toward the sun.

"What sort of evidenpe do they have?"

"The murder weapon, for one. Bloodstains. Fibers. Do you have any sunblock?"

"But how...?" Myron studied his friend's face. As usual, it gave away nothing. "Did she do it?"

"I have no idea."

"Did you ask her?"

"Esperanza does not wish to speak with me."

"What?"

"She does not wish to speak with you either."

"I don't understand," Myron said. "Esperanza wouldn't kill anyone."

"You're quite sure about that, are you?"

Myron swallowed. He had thought that his recent experience would help him understand Win better. Win had killed too. Often, in fact. Now that Myron had done likewise, he thought that there would be a fresh bond. But there wasn't. Just the opposite, in fact. Their shared experienced was opening a whole new chasm.

Win checked his watch. "Why don't you go get packed?"

"There's nothing I need to bring."

Win motioned to the house. Terese stood there, watching them silently. "Then say good-bye to La Derriere and let's be on our way."
Chapter 2
Terese had put on a robe. She leaned against the doorway and waited.

Myron was not sure what to say. He settled for "Thank you."

She nodded.

"Do you want to come along?" he asked.

"No."

"You can't stay here forever."

"Why not?"

Myron thought about it for a moment. "You know anything about boxing?"

Terese sniffed the air. "Do I detect the distinct odor of an upcoming sports metaphor?"

"I'm afraid so," he said.

"Ugh. Go on."

"This whole thing is sort of like a boxing match," Myron began. "We've been ducking and diving and weaving and trying to keep away from our opponent. But we can only do that for so long. Eventually we have to throw a punch."

She made a face. "Christ, that was lame."

"Spur of the moment."

"And inaccurate," she added. "Try this. We've tasted our opponent's power. It dropped us to the canvas. Somehow we managed to get back to our feet. But our legs are still rubbery, and our eyes are still hazed over. Another big blow and the fight will be over. Better to keep dancing. Better to avoid getting hit and hope to go the distance."

Hard to argue.

They fell into silence.

Myron said, "If you come up to New York, give me a call and-"

"Right."

Silence.

"We know what would happen," Terese said. "We'd meet up for drinks, maybe hop back in the sack, but it won't be the same. We'll both be uncomfortable as all hell. We'll pretend that we'll get together again, and we won't even exchange Christmas cards. We're not lovers, Myron. We're not even friends. I don't know what the hell we are, but I'm grateful."

A bird cawed. The small waves hummed their soft song. Win stood by the shore, his arms crossed, his body frighteningly patient.

"Have a good life, Myron."

"You too," he replied.

He and Win took the dinghy to the yacht. A crew member offered Myron his hand. Myron grabbed it and hoisted himself on board. The yacht took off. Myron stood on the deck and watched the shore grow smaller. He was leaning on a teakwood rail. Teakwood. Everything on this vessel was dark and rich and teak.

"Here," Win said.

Myron turned. Win tossed him a Yoo-Hoo, Myron's favorite drink, kind of a cross between a soda pop and chocolate milk. Myron smiled. "I haven't had one of these in three weeks."

"The withdrawal pains," Win said. "They must have been agony."

"No TV and no Yoo-Hoo. It's a wonder I survived."

"Yes, you practically lived like a monk," Win said. Then, looking back at the island, he added, "Well, like a monk who gets laid a lot."

They were both stalling.

"How long until we get back?" Myron asked.

"Eight hours on the boat," Win said. "A chartered jet is waiting at St. Bart's. The flight should take about four hours."

Myron nodded. He shook the can and popped it. He took a deep swig and turned back toward the water.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Win ignored the statement. Or maybe it was enough for him. The yacht picked up speed. Myron closed his eyes and let the water and gentle spray caress his face. He thought a moment about Clu Haid. Clu hadn't trusted agents-"a small step below pedophile" was how he put it-so he asked Myron to negotiate his contract, even though Myron was merely a first-year student at Harvard Law. Myron did it. He liked it. And MB SportsReps soon followed.

Clu was a lovable screwup. He unapologetically pursued wine, women, and song-not to mention any high he could get his hands/nose/veins on. Clu never met a party he didn't like. He was a redheaded big guy with