“Correct.”

“So you spotted someone you believed was Patrick.”

“Correct again.”

“And then?”

“And then I lost him.”

Myron sat back.

“This surprises you,” Win said.

“It does.”

“You’re thinking, ‘That’s not like you.’”

“I am indeed.”

Win nodded. “I miscalculated.” Then he added: “There was collateral damage.”

That was never a good thing with Win.

“How much?”

“Perhaps we should press the rewind button first.” Win reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Read this.”

Win handed him what looked to be a printed email. It was addressed to Win’s personal email account. Myron had sent the account half a dozen messages over the past year. He had never gotten a reply. The sender was listed as anon5939413. It read:

You are looking for Rhys Baldwin and Patrick Moore. For most of the last ten years, they have been together, but not always. They’ve been separated at least three times. They are back together now.

They are free to go but might not with you. They aren’t who you think they are anymore. They aren’t who their families remember either. You may not like what you find. Here is where they are. Forget the reward money. I will one day ask for a favor.

Neither one of them remembers much of their life before. Be patient with them.

Myron felt a chill scramble down his spine. “I assume you tried to figure out where the email came from?”

Win nodded.

“And I assume you got nothing.”

“VPN,” Win said. “No way to track down where or from whom it originated.”

Myron read it again. “That last paragraph.”

“Yes, I know.”

“There is something about it.”

“An air of authenticity,” Win said.

“Which is why you took it seriously.”

“Yes,” Win said.

“And this address they list?” Myron asked.

“It’s a rather small yet sordid area in London. An underpass where all sorts of illicit trade takes place. I canvassed the spot.”

“Okay.”

“Someone who strongly resembles those age-progression images of Patrick showed up.”

“When?”

“About an hour before I called you.”

“Did you hear him talk?”

“Pardon?”

“Did he speak? I’m trying to get a better handle on his ID. Maybe his accent was American.”

“I didn’t hear him speak,” Win said. “We also don’t know. He could have been here, on these streets, for his entire life.”

Silence.

Then Myron repeated, “His entire life.”

“I know,” Win said. “No reason to dwell on it.”

“So you saw Patrick. Then what?”

“I waited.”

Myron nodded. “You were hoping Rhys would show.”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Three men who appeared to be unhappy with Patrick assaulted him.”

“And you stopped them?”

For the first time a small smile played with Win’s lips. “It’s what I do.”

It was indeed.

“And all three?” Myron asked.

Win smiled, shrugged.

Myron closed his eyes.

“These men were the worst sort of thugs,” Win said. “They will not be mourned.”

“It was self-defense?”

“Yes, fine, let’s go with that. Are we really going to second-guess my methods right now, Myron?”