“Oh?”

“Do you remember when George Michael was arrested for having sex in a public bathroom?”

“Sure. It was here?”

“Hampstead Heath, indeed. This has been a gay cruising spot forever, but from my understanding, there is very little prostitution. It has always been more about cottaging.”

“Cottaging?”

“God, you’re naïve. Cottaging. Anonymous sex between men in bushes, public toilets, like that. Cash rarely changes hands. Still, young hustlers could try to ply their trade here, perhaps locate a potential sugar daddy or network for clients. I would suggest heading into the park and veering left toward the public toilets. Continue down the lane past the ponds. That seems to be the apropos area.”

“You’re pretty knowledgeable on the subject.”

“I’m knowledgeable on all subjects.”

That was true.

“I also use this new thing called Google.” Win held up his smartphone. “You should try it sometime. Do you need to take these?”

Win handed Myron the age-progression photographs of both Patrick and Rhys. He also described with startling detail what the maybe-Patrick he’d seen yesterday looked like, and what he was wearing.

Myron stared at the faces. “How old would Patrick and Rhys be now?”

“Both would be sixteen. Coincidentally—or maybe not—sixteen is the age of consent in Great Britain.”

Myron snapped photos of the photos before handing them back to Win. He reached for the door handle and stopped.

“We’re missing something here, Win.”

“Probably.”

“You feel it too?”

“I do.”

“Are we being set up?”

“Could be,” Win said, steepling his fingers again. “But the only way to find out for certain is to proceed.”

The car was idling at the corner of Merton and Millfield Lane.

“All set?”

“Onward,” Myron said and slipped out of the car.

Hampstead Heath was lush and green and beautiful. Myron took the stroll, but there was no sign of Patrick or Rhys. There were men, lots of them, from eighteen (or younger, he supposed) to eighty, mostly in unremarkable garb, but what had Myron expected? Myron saw nothing sexual going on, but that was because, he assumed, there was a public toilet and bushes deep off the paths.

Fifteen minutes into the walk, Myron put the phone to his ear.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Anyone hit on you?”

“No.”

“Ouch.”

“I know,” Myron said. “Do you think these pants make me look fat?”

“We still joke,” Win said.

“What?”

“We believe in complete equality and get angry at anyone who displays the slightest bit of prejudice,” Win said.

“Yet we still joke,” Myron finished for him.

“Indeed.”

That was when Myron spotted something that gave him pause.

“Hold up a second,” Myron said.

“I’m listening.”

“When you described the, uh, scene yesterday, you mentioned two other guys working the street.”

“Correct.”

“You said one had a shaved head and wore a dog collar.”

“Correct again.”

Myron moved the phone so that the camera was pointing at the young leather-clad man near the pond.

“Well?”

“That is he,” Win said.

Myron put the phone back in his pocket and crossed the path. Dog Collar had his hands jammed into his pants pockets as though he was searching for something that had pissed him off. His shoulders were hunched. He had a tattoo on his neck—Myron couldn’t tell what it was—and he was pulling on his cigarette as though he meant to finish it with one inhale.