“Greg Downing,” Myron said, “is dead.” “Is that your story?” Myron frowned. “My story?” The young agent who looked like a beluga whale leaned forward a little and glared at Win. He spoke for the first time, his voice deeper than Myron expected. Or maybe Myron had expected a high-pitched whale call. “Is that your story too?” Win almost yawned. “No comment.” “You’re Greg Downing’s financial advisor,” Young Beluga continued, still trying to stare down Win; he would have had a better chance of staring down a duvet cover. “Is that correct?” “No comment.” “We can subpoena your records.” “Gasp, now
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