The study was too-dark cherry-wood with drawn curtains and one lamp giving off a faint yellow glow. George Garston turned to the side, staring at the rich paisley wallpaper, showing Myron his profile. "We've worked together once," he said. "Not us personally. Our companies. Did you know that?"

"Yes," Myron said.

George Garston had made his fortune with a chain of Greek quasi-restaurants, the kind that work best as mall stands in crowded food courts. The chain was called Achilles Meals. For real. Myron had a Greek hockey player who endorsed the chain regionally, in the upper Midwest.

"So a sports agent is interested in my daughter's murder," Garston said.

"It's a long story."

"The police aren't talking. But they think it's her boyfriend. This reporter. Do you agree?"

"I don't know. What do you think?"

He made a scoffing noise. Myron could barely see his face anymore. "What do I think?" he said. "You sound like one of those grief counselors."

"Didn't mean to."

"Spewing all that sensitivity garbage. They're just trying to distract you from reality. They say they want you to face it. But really, it's the opposite. They want you to dig so far into yourself you won't be able to see how terrible your life is now." He grunted and shifted in his chair. "I don't have an opinion on Stan Gibbs. I never met him."

"Did you know he and your daughter were dating?"

In the dark, Myron saw the big head silently go back and forth. "She told me she had a boyfriend," he said. "She didn't tell me his name. Or that he was married."

"You wouldn't have approved?"

"Of course I wouldn't have approved," he said, trying to sound snappish, but he was beyond petty indignation. "Would you approve if it was your daughter?"

"I guess not. So you knew nothing about her relationship with Stan Gibbs?"

"Nothing."

"I understand that you spoke to her not long before she died."

"Four days before."

"Can you tell me about the conversation?"

"Melina had been drinking," he said in that pure monotone you get when the words have been ricocheting around your brain too long. "A lot. She drank too much, my daughter. Got that from her papa--who got it from his papa. The Garston family legacy." He made a chuckling sound that sounded far closer to a sob than anything in the neighborhood of a laugh.

"Melina talked to you about her testimony?"

"Yes."

"Could you tell me what she said exactly?"

" 'I made a mistake, Papa.' That's what she said. She said that she lied."

"What did you say?"

"I didn't even know what she was talking about. It's as I told you before--I didn't know about this boyfriend."

"Did you ask her to explain?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And she didn't. She said to forget about it. She said she'd take care of it. Then she told me she loved me and hung up."

Silence.

"I had two children, Mr. Bolitar. Did you know that?"