“For real?”

“Age twenty-nine. The authorities know about him, but according to this, he mostly works on the dark web.”

“That term again.”

“He dabbles in prostitution, sexual slavery, robbery, blackmail . . .”

“Dabbles?”

“My term, not theirs. And . . . ah, no surprise. He’s into computer hacking. His syndicate operates several online money scams.”

“You mean like a Nigerian prince wants to give you all his money?”

“A tad more sophisticated, I’m afraid. Fat Gandhi—I prefer his nom de plume if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

“Fat Gandhi is good with computers. He matriculated and graduated from Oxford. As we both know, law enforcement hates referring to criminals as ‘geniuses’ or ‘masterminds’—but our cherubic friend seems pretty close to being both. Hmm.”

“What?”

“Fat Gandhi also has a reputation for being—and this is their phraseology—‘creatively violent.’”

Win stopped and smiled.

“He sounds a bit like you,” Myron said.

“Ergo my smile.”

“Is he into kidnapping?”

“Human trafficking is slavery for the purposes of sexual exploitation. By definition, that’s kidnapping.” Win held up a hand before Myron could interrupt. “But if you mean grabbing wealthy children for the purpose of making them sexual slaves, no, there is no indication he does that. Plus, Fat Gandhi would have been nineteen when the kidnappings occurred. By all accounts he was studying at Oxford at that time.”

“So any theories about how Patrick and Rhys ended up with him?”

Win shrugged. “Several. The original kidnapper sold them off. The boys could have changed hands dozens of times over the past ten years. He may not be their first predator.”

“Ugh.”

“Yes, ugh. It could be that Patrick and Rhys were somehow runaways living on the streets. A parasite like Fat Gandhi gets them that way too. Offers them work. Helps them get strung out and thus hooked on drugs, so that they have to earn. There are a dozen ways it could have gone down.”

“None of them good,” Myron said.

“None that I can think of, no. But as we’ve learned, people, especially the young, are resilient. Right now, we concentrate on rescuing them.”

Myron stared in his beer. “You saw Patrick on the street.”

“Yes.”

“If he had that kind of freedom—”

“Why didn’t he call home?” Win finished for him. “You know the answer. Stockholm syndrome, fear, he could have been watched, or perhaps he doesn’t remember his old life. He was six when he was taken.”

Myron nodded. “What else?”

“I have people casing the arcade.”

“For?”

Win didn’t answer. “One of my people will follow Fat Gandhi when he leaves. The money will be arriving in approximately ten minutes. Our rooms are adjoining. When he calls you, we move. Other than that . . .”

“We wait.”

* * *

The call came in at four A.M.

Myron scrambled out of sleep and reached for the phone. Win appeared in the doorway, still dressed. He nodded for Myron to answer and held his duplicate phone to his ear.