Myron had tried to brace himself, but he still gasped. “Win? My God, where have you been—?”

“I saw him.”

“Who?”

“Think.”

Myron had wondered, but he hadn’t dared voice it. “Wait, both of them?”

“Just Patrick.”

“Wow.”

“Myron?”

“Yes?”

“Catch the next plane to London. I need your help.”

Myron looked at Terese. The shatter was back in her eyes. That shatter had always been there, since they first ran off together years ago, but he hadn’t noticed it since her return. He reached out his hand toward her. She took it.

“Life’s a little complicated right now,” Myron said.

“Terese has returned,” Win said.

Not a question. He knew.

“Yes.”

“And you’re finally getting married.”

Again not a question.

“Yes.”

“Did you buy her a ring?”

“Yes.”

“From Norman on Forty-Seventh Street?”

“Of course.”

“More than two carats?”

“Win . . .”

“I’m happy for you both.”

“Thank you.”

“But you can’t get married,” Win said, “without your best man.”

“I already asked my brother.”

“He’ll step aside. The flight leaves from Teterboro. The car is waiting.”

Win hung up.

Terese looked at him. “You have to go.”

He wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.

“Win doesn’t make casual requests,” Myron said.

“No,” she agreed. “He doesn’t.”

“It won’t take long. I’ll be back and we will get married. I promise.”

Terese sat on the bed. “Can you tell me what it’s about?”

“How much could you hear?”

“Just bits and pieces.” Then: “Is the ring more than two carats?”

“It is.”

“Good. So tell me.”

“Do you remember the Alpine kidnappings ten years back?”

Terese nodded. “Sure. We reported on it.”

She had worked for years as an anchorwoman on one of those all-news channels.

“One of the kidnapped boys, Rhys Baldwin, is related to Win.”

“You never told me that.”

Myron shrugged. “I didn’t really have much to do with it. By the time we got involved, the case was pretty cold. Still, it’s always been on my back burner.”

“But not Win’s.”

“Nothing is ever on Win’s back burner.”

“So he has a new lead?”

“More than that. He says he saw Patrick Moore.”

“So why doesn’t he call the police?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you didn’t ask.”

“I trust his judgment.”

“And he needs your help.”

“Yes.”

Terese nodded. “Then you better get packed.”

“You’re okay?”

“He was right.”

“About?”

She rose. “We can’t get married without your best man.”

* * *

Win had sent a black limo. It was waiting under the Dakota’s archway. The limo took him out to Teterboro Airport in northern New Jersey, which was about half an hour away. Win’s plane, a Boeing Business Jet, was waiting on the tarmac. There was no security, no check-in, no ticket. The limousine dropped him off by the steps. The flight attendant, a lovely young Asian woman, greeted Myron in an old-fashioned fitted uniform, complete with puffy blouse and pillbox hat.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Bolitar.”