Myron found an open Panera Bread. The rich smell of pastry reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in forever. He ordered a coffee and bear claw. He sat near a window by a side door in case he needed to make a quick exit. From this vantage point he could see any and all cars pulling into the lot. If one ended up being a squad car, he could get out and be off for the woods in no time flat. He sipped the coffee and inhaled the bear claw. He started thinking about his dad. His dad always ate too fast. On Saturday mornings way back when, Dad would take him and Brad to Seymour’s Luncheonette on Livingston Avenue for a milk shake, French fries, and maybe a pack of baseball cards. Myron and Brad would sit on stools and twirl them. Dad would stand next to them, always, as if that was what a man did. When the fries came, he’d lean against the counter and wolf them down. Dad was never fat, but he was always on the wrong side of the “healthy weight” line.

Was that part of this? What if Dad had eaten better? What if Dad had worked out more or had a less stressful job or had a son who didn’t get into jams that kept him up at night? What if his father hadn’t come flying out of the house to defend that same son?

Enough.

Myron put the Bluetooth back into his ear and called Chief County Investigator Loren Muse. When she answered, Myron said, “I got a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you have any sources in Edison, New Jersey?”

“It’s Middlesex County. I cover Essex and Hudson. But yes.”

“There was a shooting there tonight.”

“Is that a fact?”

“And theoretically I might have done the shooting in self-defense.”

“Theoretically?”

“I don’t want any of this used against me.”

“You lawyer types. Go on.”

As Myron filled her in, a black limousine slowly cruised by. The window placard read: DOM DELUISE. Win. Myron hurried out, still talking through the Bluetooth, and ducked into the back. The driver offered up a hello. Myron mouthed a hello and then pointed to the earpiece, indicating that he was both on the phone and a pretentious ass.

Loren Muse was not happy. “What exactly do you want me to do with this information?”

“Tell your source.”

“Tell my source what exactly? That the shooter called me and said he doesn’t want to turn himself in yet?”

“Something like that.”

“And when do you expect that you’ll have time to grace us with your presence?” Muse asked.

“Soon.”

“Well, that should satisfy him.”

“I’m just trying to save them some headache, Muse.”

“You can do that by coming in now.”

“I can’t.”

Silence. Then Muse asked: “Does this have something to do with Suzze’s overdose?”

“I think it does, yes.”