Myron leaned forward. One of the fascinating things about surveillance videos was that they were shot from cameras set up high, so that you rarely got a great look at the face. This seemed counterintuitive, but perhaps there was no better alternative. This particular shot was a touch blurry, a close-up, and Myron imagined that someone had cropped and zoomed in on her face. Either way it ended any doubt about identity.

“Okay, so we know it’s Kitty,” Myron said. “What about Brad?”

“No sign of him.”

“So what—to use your vernacular—isn’t good?”

Win thought about that. “Well, perhaps ‘isn’t good’ was an ineffective way for me to have put it,” he said.

“How should you have put it?”

Win tapped his chin with his index finger. “Really, really bad.”

Myron felt the chill and turned back toward the screen. Win pressed another button on the remote. The camera zoomed out. “Kitty entered the club at ten thirty-three P.M. with approximately ten other people. Lex’s entourage, if you will.”

There she was, turquoise blouse, her face pale. The video was one of those that took pictures every two or three seconds so that the effect was jerky, like one of those flip books or old footage of Babe Ruth running the bases.

“This was taken in a small chamber off the VIP room at ten forty-seven P.M.”

Not long before he and Esperanza arrived, Myron thought. Win hit a skip button and reached a frozen image. Again the camera angle was from above. It was hard to see Kitty’s face. She was with another woman and a guy with long hair tied into a ponytail. Myron did not recognize them. The guy with the ponytail had something in his hand. A rope maybe. Win hit the play button and the actors in this little drama came to life. Kitty put out her arm. Ponytail leaned closer to her and wrapped the . . . nope, not rope . . . around her bicep and tied it off. Then he tapped her arm with two fingers and took out a hypodermic needle. Myron felt his heart sink as Ponytail put the needle in Kitty’s arm with a seemingly practiced hand, pushed the plunger, and untied the cord around her bicep.

“Wow,” Myron said. “That’s new, even for her.”

“Yes,” Win said. “She’s stepped up from cokehead to heroin addict. Impressive.”

Myron shook his head. He should have been shocked, but pitifully he wasn’t. He thought about the Facebook photographs, the big smiles, the family trips. He’d been wrong before. It wasn’t a life. It was a lie. Take “life” and remove the f. One big fat ol’ lie. Classic Kitty.

“Myron?”

“Yep.”

“This isn’t the worst part,” Win said.

Myron just looked at his old friend.

“This won’t be easy to watch.”

Win was not one for hyperbole. Myron turned back to the TV and waited for Win to hit the play button. Without looking away from the screen, Myron put the Yoo-hoo on a coaster and put out his hand. Win had the previously poured snifter of the cognac at the ready. Myron accepted it now, took a sip, closed his eyes, let it sting his throat.