“Then where has he been?”

“Or more to the point, who is he? If he’s really Patrick Moore—”

“Did you catch how she balked when I first said his name?”

“Like she didn’t know him by it,” Esperanza said. “In a way, it’s the only thing that makes sense. If he’s Patrick Moore who was kidnapped ten years ago, I don’t know that Tamryn Rogers would know him. But if he’s an imposter . . .”

“Then maybe,” Myron said. “Of course, we would still need to figure out how a rich New York teen would know our imposter.”

“Oh, that one’s easier,” Esperanza said.

“Do tell.”

“We women love a bad boy. You think, what, rich Tamryn only knows wealthy socialites?”

Myron thought about that. “You think she’s slumming?”

“I don’t know. But it’s certainly possible. First, we need to figure out if the boy you rescued is Patrick Moore or not. What’s the story with the DNA test?”

“We got it over to Joe Corless at the lab,” Myron said. “He said it might take a few days. Some problem with the collection. He’s having trouble finding a hair with a decent root on it. The DNA off the toothbrush might be contaminated. I don’t know all the details. In the meantime, we need to get all we can on Tamryn Rogers.”

“I’ll do all the traditional sleuthing,” Esperanza said. “But as she repeatedly just told us, she’s a sixteen-year-old girl.”

“Meaning?”

“How about we get that Spoon kid on it too? He can figure out the social media angles.”

“Good idea.”

“Mickey wants to meet with me anyway,” Esperanza said. “I’ll get him the info for Spoon.”

Myron made a face. “Wait, why does Mickey want to meet with you?”

Esperanza shrugged. “He didn’t say; I didn’t ask. Now, get back to your apartment and defile your honey.”

“I don’t ‘defile.’”

“Then you’re not doing it right,” Esperanza said with a wink. She gave Myron a kiss on the cheek. “Stay safe, okay?”

“You too.”

They split up. Myron hopped in a taxi. He texted Terese: On my way. You ready?

Myron’s heart sank when he saw the answer: Uh, no.

When Myron got back to the apartment, Win was there.

“Sorry for the cock block,” he said.

Chapter 29

So,” Win began, swirling his snifter of cognac, “let’s review, shall we?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll go first,” Win said. “Patrick Moore told Fat Gandhi that Rhys is dead.”

Win’s living room at the Dakota resembled something you might see on a tour of Versailles. The two old friends sat in their usual spots—spots they hadn’t sat in together for more than a year. Win took a sip of the cognac and took in the surroundings. Feeling nostalgic, Myron chugged Yoo-hoo from an ice-cold can.

“Do you believe him?” Myron asked.

“Who? Fat Gandhi or Patrick?”

Myron nodded. “Either. Both. Neither.”

“Precisely.”

Terese had excused herself as soon as Myron returned. She had suggested, now that Win was back, that she and Myron pack and depart to give Win his privacy. Win had replied that he’d had a year of privacy, thank you very much, and that he’d be insulted if they left.