"That being?"

"A fake ID."

Esperanza shook her head. "The social security number exists."

"I don't doubt that. But I think someone pulled the classic tombstone-fake-ID trick."

"That being?"

"You go to a graveyard and find the tombstone of a dead child," Myron said. "Someone who would be about your age if he'd lived. Then you write and request his birth certificate and paperwork and voila , you've set up the perfect fake ID. Oldest trick in the book."

Esperanza gave him the look she saved for his most idiotic moments. "No," she said.

"No?"

"You think the police don't watch TV, Myron? That doesn't work anymore. Hasn't worked in years, except maybe on cop shows. But just to make sure, I double-checked."

"How?"

"Death records," she said. "There's a Web site that has the social security numbers of all the deceased."

"And the number isn't there."

"Ding, ding, ding," Esperanza said.

Myron leaned forward. "This makes absolutely no sense," he said. "Our phony Davis Taylor has gone to a great deal of trouble to create this phony ID--or at least to fly below the radar, right?"

"Right."

"He wants no records, no paperwork, nothing."

"Right again."

"Even changes his name."

"You go, boy."

Myron put his arms out. "Then why would he sign up to be a bone marrow donor?"

"Myron?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Esperanza said.

True enough. He'd called last night and asked her to check out Davis Taylor. He had not yet told her why.

"I guess I owe you an explanation," he said.

She shrugged.

"I sort of promised you I wouldn't be doing this anymore," he said.

"Investigating," she said.

"Right. And I meant it. I wanted this to be a straight agency from now on."

She didn't respond. Myron glanced at the wall behind her. The sparse Client Wall again reminded him of a hair transplant that hadn't taken. Maybe he should paint on a couple of coats of Rogaine.

"You remember Emily's call?" he said.

"It was yesterday, Myron. My memory can sometimes go back a whole week."

He explained it all. Some men--men Myron grudgingly admired--keep it all inside, bury their secrets, hide the pain, the whole cliche. Myron rarely did. He was not one to walk down the mean streets alone--he liked Win to be his backup. He didn't grab a bottle of whiskey and drown his sorrows--he discussed them with Esperanza. Not very macho, but there you have it.

Esperanza stayed silent as he spoke. When he got to the part about being Jeremy's father, she let out a small groan and closed her eyes and kept them shut for a very long time. When she finally opened them, she asked, "So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find the donor."

"That's not what I meant."

He knew that. "I don't know," he said.

She thought about it, shook her head in disbelief. "You have a son."

"Seems so."

"And you don't know what you're going to do about it?"