"At one time, yes."

The face looked through the window for a few more seconds before opening the door. The odor of too many cigarettes wafted through the opening and happily nested inside Myron's nostrils. Not surprisingly, Stan Gibbs had a cigarette in his mouth. He had a gray stubble-to-beard going, too far gone for retro Miami Vice. He wore a yellow Bart Simpson sweatshirt, dark green sweatpants, socks, sneakers, and a Colorado Rockies baseball cap--the standard fashion fare shared with equal fervor by joggers and couch potatoes. Myron suspected the latter here.

"How did you find me?" Stan Gibbs asked.

"It wasn't difficult."

"That's not an answer."

Myron shrugged.

"It doesn't matter," Stan said. "I have no comment."

"I'm not a reporter."

"So what are you?"

"A sports agent."

Stan took a puff of the cigarette, didn't remove it from his mouth. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I haven't played competitive football since high school."

"May I come in?"

"No, I don't think so. What do you want?"

"I need to find the kidnapper you wrote about in your article," Myron said.

Stan smiled with very white teeth, especially when you considered the smoking. His skin was sort of clumpy and winter-colorless, his hair thin and tired, but he had those bright eyes, superbright eyes, the kind that look like supernatural beacons are shining out from within. "Don't you read the papers?" he asked. "I made the whole thing up."

"Made it up or copied it from a book?"

"I stand corrected."

"Or maybe you were telling the truth. In fact, maybe the subject of your articles called me on the phone last night."

Stan shook his head, the growing ash on the cigarette holding on like a kid on an amusement park ride. "This is not something I want to revisit."

"Did you plagiarize the story?"

"I already said I wouldn't comment--"

"This isn't for public consumption. If you did--if the story was a fake--just tell me now and I'll go away. I don't have time to waste on false leads."

"Nothing personal," Stan said, "but you're not making a whole lot of sense here."

"Does the name Davis Taylor mean anything to you?"

"No comment."

"How about Dennis Lex?"

That threw him. The dangling cigarette started to slip from Stan's lips, but he caught it with his right hand. He dropped it on the walkway and watched it sizzle for a moment.

"Maybe you better come in."

The condo was a duplex centered with that staple of new American contruction, the cathedral ceiling. Plenty of light came in from the big windows, splashing down on a decor straight out of a Sunday circular. A blond-wood entertainment center took up one wall, a matching coffee table not far from it. There was also a white-and-blue-striped couch--Myron would bet his lunch money it was a Serta Sleeper--and matching love seat. The carpeting was the same neutral as the exterior, a sort of inoffensive tan, and the place was clean yet disorderly in a divorce way, newspapers and magazines and books piled here and there, nothing really put in a specific place.