“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.”

Chapter 27

For 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.”