For weeks following Pat Sr.’s funeral, Jay had phoned often, even stopped by the house a few times to see how they were faring, bringing with him flowers and small gifts. But then the calls and the visits had tapered off and finally stopped altogether.

Every once in a while, his and Jay’s paths would cross at police headquarters. They always exchanged friendly hellos, but it was obvious to Pat that Jay didn’t want to engage in conversation, and that was more than okay with him.

Now a photo of that handsome, guileless face filled the screen of his twelve-inch kitchen TV.

“Another officer who distinguished himself five years ago during the police station fire apparently died the victim of foul play,” the announcer said, all gravity.

“Daddy?”

“Shh!”

“I wan’ milk.”

Each morning Pat Jr. prepared breakfast for his two children. It wasn’t a chore he particularly enjoyed. In fact, he dreaded it every morning-the whining, the demands, the invariable spills. But getting breakfast was the least he could do for his wife and children. The very least.

Mechanically he poured milk into a sippy cup, secured the top, then handed it to his three-year-old son. Smelling of a wet diaper, his two-year-old daughter was in her high chair, creating a mush of waffles and syrup in the tray.

“Jay Burgess was found dead two days ago in his bed by newswoman Britt Shelley. Ms. Shelley, who placed the 911 call, contends that after meeting Burgess at a popular nightspot, she has no memory of the night she spent with him.”

They cut to an exterior shot of The Wheelhouse. Pat Jr. knew it, but he’d never been there.

“Daddy?”

“Just a minute,” he snapped impatiently.

“Police, who’ve questioned Ms. Shelley extensively, have declined to cite any wrongdoing on her part. However, they did request that the autopsy on Burgess be conducted as soon as possible. Gary, in view of this report from the medical examiner’s office, do you think the authorities will be questioning Ms. Shelley further?”

The field reporter, covering the story from outside Jay Burgess’s town house, now a crime scene, appeared on camera. “No doubt of that, Stan. Ms. Shelley said at the news conference she held yesterday that she was eager to learn the cause of Burgess’s death. By her own admission, she was the last person to see him alive. Given the findings of this autopsy, the police will have some hard questions for her.”

“Pat?” Pat Jr. turned around to see his wife, who’d just come from bed. Her eyes were still puffy with sleep, but she was looking at the television. “Is that about Jay Burgess? What are they saying?”

“That he didn’t simply die in his sleep.” The words seemed reluctant to be spoken. They got jammed up inside Pat Jr.’s misshapen mouth, but he was finally able to articulate them.

Astonished, she said, “No kidding?”

He shook his head, wishing with all his might that he was kidding.

“So what happened to him?”

Pat Jr. didn’t have the wherewithal to reply.

George McGowan already had the front door open when his father-in-law arrived and honked the car horn loudly. Nevertheless, as George wedged himself into the seat of Les Conway’s latest acquisition, a spanking new, red Corvette convertible, Les shot him a look of reproof as though he’d been kept waiting.

George ignored the look, and his tongue could turn to stone before he would apologize for being not only on time but ahead of schedule.

Les, who lived barely a mile away on a similar estate, had pre-arranged to pick George up at promptly seven fifteen, so they could be at the country club by seven thirty and teeing off by seven forty-five. As he ruthlessly pushed the Vette’s stick through the gears, he asked, “Did you bring the plans?”

“Right here.” George wondered what the son of a bitch thought he had in the briefcase he’d brought with him if not the architectural plans for the new municipal athletic complex. Today they were meeting with city planners to officially bid on the job of building it. If Conway Construction was awarded the contract, Les’s pocketbook would be considerably fattened.

This wasn’t the first time his father-in-law had used George’s celebrity, as well as his contacts in city hall, to help him land a lucrative contract. In the four years that George and Miranda had been married, there had been many such contracts. But you would never hear Les, or Miranda, giving George credit for the company’s growth. He’d stopped expecting even a nod of appreciation or gratitude from either of them.

“Let them win,” Les said.

George nodded. When Les’s business negotiations began with a round of golf, it was standard practice for him to let his opponents win. Otherwise, he played a cutthroat game.

George had been an athlete in high school and college, participating in nearly every sport. He didn’t take up golf until he was well into his twenties, but he rarely shot above a seventy-eight. Hitting with power, accuracy, and finesse came naturally to him. It galled Les that, even when he cheated, George could always beat him.

“Just don’t make it obvious that you’re losing on purpose.” He gave George a glance, then looked at his own reflection in the rearview mirror. Like father, like daughter. They never met a mirror they didn’t like.

“I won’t.” George felt like a child, being driven to school and given his marching orders for the day.

“How’s my girl this morning?”

“Still asleep when I left.”

Les laughed. “She likes her beauty sleep.”

“She certainly does.”

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what?” George asked distractedly. He was staring at the scenery on his side of the car, catching a glimpse of the Ashley River now and then. The scent of salt water was in the air this morning.

“The police got the autopsy report on your late buddy Jay.”

George whipped his head around.

His father-in-law smirked, then laughed out loud. “I thought that would get your attention.”

“Well? What was in the report?” George hated asking, but he had to know even if he had to beg the son of a bitch for the information.

Les took his sweet time. He readjusted his sunglasses and gave the mirror another glance before answering. “It concluded that Burgess didn’t die of natural causes or anything relating to his cancer.”

The Vette took the turn into the country club parking lot on two wheels and screeched to a halt in the parking space Les paid monthly rent for. As soon as he yanked his keys from the ignition, he turned to George. Now that he no longer found humor in the situation, the smirk, the laugh, were gone. “I don’t think I need to tell you, George, that a fuckup here would be catastrophic.”

“I know what to do. Play well enough, but let them win.”

Les removed his sunglasses and gave him a hard look. “I wasn’t talking about the golf game.”

On that ominous note, his father-in-law got out and slammed the door so hard the car rocked. George alighted and followed him into the clubhouse. Les actually held the door for him, saying as George went past, “It’s important for these guys to think we’re doing them a favor, not vice versa. So, just to set the tone, be a minute or two late to the tee.”

George nodded, glad of that plan. He was going to need an extra minute or two at his locker, where he kept a flask. He had to have a drink or he’d never be able to grip a golf club. Not the way his hands were shaking.