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Myron didn’t like that.

Myron stared at the chief until finally Taylor felt his eyes,
turned, and looked Myron’s way. The two men glared at each other another second or two.

If you got a problem, you glare at me,
Myron tried to say with his eyes,
not my nephew.

Dad said, “Ignore him. Eddie has always been what the kids today call an ‘ass waffle.’”

Myron laughed out loud. “Ass waffle?”

“Yep.”

“Who taught you that?”

“Ema,” Dad said. “I like her, don’t you?”

“Very much,” Myron agreed.

“Is it true?” Dad asked.

“What?”

“That Ema’s mother is Angelica Wyatt?”

It was supposed to be a secret. Angelica Wyatt was one of the most popular actresses in the world. To protect her only child and her own privacy, they had moved to a large estate on a hill here in New Jersey.

“It’s true.”

“And you know her?”

Myron nodded. “A bit.”

“Who’s her father?”

“I don’t know.”

Dad started craning his neck. “I’m surprised Ema’s not here.”

They settled back as the game began. Myron loved every second of it. Sitting with his dad in a gym, watching his nephew dominate the game Myron so loved—it was simple and primitive and blissful. There were no pangs anymore. He missed it, sure, but it was way past his time, and man oh man, did he love watching his young nephew reveling in the experience.

It made Myron a little teary.

At one point, after Mickey made a turnaround jumper, Dad shook his head and said, “He’s really good.”

“He is.”

“He plays like you.”

“He’s better.”

Dad considered that. “Different eras. He may not go as far as you.”

“Hmm,” Myron said. “What makes you say that?”

“How to put this . . . ?” Dad began. “For you, basketball was everything.”

“Mickey is pretty dedicated too.”

“No question. But it’s not everything. There’s a difference. Let me ask you a question.”

“Okay.”

“When you look back at how competitive you were, what do you think?”

Mickey made a steal. A cheer rose from the crowd. Myron couldn’t help but smile. “I guess I was a little crazy.”

“It was important to you.”

“Ridiculously important,” Myron agreed.

Dad arched an eyebrow. “Too important?”

“Probably, yeah.”

“But that’s one of the things that separated you from the other talented players. That . . . ‘desire’ is almost too tame a word. That
need
to win. That single-minded focus. That’s what made you the best.”

Win had often said something similar of Myron’s playing days at Duke:
“When you’re competing, you’re barely sane . . .”

“But now,” Dad continued, “you have perspective. You’ve experienced tragedies and joys that have taught you that there are more important things in life than basketball. And Mickey—don’t take this the wrong way—Mickey had to grow up young. He’s already suffered more than his share of tragedy.”

Myron nodded. “He already has perspective.”

“Exactly.”

The horn blew, ending the first quarter. Mickey’s team was up by six.

“Who knows,” Myron said. “Maybe his wisdom will make him a better player. Maybe perspective is as good as single-minded focus.”

Dad liked that. “Maybe you’re right.”

They watched Mickey’s teammates break the huddle and take the ball out of bounds to start the second quarter.

“I loathe sports metaphors,” Dad said, “but there is one important thing both of you learned on the court and do in real life.”

“What’s that?”

Dad nodded to the court. Mickey drove through the lane, drew a defender, dished a pass to a teammate, who scored an easy bucket.

“You make those around you better.”

Myron said nothing. His nephew had that look on his face, the one Myron knew so well. There is a Zen to being on the court, a calm in the storm, a purity, a concentration, the ability to slow down time. Then Myron saw Mickey’s eyes flick to the left. He pulled up for a second. Myron followed Mickey’s gaze to see what had drawn that reaction.

Ema had walked into the gym.

She narrowed her eyes and scanned the stands. Myron gave a small wave. She nodded that she saw him and started toward him. Myron rose and met her halfway.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“It’s about Patrick,” Ema said. “You better come with me.”

*   *   *

Ema didn’t take him far,
just to the head custodian’s office in the high school’s main building. She opened the door and held it for him. Myron stepped inside and recognized the kid at the desk.

“Hello, Mr. Bolitar!”

They called the kid Spoon. Mickey had given him the nickname, though Myron wasn’t sure of the origins. Spoon’s father was the head custodian at the high school, which explained why Spoon had access to this space. The office was small and tidy and loaded with perfectly pruned plants.

“I told you to call me Myron.”

The kid swiveled his chair so that he was facing Myron. Spoon wasn’t wearing a pocket protector, but he had the look of a kid who should have been. Using one finger, Spoon pushed his Harry Potter glasses up his nose.

Spoon gave Myron a crooked grin. “You know those stickers that supermarkets put on fruit?”

Ema sighed. “Not now, Spoon.”

“Sure I know them,” Myron said.

“Do you peel them off your fruit before you eat it?”

“I do.”

“Did you know,” Spoon continued, “that those stickers are edible?”

“I did not.”

“You don’t have to peel them off, if you don’t want to. Even the glue is food grade.”

“Good info. Is that why I’m here?”

“Of course not,” Spoon said. “You’re here because I think Patrick Moore is about to leave his house.”

Myron stepped toward the desk. “What makes you say that?”

“He just finished Skyping with someone on his laptop.” Spoon leaned back in his chair. “Are you aware, Myron, that Skype’s headquarters are located in Luxembourg?”

Ema rolled her eyes.

“Who did Patrick Skype with?” Myron asked.

“That I can’t say.”

“What did they talk about?”

“That I can’t say either. The keylogger planted by my lovely associate”—he gestured toward Ema, who looked like she wanted to kick him—“does just that. It records—or logs, if you prefer—the keys struck on a keyboard. So I can see Patrick Moore signed into Skype. I can’t, of course, see what they said.”

“So what makes you think he’s leaving the house?” Myron asked.

“A simple deduction, my friend. Immediately after turning off Skype, Patrick Moore—or whoever is using his computer—visited the New Jersey Transit website. From what I can gather, he was searching for bus routes into New York City.”

Myron checked his watch. “How long ago was this?”

Spoon checked the elaborate watch on his wrist. “Fourteen minutes and eleven, twelve, thirteen seconds ago.”

F
or reasons Myron could never fathom,
Big Cyndi was great at tailing people. Perhaps it was that she was so obvious, so in your face, so out there, that you never really saw her or suspected a woman who wore a clingy purple Batgirl costume to be following you. Her costume, a somewhat larger replica of the one Yvonne Craig wore on the old
Batman
TV show, was snug to the point where it might be mistaken for sausage casing.

Today, however, the outfit did blend in a very particular way. Myron spotted Big Cyndi the moment he entered Times Square. Think of every cliché you can about Times Square, mush them together, stack cliché upon cliché, the ones about the kinetic waves
of humanity and the traffic and the ginormous billboards and moving screens and neon lights. Then take what you’re imagining and raise it to the tenth power.

Welcome to Times Square.

Times Square is an assault on every sense, and somehow that includes not only scent but taste. Everything is in motion and swirling and you want to give the entire square a giant Adderall.

There, along with Spider-Man, Elmo, Mickey Mouse, Buzz Lightyear, and Olaf from
Frozen,
stood Big Cyndi in full costume. Tourists were lined up to pose for photographs with her “Batgirl.”

“They love me, Mr. Bolitar,” Big Cyndi called out.

“Who doesn’t?”

Big Cyndi tee-heed and struck poses that would have made Madonna in her “Vogue” days blush. An Asian tourist offered her some cash after taking the picture, but Big Cyndi refused. “Oh, I couldn’t, kind sir.”

“Are you sure?” the tourist asked.

“This is charity.” She bent down closer to him. “If I wanted to be paid for wearing this outfit, I would still be hooking.”

The tourist hurried away.

Big Cyndi looked at Myron. “I was joking, Mr. Bolitar.”

“I know that.”

“I never hooked.”

“Good to know.”

“Though I made beaucoup bucks when I wore this working the pole.”

“Uh-huh,” Myron said, not wanting to go down this particular lane of memory.

“At Leather and Lace, remember?”

“I do, yes.”

“And okay, sometimes things went too far when I’d get hired for a lap dance, if you get my drift.”

“Drift gotten,” Myron said quickly. “So, uh, where’s Patrick? Can you give me an update?”

“Young Patrick sneaked out of his house two hours ago,” Big Cyndi said. “He walked approximately one mile into town and took bus 487. I looked it up. Bus 487’s final destination is Port Authority in New York City. I drove my car and arrived before the bus. I waited for him to get off and followed him here.”

“Here where?” Myron asked.

“Don’t turn suddenly, because you’ll be obvious.”

“Okay.”

“Patrick is standing behind you, between the Madame Tussauds wax museum and Ripley’s Believe It or Not!”

Myron waited. Then he said, “Can I look now?”

“Turn slowly.”

Myron did. Patrick stood on Forty-Second Street wearing a baseball cap pulled low. His shoulders were hunched as though he was trying to disappear.

“Has he talked to anyone?” Myron asked.

“No,” Big Cyndi replied. “Mr. Bolitar?”

“Yes?”

“Do you mind if I pose for more photographs while we wait? My public demands it.”

“Go for it.”

Myron kept his eye on Patrick, but he also couldn’t help but watch Big Cyndi work the crowd. Thirty seconds after she got back into action, the queue to have a photo taken with her was so
long the Naked Cowboy looked at her askance. She glanced at Myron. Myron gave her a big thumbs-up.

Here was the simple, awful truth: It was often hard to see beyond Big Cyndi’s size. We as a society have many prejudices, but there are very few of our fellow citizens we stigmatize and judge less charitably than what we consider to be “large” women. Big Cyndi was all too aware of that. She had once explained her outgoing lifestyle, if you will, thusly: “I’d rather see shock on their faces than pity, Mr. Bolitar. And I’d rather they see brazen or outrageous than shrinking or scared.”

Myron turned back toward Ripley’s just as a teenage girl sidled up to Patrick.

Who the . . . ?

Myron remembered what Mickey and Ema had told him about Patrick’s claim of having a girlfriend. But if he’d been living in quasi-captivity in London, how would he know anyone in New York City?

Good question.

Patrick and the girl exchanged a quick, awkward hug before heading inside Ripley’s. Big Cyndi was by Myron’s side now. When Myron started toward the ticket window, Big Cyndi stopped him.

“He knows you,” she reminded him.

“You’ll go in?”

Big Cyndi pointed to the sign with an index finger the size of a baguette. “It’s called an ‘odditorium.’ Who better?”

Hard to argue.

“You wait by the exit,” she said. “I’ll text you updates.”

Myron stayed on the street for an hour and people-watched. He liked people-watching. Great views of sunsets and water and
greens are wonderful, he supposed, but after a while, they become something you barely notice. But if you’re in a spot where you can watch people walk by—every race, gender, size, shape, religion, language, whatever—you are never bored. Everyone is their own universe—a life, a dream, a hope, a sorrow, a joy, a surprise, a revelation, a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end—even when they simply walk by you on the street.

The phone vibrated when Big Cyndi’s text came in:
EXITING NOW.

Big Cyndi always texted in capital letters.

Patrick kept his head low as he came out. The teenage girl stood right next to him. Big Cyndi loomed behind them.

The teenage girl gave Patrick a quick peck on the cheek. Then Patrick started heading west, away from Times Square. The girl moved east. They were splitting up. Big Cyndi looked at Myron for instructions. Myron gestured to Patrick. Big Cyndi nodded and started to follow him. Myron fell into a current of humans and tailed the girl.

She turned left on Seventh Avenue and started uptown. Myron followed. She headed all the way up to Fifty-Ninth Street and turned right on Central Park South. They passed the Plaza Hotel and turned north on Fifth Avenue. The teenager walked steadily and confidently and with no hesitation. Myron assumed from this observation that she had made this journey before and probably lived in New York City.

Myron Bolitar, Master of Deduction. Please don’t shun him for his gifts.

She turned east on East Sixty-First Street. When she crossed Park Avenue, Myron saw her reach into her bag and ready her
key. The town house in front of her had a wrought-iron gate. She unlocked it. Then she moved down two steps and vanished inside.

A town house near Park Avenue, Myron thought. The girl probably came from money.

Again: Myron Bolitar, Master of Deduction. If you prick him, does he not bleed?

He stood outside and debated his next move. First, he texted Big Cyndi.
Update?

Big Cyndi:
PATRICK IS ON THE BUS. ASSUME HE’S HEADING BACK HOME.

Myron:
I’ll be the Master of Deduction, thank you very much.

Big Cyndi:
WHAT?

Myron:
Never mind.

He stared at the door and hoped it would open so he could . . .

So he could what?

Was he going to approach a teenage girl on the street and ask about her relationship with the boy she just met up with at Ripley’s Odditorium? Myron wasn’t a cop. He wasn’t licensed in any way, shape, or form. He would just be a creepy middle-aged stranger approaching a young girl. He didn’t know her name. He didn’t know anything about her.

No, that would be the wrong move here.

He picked up his phone and called Esperanza.

“What’s up?”

“I have an address near Park Avenue.”

“Well, la-di-da. I live in a one-bedroom in Hoboken.”

“That was funny,” Myron said.

“Wasn’t it, though? Give me the address.”

Myron did. “I followed a teenage girl here.”

“Aren’t you engaged?”

“Ha-ha. She met up with Patrick. I need to find out who she is.”

“On it.”

When he hung up again, his phone rang. He saw from the caller ID it was Terese.

He answered the phone saying, “Hey, beautiful.”

“God, you’re smooth.”

“You think so?”

“No,” Terese said. “In fact, I think it’s your lack of smoothness that makes you so damn sexy. Guess what?”

Myron started walking back. He had parked his car in a crowded theater lot by Times Square. “What?”

“The network sent me home on their private jet.”

“Whoa, big-time.”

“I just landed at Teterboro.”

“Did you get the job?” he asked.

“I’ll hear soon.”

Myron stopped on the corner. Should he walk back to his car or catch a taxi? “Are you on your way to the apartment, then?”

“I am.”

“Wanna do the nasty?” he asked.

“Wow, I take it back. You are smooth.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s most definitely a yes.”

“You can’t see,” Myron said, “but I’m sprinting to the car right now.”

“Faster,” she said, before hanging up.

*   *   *

Myron parked his car
in the underground lot behind the Dakota. When he started up the dark ramp, three men appeared. The one in the middle he recognized. It was Rhys’s dad, Chick Baldwin. The other two wore jeans and flannel shirts. They were big and trying to look bigger. One carried a baseball bat.

“I told you to let it go,” Chick said.

Myron sighed. “Are you for real?”

“I warned you to forget those texts, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Well?”

“And I didn’t listen,” Myron said. “Can we move this along? I kinda have plans. Big plans.”

Chick used his hand to slick back his hair. “Did you think I was, what, playing with you?”

“I don’t know, Chick, and I really don’t care. So what’s your next step?” Myron pointed out the two men in flannel shirts. “Are these two monkeys supposed to rough me up?”

“Who you calling ‘monkey’?” asked Monkey with the Bat.

“Yeah,” Batless Monkey chimed in. “You’re the monkey, not us.”

Myron tried not to sigh. “Do you gentlemen see that up there?” He pointed above their heads. When the two monkeys looked up, Myron kicked the one holding the bat in the balls, snatching away the bat before said monkey folded like a beach chair. Myron looked at Batless Monkey. Batless Monkey thought that this might be a good time to retreat and did so with gusto.

Myron looked at Chick.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Chick said.

“Why did you bring them?”

“To make you pay attention, I guess.”

“I’m paying attention now.”

Chick moved to the former bat-carrying monkey and bent down to help him. “You’re more like Brooke’s psycho cousin than I realized.”

“Chick?”

“What?”

“I’m on my way somewhere very special,” Myron said. “I will definitely and without hesitation whack you with this bat if you don’t move out of my way.”

“Just go,” Chick said.

Myron studied his face for a moment and realized something. “You’re mad because I talked to Nancy Moore about your texts.”

“I told you not to, right? I practically begged you.”

“That’s not the point, Chick.”

“What is?”

“Only one way you could know I did that. Nancy Moore told you.”

Myron Bolitar, Master of Deduction, strikes again.

Chick said nothing. Myron moved toward him and helped the former bat wielder to his feet. Myron told the man to skedaddle. He did as requested, albeit with a bit of a limp. Myron turned his attention back to Chick.

“And that means”—Myron was on a roll now—“you two are in contact about the texts. And that means there was something really significant between the two of you.”

Chick’s voice could not have been more crestfallen without an actual crest or fall in view. “You have to leave it alone, Myron. I’m begging you.”

“Even if it’s the key to finding your son?”

“It’s not. If I thought it had anything to do with Rhys, I would be shouting it every day from the rooftops. But it doesn’t. Why can’t you believe me?”

“Because you’re too close to it. You’re not objective.”

Chick closed his eyes. “You won’t let this go, will you?”

“I won’t, no. And let me give you a little push here, Chick. If you don’t tell me, I’m going to ask Brooke about them.”

Chick winced as though the words had formed a fist and threatened to punch him. “You have to understand one thing first.”

“I don’t have to understand, but go ahead.”

“I love Brooke. I always have. I always will. Our life isn’t perfect. I know that psycho Win—”

“Chick?”

“What?”

“Stop calling my friend names, okay?”

Chick nodded. “Yeah, whatever. Win hates me. He thinks no one is good enough.”

Myron checked his watch. Terese would be in the apartment by now. “You told me this already.”

“Not really,” he said. Again Chick gave him the crestfallen look. “You need to know how much I love my wife and family. I ain’t a perfect man. I’ve done some really questionable things in my time. The thing that gives me humanity—the only thing that really matters—is my love for my family. For Brooke. For Clark.” His chest started to hitch, and the tears started to flow. “And for Rhys.”

Chick broke into a sob. The real thing. No faking, no trying to hide it. Oh man, Myron thought. Stay strong, stay focused, but remember: This guy is searching for his lost son.

When Chick was back in control, Myron pushed him again: “Why were you two texting, Chick?”

“We didn’t have an affair.”

“What, then?”

“We were going to. That was the thing. We didn’t do it. But we were going to.”

“I thought you loved your wife.”

“You’re not married, are you, Myron?”

“Engaged.”

Chick wiped the tears. He managed a smile, but there was no joy there. “We don’t have time to get into it. But you’re old enough to know that life isn’t black-and-white. It’s lived in the gray. We get older, we think we’re going to die, we reach for something, even if it’s stupid. So that’s what we did. Me and Nancy. We started flirting. It went too far. We started to make plans because that’s how these things are. Like everything else in this horrible world, it gets worse, not better. You reach a stage where you either go through with it or it dies.”