I don’t get it.
Bitsy heads to the bathroom. When she comes out, she is dressed. I am still in the bed, my head propped in my hands.
“I better head back,” she says, as though I know where back is. I sit up as she says, “Goodbye, Win.”
“Goodbye, Bitsy.”
And then, like all good things, it’s over.
* * *
The next morning, I have a car service take me to the airport to visit my old FBI boss, PT.
I used to love to drive. I am a big fan of Jaguars and still keep two at Lockwood—a 2014 XKR-S GT that I use when I’m out there and a 1954 XK120 Alloy Roadster, which my father gave me for my thirtieth birthday. But when you reside in Manhattan, driving is out of the question. The borough is basically a parking lot that sways forward. One of the great things that money can buy is time. I don’t fly private or have a driver because I crave more comfort in my life. I spend the money on those items because at the end of your life, you will crave more of what the annoying experts coin “quality time.” That’s what private jets and chauffeur-driven cars allow you to do. I have the ability to buy time—and that, when you think about it, is the closest thing to buying happiness and longevity.
The driver today is a Polish woman from the city of Wrocław named Magda. We talk for the first few minutes of the journey. Magda is reluctant at first to engage—exclusive drivers are often schooled on not bothering the upscale clientele—but I find every human being is a tale if you ask the right questions. So I probe a bit. I can see her eyes in the rearview mirror. They are a deep blue. Blonde hair peeks out of her chauffeur cap. I wonder about what the rest of her looks like, because I’m a man, and at heart, all men are pigs. It doesn’t mean I would do anything about it.
Today’s vehicle is a Mercedes-Maybach S650. The Maybach brand gives you a wheelbase stretch of eight inches, so that your chair can tilt back forty-three degrees. The plush seat has a power footrest, a hot-stone massage setting, and heated armrests. There is also a folding tray/desk so as to get work done, a small refrigerator, and cupholders that can cool or heat, depending on your preference.
Come to think of it, perhaps I do crave the comfort.
Teterboro is the closest airport from Manhattan for private aircraft. I flew into Teterboro with Swagg Daddy after our night of quasi debauchery in Indianapolis. When we reach the well-guarded gate on the south end, Magda is waved through straight to the tarmac. We pull up next to a Gulfstream G700, a plane that hasn’t really hit the market yet. I’m surprised. The G700 is expensive—close to $80 million—and government officials, even top-echelon, clandestine ones like PT, are not usually that extravagant. Middle Eastern sheiks use the G700, not FBI agents.
I have no idea where we are going or when we will be back. I assume that I am to be flown to Washington or Quantico for my meeting with PT, but I really do not know for certain. Magda has been instructed to wait for me. She gets out of the car and comes around to open my door. I would insist on doing it myself, but that might be patronizing. I thank her, climb the plane steps, and step inside.
“Hello, Win.”
PT sits up front with a wide smile. I haven’t seen him in nearly two decades. He looks old, but then again, I guess he is. He doesn’t rise from his seat to greet me, and I notice the cane next to him. He is big and bald with huge gnarled hands. I bend toward him and stretch out my hand. His grip is firm, his eyes clear. He gestures for me to sit across from him. The G700 can hold nineteen passengers. I know this because someone is trying to sell me one. The seats are, as you might expect, wide and comfortable. We sit facing one another.
“Are we going anywhere?” I ask.
PT shakes his head. “I figured this would be a good spot to meet privately.”
“I didn’t know the G700 had been released yet.”
“It hasn’t been,” he says. “I didn’t fly in on this.”
“Oh?”
“I use a government-issue Hawker 400.”
The Hawker 400 is a far smaller and older jet.
“I’m borrowing this for our meeting because it’s more comfortable than the Hawker.”
“That it is.”
“And because the Hawker probably has listening devices on board.”
“I see,” I say.
He looks me over. “It’s really good to see you, Win.”
“You too, PT.”
“I hear Myron got married.”
“He invited you to the wedding.”
“Yeah, I know.”
PT doesn’t elaborate, and I won’t push it. Instead, I try to take the lead.
“Do you know who the dead hoarder is, PT?”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“You’re sure, Win?”
I don’t like the glint in his eye. “I only saw a corpse photo of his face,” I say. “If you want to show me more—”
“No need,” he says. As I said, PT is a tall man. You can see that even as he sits. He rests his palms on his high knees, as though posing for a statue. “Tell me about the suitcase.”
“You’re not going to tell me who the victim is,” I ask, “or do you not know?”
“Win?”
I wait.
“Tell me about the suitcase.”
His voice has an edge. It is meant, I assume, to intimidate, but directed at me it comes across as something more worrisome.
It comes across as fear.
“I’m waiting,” PT says.
“I know.”
“Why won’t you tell us about your suitcase?”
“I am protecting someone,” I tell him.
“Noble,” PT says. “But I need to know.”
I hesitate, though in truth I knew that we would get to this point.
“Whatever you tell me stays between us. You know that.”
PT leans back and gestures for me to go ahead.
“My aunt gave me the
