The person renting the car wore a black baseball cap and kept their face down.

But Myron knew who it was. Suddenly all the pieces fell into place.

Esperanza said, “Myron, is that—?”

At that same moment, Myron sensed more than heard or even felt it:

Someone had sneaked up behind him.

He didn’t hesitate. He spun to his right, his arm coming up, deflecting the gun mere inches from the back of his head. In that split second — less than a second, less than a tenth of a second maybe — Myron spotted the same black baseball cap.

The gun fired.

The bullet hit Myron.

And Myron went down.