Esperanza frowned.

“I could meet her. Turn the charm on full blast.”

“And have her disrobe right in the station?”

“You may have a point.”

Esperanza rolled her eyes without actually rolling her eyes. “I don’t think she can help us anyway. The local force has had a lot of turnover since Rhys and Patrick were kidnapped.”

“I doubt they’ll handle the case this time anyway.”

“I’m sure it’ll get kicked up to state or federal, but Big Cyndi did a little digging. The guy who ran the case ten years ago is retired. His name is Neil Huber.”

“Wait, I know that name.”

“He’s a state senator in Trenton now.”

“No. Something else . . .”

“He used to be a high school basketball coach.”

Myron snapped. “That’s it. We played Alpine when I was in high school.”

“So maybe you should be the one who talks to him,” Esperanza said. “Do your male sports bro–connect thing.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Myron said.

“Or wiggle your once-terrific ass.”

“I’ll do what it takes,” Myron said. Then: “Wait, ‘once-terrific’?”

* * *

Myron waited outside the nightclub.

New York City’s Meatpacking District traditionally runs from West Fourteenth Street down to Gansevoort Street on the far west side of the island. In the 1900s it was known for, what else, slaughterhouses, but with the rise of supermarkets and refrigerated trucks, the area began to fall into disrepair. In the 1980s and 1990s, drugs and street prostitution were the main industry down there. It was a place where transsexuals and BDSM practitioners could thrive side by side with the Mafia and NYPD corruption. Nightclubs catering to what was then considered “subculture” began to open.

But like most of Manhattan, the Meatpacking District underwent another transformation. It started in part because people are drawn to the illicit—to the sleaze, if you will—but then, of course, the rich who crave danger want to go out on that edge with the most comfortable safety harness possible. So gentrification took hold. High-end boutiques offered commerce with trendy exposed brick. The grungy nightclubs became overrun with hipsters. The restaurants started to cater to whatever they started calling yuppies. The old rusted elevated railroad tracks became a tree-lined promenade called the High Line.

The Meatpacking District was now clean and safe and you could bring your kids, and yet when something like that happens, where does the sleaze go?

Myron checked his watch. It was midnight when the man finally lurched out of the trendy Subrosa nightclub. He was drunk. He’d grown a beard and wore flannel and, oh man, was that really a man bun? He had his arm draped like a strap around a young—too young—woman. The words “midlife crisis” weren’t tattooed on his forehead, but they should have been.

They started stumbling down the road. The man took out his car keys and pressed the remote button. His BMW beeped its location. Myron crossed the street and made his approach.

“Hello, Tom.”

The man, Esperanza’s ex, spun toward him. “Myron? Is that you?”