"And even when I don't."

"Are you trying to make a point?"

Five minutes later they were watching the tape in the van.

Chapter 10.

Mr. Davis Taylor

221 North End Ave

Waterbury, Connecticut

The social security and phone numbers were there too. Myron took out his cell phone and dialed. After two rings, a machine picked up and a robotic voice, the default greeting, asked him to leave a message at the tone. He left his name and mobile number and asked Mr. Taylor to return his call.

"So what are you going to do?" Terese asked.

"I guess I'll drive up and try to talk to Mr. Davis Taylor."

"Hasn't the clinic already tried that?"

"Probably."

"But you're more persuasive?"

"Questionable."

"I have to cover the Waldorf tonight," she said.

"I know. I'll go alone. Or maybe I'll bring Win."

She still would not face him. "This boy who needs the transplant," she said. "He's not a stranger, is he?"

Myron was not sure how to answer that. "I guess not."

Terese nodded in a way that told him not to say any more. He didn't. He picked up the phone and called Emily. She answered halfway through the first ring.

"Hello?"

"When is Greg doing the news conference?" he asked.

"In two hours," Emily said.

"I need to reach him."

He heard a hopeful gasp. "Did you find the donor for Jeremy?"

"Not yet."

"But you have something."

"We'll see."

"Don't patronize me, Myron."

"I'm not patronizing you."

"This is my son's life we're talking about here."

And mine? "I have a lead, Emily. That's all."

She gave him the number. "Myron, please call me if--"

"The moment I know something."

He hung up and called Greg.

"I need you to put off the press conference," Myron said.

"Why?" Greg asked.

"Just give me till tomorrow."

"You have something?"

"Maybe," Myron said.

"Maybe nothing," Greg said. "Do you have something or not?"

"I have a name and address. It might be our man. I want to check it out before you make a public plea."

"Where does he live?" Greg asked.

"Connecticut."

"You driving up?"

"Yes."

"Right now?"

"Pretty much."

"I want to go with you," Greg said.

"That's not a good idea."

"He's my kid, dammit."

Myron closed his eyes. "I understand that."

"So then you'll understand this: I'm not asking your permission. I'm going. So stop dicking around and tell me where you want me to pick you up."

Greg drove. He had one of those fancy SUV four-by-fours that are all the rage with New Jersey suburbanites whose idea of "off-road" is a speed bump at the mall. Tres truck chic. For a long while neither man spoke. The tension in the air was more than the cut-with-a-knife variety; it pressed against the car windows, weighed Myron down, made him tired and gloomy.

"How did you get this name?" Greg asked.

"It's not important."

Greg left it alone. They drove some more. On the radio, Jewel earnestly insisted that her hands were small, she knew, but they were hers and not someone else's. Myron frowned. Not exactly "Blowing in the Wind," was it?