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“Then where has he been?”

“Or more to the point, who is he? If he’s really Patrick Moore-”

“Did you catch how she balked when I first said his name?”

“Like she didn’t know him by it,” Esperanza said. “In a way, it’s the only thing that makes sense. If he’s Patrick Moore who was kidnapped ten years ago, I don’t know that Tamryn Rogers would know him. But if he’s an imposter…”

“Then maybe,” Myron said. “Of course, we would still need to figure out how a rich New York teen would know our imposter.”

“Oh, that one’s easier,” Esperanza said.

“Do tell.”

“We women love a bad boy. You think, what, rich Tamryn only knows wealthy socialites?”

Myron thought about that. “You think she’s slumming?”

“I don’t know. But it’s certainly possible. First, we need to figure out if the boy you rescued is Patrick Moore or not. What’s the story with the DNA test?”

“We got it over to Joe Corless at the lab,” Myron said. “He said it might take a few days. Some problem with the collection. He’s having trouble finding a hair with a decent root on it. The DNA off the toothbrush might be contaminated. I don’t know all the details. In the meantime, we need to get all we can on Tamryn Rogers.”

“I’ll do all the traditional sleuthing,” Esperanza said. “But as she repeatedly just told us, she’s a sixteen-year-old girl.”

“Meaning?”

“How about we get that Spoon kid on it too? He can figure out the social media angles.”

“Good idea.”

“Mickey wants to meet with me anyway,” Esperanza said. “I’ll get him the info for Spoon.”

Myron made a face. “Wait, why does Mickey want to meet with you?”

Esperanza shrugged. “He didn’t say; I didn’t ask. Now, get back to your apartment and defile your honey.”

“I don’t ‘defile.’”

“Then you’re not doing it right,” Esperanza said with a wink. She gave Myron a kiss on the cheek. “Stay safe, okay?”

“You too.”

They split up. Myron hopped in a taxi. He texted Terese: On my way. You ready?

Myron’s heart sank when he saw the answer: Uh, no.

When Myron got back to the apartment, Win was there.

“Sorry for the cock block,” he said.

So,” Win began, swirling his snifter of cognac, “let’s review, shall we?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll go first,” Win said. “Patrick Moore told Fat Gandhi that Rhys is dead.”

Win’s living room at the Dakota resembled something you might see on a tour of Versailles. The two old friends sat in their usual spots-spots they hadn’t sat in together for more than a year. Win took a sip of the cognac and took in the surroundings. Feeling nostalgic, Myron chugged Yoo-hoo from an ice-cold can.

“Do you believe him?” Myron asked.

“Who? Fat Gandhi or Patrick?”

Myron nodded. “Either. Both. Neither.”

“Precisely.”

Terese had excused herself as soon as Myron returned. She had suggested, now that Win was back, that she and Myron pack and depart to give Win his privacy. Win had replied that he’d had a year of privacy, thank you very much, and that he’d be insulted if they left.

“Self-interest,” Win said. “At the end of the day, it comes down to that always.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I see no motive for Fat Gandhi to lie here. I’m not saying he wouldn’t lie, is not a compulsive liar, is not a horrible human being who may not only be selling underage sex but participating in said rape and abuse. But I don’t see how this lie works in his self-interest.”

“Maybe he killed Rhys and is covering that.”

Win lifted his free hand and tilted it one way, then the other. “It is certainly a possibility, but I see no motive. It is also a possibility that he stored Rhys somewhere and hopes to use him as a pawn at a later time. But I don’t think so. Fat Gandhi was frightened.”

“You can do that to a person.”

Win tried not to smile. “I can, can’t I? Oh, and I had an old friend of ours with me.”

“Who?”

“Zorra.”

Myron’s eyes widened. “For real?”

“No,” Win said in a tone so dry it could have caught fire, “I’m making it up.”

“You and Zorra.” Myron took another chug. “Heck, I’m scared just thinking about it.”

“I offered Fat Gandhi an opportunity to rid himself of his issues with us by handing over Rhys. I believe that he would have snapped up that chance, if he could.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“We always knew this was a possibility,” Myron said.

“That Rhys was dead?”

“Yes.”

Win nodded. “Of course.”

“But we still have a long way to go. We don’t even know for sure that Patrick is Patrick.”

“We look at the beginning,” Win said. “And we look at the end.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that. You should probably put that in a fortune cookie.”

“Zorra,” Win said.

“What about him?”

“I sent him to Finland.”

Myron thought about that. “To find the nanny.”

“Au pair,” Win corrected.

“I’m going to skip the eye roll.”

“Her name, if you recall, is Vada Linna.”

“I recall.”

“She doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Pardon?”

“She would be twenty-eight. There is no Vada Linna in Finland-or anywhere else, for that matter-anywhere near that age range.”

Myron thought about that. “She changed her name.”

“God, you’re good.”

“With all the press attention during the kidnapping, that’s not much of a surprise.”

“Perhaps,” Win said. “Except her father doesn’t exist anymore either.”

“He could have passed away.”

“No record of it. They both, it seems, vanished.”

Myron considered that. “So what’s your theory?”

“I don’t have a good one yet. It’s why I put Zorra on it.”

“Sure that’s wise?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Might be a case of using a blowtorch when all you need is a match.”

Win smiled. “I always use the blowtorch.”

Hard to argue.

Win sat back and crossed his legs. “Now let’s go through the rest of this point by point, shall we?”

Myron filled him in on everything-the visits to the Moore house, Mickey and Ema’s opinion, Ema stealing the toothbrush and the hairs for DNA (Win smiled broadly at that one), the texts, Chick’s reaction, Tamryn Rogers, all of it. They discussed, analyzed, drove down various dark roads that all led to dead ends.

They ended as they began: “Do we tell Brooke what Fat Gandhi said?”

Win pondered that. “It’s your call.”

That surprised Myron. “Mine.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t get it. Why?”

“Simple.” Win put down the snifter and steepled his hands. “You’re better at this than I am.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Don’t feign modesty. You are more objective. Your judgment is sounder. You and I have been doing this a long time-helping those in trouble, finding missing people, rescuing those in need-have we not?”

“We have.”

“And in every situation, you have been the leader. I’m the support staff. I’m your muscle, if you will. We are partners, a team, but to keep within this quick metaphor, you are the captain of the team. I’ve made mistakes.”

“So have I.”

Win shook his head. “I didn’t have to kill all three of those men that first day. I could have kept one alive. I could have offered them money to back off. The fact is, I’m objective enough to know I cannot be objective. Did you see Brooke’s face?”

Myron nodded.

“You know,” Win said, “that I care about very few people.”