The phone vibrated when Big Cyndi’s text came in: EXITING NOW.

Big Cyndi always texted in capital letters.

Patrick kept his head low as he came out. The teenage girl stood right next to him. Big Cyndi loomed behind them.

The teenage girl gave Patrick a quick peck on the cheek. Then Patrick started heading west, away from Times Square. The girl moved east. They were splitting up. Big Cyndi looked at Myron for instructions. Myron gestured to Patrick. Big Cyndi nodded and started to follow him. Myron fell into a current of humans and tailed the girl.

She turned left on Seventh Avenue and started uptown. Myron followed. She headed all the way up to Fifty-Ninth Street and turned right on Central Park South. They passed the Plaza Hotel and turned north on Fifth Avenue. The teenager walked steadily and confidently and with no hesitation. Myron assumed from this observation that she had made this journey before and probably lived in New York City.

Myron Bolitar, Master of Deduction. Please don’t shun him for his gifts.

She turned east on East Sixty-First Street. When she crossed Park Avenue, Myron saw her reach into her bag and ready her key. The town house in front of her had a wrought-iron gate. She unlocked it. Then she moved down two steps and vanished inside.

A town house near Park Avenue, Myron thought. The girl probably came from money.

Again: Myron Bolitar, Master of Deduction. If you prick him, does he not bleed?

He stood outside and debated his next move. First, he texted Big Cyndi. Update?

Big Cyndi: PATRICK IS ON THE BUS. ASSUME HE’S HEADING BACK HOME.

Myron: I’ll be the Master of Deduction, thank you very much.

Big Cyndi: WHAT?

Myron: Never mind.

He stared at the door and hoped it would open so he could . . .

So he could what?

Was he going to approach a teenage girl on the street and ask about her relationship with the boy she just met up with at Ripley’s Odditorium? Myron wasn’t a cop. He wasn’t licensed in any way, shape, or form. He would just be a creepy middle-aged stranger approaching a young girl. He didn’t know her name. He didn’t know anything about her.

No, that would be the wrong move here.

He picked up his phone and called Esperanza.

“What’s up?”

“I have an address near Park Avenue.”

“Well, la-di-da. I live in a one-bedroom in Hoboken.”

“That was funny,” Myron said.

“Wasn’t it, though? Give me the address.”

Myron did. “I followed a teenage girl here.”

“Aren’t you engaged?”

“Ha-ha. She met up with Patrick. I need to find out who she is.”

“On it.”

When he hung up again, his phone rang. He saw from the caller ID it was Terese.

He answered the phone saying, “Hey, beautiful.”

“God, you’re smooth.”

“You think so?”

“No,” Terese said. “In fact, I think it’s your lack of smoothness that makes you so damn sexy. Guess what?”