“Do you think these guys at the trailer were her drug dealers?”

“They could have been, maybe.”

“Do you still think Suzze’s death was murder?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“And finally, do you think you could just jerk my chain a little harder with all these specifics?”

Myron debated tossing Muse a bone, telling her about Suzze visiting Kitty, that the disposable cell phone Suzze called not long before her death had belonged to his sister-in-law. But then he realized where that would lead—more questions and maybe a visit to the Coddington Rehabilitation Institute—and decided against it.

Instead he tried answering a question with a question. “Do you have any new evidence to suggest it was anything other than an overdose?”

“Ah, I see,” Muse said. “If I give you something, you’ll continue to give me nothing. Quid pro nada.”

“I really don’t know anything yet.”

“You’re so full of crap, Myron. But at this point, what do I care? To answer your question, there is not a shred of evidence that points to foul play in the death of Suzze T. That help?”

Not really.

“So where are you right now?” Muse asked.

Myron frowned. “You serious?”

“Not going to tell me, eh?”

“Not going to tell you.”

“So you only trust me so far?”

“You have an obligation as an officer of the law to report anything I say,” Myron said. “But you can’t say what you don’t know.”

“How about telling me who lived in that trailer? I’m going to find out anyway.”

“No, but . . .” There was a bone he wanted to toss her, even though he had given his word he wouldn’t.

“But?”

“Get a warrant on a middle school teacher in Ridgewood named Joel Fishman. He’s a drug dealer.” Myron had promised ol’ Crush that he would not report him, but when you pull a gun on someone in a middle school, well, Joel never called “no crossies.”

When he finished giving her enough details to nail Fishman, Myron hit the end button. Cell phones were not allowed in the hospital so he called the administrative desk. They transferred him around until he found a nurse who was willing to go on the record and tell him there was nothing new to report on his father’s condition. Terrific.

The limousine pulled right out onto the tarmac next to the aircraft. No luggage check-in, no boarding pass, no security line in which the man in front of you forgets to take the spare change out of his pocket despite forty-seven requests to do so and sets off the metal detector. When you fly private, you pull up right onto the tarmac, you walk up the stairs, and bingo, you’re off.

As Win often pointed out, it was good to be rich.