Definitely, Lew Wallerman was not Charles.

He was short and very, very black, for one thing. Morgan wondered how a black man ended up with a name like Wallerman, but was afraid to ask.

He wore decrepit clothes that were loud evidence of indescribably awful taste-brown checkered suit that would be hard to push at a Goodwill sale, blue-and-white polka-dot tie, and thickly striped shirt that was a mass of wrinkles and stains. His scuffed black shoes were at least ten years old and hadn’t smelled polish in years.

Lew Wallerman had loser written all over him.

They were seated in a small, shabby pub in Manhattan. It was midday but Wallerman had insisted they meet at this bar. He lost no time showing Morgan why. The place was rowdy, and seemed to attract the model crowd, meaning a small tribe of cadaverous young skeletons in petite skirts and enough leering men to make it worth their while. Wallerman had barely fallen into his seat before he ordered two beers with a scotch chaser. He was on his lunch break, he’d told Morgan. He ate out of a glass.

“So what’s this about?” he asked Morgan.

“Jack Wiley.”

The name struck an immediate chord. He bent forward and placed his elbows on the table. “Jack, huh? What trouble is he in this time?”

Morgan’s heart skipped three beats. He swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice normal, his expression only vaguely interested. “What makes you think that?”

“It’s Jack. Always just a matter of time with old Jack.”

“Tell me about that.”

“You know Jack? Ever met him?”

“Not really,” Morgan confessed.

The elbows came off the table. Wallerman offered a smug, knowing smile. “Just say that Jack’s always working some sleazy angle or another. A smooth operator with a million shady ideas.”

This sounded so good, but Morgan decided to inch into it. “You knew him in college?”

“Yeah, I knew him.” He launched into a tiresome spiel about their relationship, from beginning to end. They were separated by a year, and pursued different majors, but were both in the same eating club, Princeton’s peculiar variation on a fraternity. Both were always busy and caught up in separate pursuits, Jack with classes and lacrosse, Wallerman struggling just to get through the academic load. They occasionally ate together. They double-dated once or twice. Attended all the eating club rituals together. Friends but not particularly close ones, Wallerman admitted. They drifted apart after graduation, Jack heading into the Army, Wallerman, dreaming of big bucks, shooting straight to Wall Street and the fast action. They met again at Primo Investments.

“The very years I’m looking into,” Morgan replied, smiling broadly now, finding it impossible to conceal his excitement. He could smell the jackpot, at last. The drinks were being delivered. Wallerman snatched a large frosty stein out of the waiter’s hand and it shot straight to his lips. Not sips, big gulps.

With the back of his hand, he wiped the beer froth off his upper lip. “Yeah, I figured that,” he said, smiling back. “You heard about Edith, I guess.”

“A few things, sure. Rumors, mostly.”

“Let me tell you, whatever you heard is probably true. Jack walked away with a boatload of cash. Millions, many millions. He struck the mother lode with that old broad.”

“You think he had her killed?”

“You know what they say?”

“No, remind me.”

“The definition of a perfect murder is on the high seas. No corpse, no evidence, impossible to prove.” He was staring now at a hot young thing with a jewelry store attached to her lower lip. She was standing by herself, not drinking, not eating, just begging to be admired. “Jack knew that, of course.”

“But you think he did it?”

“Oh, sure he did it.”

Morgan seemed to smile and frown at the same time. “Say I could find evidence that implicates him, would you be willing to testify to that effect?”

Wallerman had been in the middle of guzzling his second beer. The drinking stopped and the mug slammed down on the table. “Are you crazy?” he yelled.

A few people at nearby tables turned and gawked. Attention was the last thing Morgan wanted.

“Quiet down,” he whispered gravely. He waited a moment until the stares went away and Wallerman put the beer back where it belonged, at his lips. Another long guzzle slid down his throat. The tension melted from his face-Morgan was amazed at how fast a shot of booze calmed him. He leaned forward and asked Lew, in a low voice, “My guess is we’re talking because you have a grudge against Jack, right?”

“We didn’t part on the best of terms.”

“Be more specific.”

“He walked off with all that money, and I stayed in a lousy, crumbling firm. Less than a year later, the CEO and CFO died, and all the air went out of the place. I was stuck in a dead end with no way out.”

Morgan stroked his chin and thought about that. He took a stab and asked, “You think Jack had anything to do with their deaths, too?”

It didn’t seem like a question Wallerman had considered before. It did seem to intrigue him, though. “You think he arranged the plane crash?”

“Just an idea I’m throwing out.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“From what I hear, Kyle and Sullivan suspected him. They put a PI firm in Europe on his ass. Their deaths were awfully convenient for Jack.”

“It does sound like Jack’s style. He’s meticulous that way. But like I said, I don’t know anything about it.”

“Did you ask Jack to cut you in?”

The slits of Wallerman’s eyes grew narrow. After a hesitation he admitted, “We might’ve had a conversation along those lines.”

“And he refused, right?”

“Basically, and not politely either.” Another long gulp of beer, then he smacked his lips. “He told me to screw myself. It was very big money and I would’ve been content with only one or two million. He could afford it. It was no way to treat a friend.”

“Don’t you want to pay him back?”

“We’re still talking aren’t we?”

“Okay, look, it’s simple. I need proof Jack did it. If you could-”

“And I need cash,” Wallerman interrupted before Morgan could complete that thought. Screw the details, let’s talk money his face was saying. The second stein of beer now sat on the table, empty. Lew was leaning back in his seat, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

“How much?” Morgan asked, his eyebrows pinching together.

“It won’t be cheap. There’s a lot to consider.”

“For instance?”

“For one, Jack’s a dangerous man. There’s his history to consider. Delta, war hero, and he obviously killed Edith. He’s not squeamish about erasing problems.”

“How much?” Morgan repeated.

“I’d have to quit my job and run. It would mean the end of a lucrative, quite promising career. I’d need enough to live on.”

Morgan strangled the urge to burst out laughing. Whatever had become of Wallerman’s career, profitable or promising didn’t enter the picture. He was a sorry lush and a loser. He didn’t even have enough money to purchase a decent suit. The best thing that could happen to him was to scrap it all and start over. Morgan should charge him for the opportunity.

“Just tell me how much,” he repeated, more insistently.

“Only two million,” Wallerman answered, making it sound like an extraordinary bargain.

“Bad joke. How much?”

“I’m not budging. Know why? There is no evidence, zilch, nada, none. Jack is smart. After he left, I went through everything. The records of his transactions with Edith, bank transfers, everything. I even went through the hard drive of his old computer one night after everyone went home. You won’t find a thing, Morgan, not without me.”

“So what are you offering?”

Wallerman’s eyes were glued on a skinny little thing with a cocktail in her hand, leaning against the bar. Morgan forced himself to look twice before he believed she was real. Long, bony legs on full display, a ridiculously purple pageboy haircut, a thick tattoo of barbed wire around her neck, wearing an outfit that looked like it was designed by a sociopath.