Myron was a little disappointed to see that Neil Huber looked the part of a New Jersey politician. His fingers were sausage thick, a gold pinkie ring on his right hand. His suit was striped; his tie shimmered as though someone had sprayed it with tanning oil. The collar of his shirt was too tight, and when he smiled, Neil Huber resembled a barracuda.

“Myron Bolitar,” he said, greeting him with a firm handshake and showing him to a seat. The office had a plainness you might associate with your high school vice principal’s.

“I coached against you when you were in high school,” Huber said.

“I remember.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Pardon?”

“What, did you look it up when you knew we were meeting?”

Myron held out his hands, wrists together. “Caught.”

Neil gave him a good-natured wave. “No worries. So you know you beat us.”

“Yes.”

“And that you scored forty-two points.”

Myron said, “It was a long time ago.”

“I coached high school basketball for eighteen years.” He pointed a stubby finger at Myron. “You, my friend, are the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you.”

“I hear you got a nephew playing.”

“I do.”

“He as special as they say?”

“I think so.”

“Good, great.” Neil Huber leaned back. “So, Myron, have we done enough of the break-the-ice, chitchat thing?”

“I think we have.”

Neil spread his hands. “What can I do for you?”

He had the prerequisite family photographs on the desk—a blond wife with big hair, grown married children, a sprinkling of young grandkids. On the wall behind him, the New Jersey State flag featured a shield with three plows and a horse’s head above it. Yep, a horse’s head. You can fill in your own Godfather joke, but it will be obvious and beneath you. Two female goddesses, the goddess of liberty (okay) and the goddess of agriculture (again too easy), stood on either side of the shield. The flag was bizarre and dense, but then again, bizarre and dense described New Jersey pretty accurately.

“It’s about a case you worked when you were a cop in Alpine,” Myron said.

“The Moore and Baldwin kidnappings,” he said.

“How did you know?”

“I was a detective. So I deduced.”

“I see.”

“Clue one”—he raised his index finger—“I worked on very few major cases. Clue two”—he was making a peace sign now—“I worked on exactly one major case that remains unsolved. Clue three”—you get the drift with the fingers—“one of the abducted boys was just found after ten years.” He lowered his hand. “Yes, sir, really took all my powers of deduction to come up with that one. Myron?”

“What?”

“Did you know the Moores are going on CNN in a few hours?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Instead of a big press conference, they’re doing a sit-down with Anderson Cooper at noon.” He leaned forward. “Please tell me you’re not press.”

“I’m not press.”

“So what’s your interest in this?”

Myron debated how to play it. “Could I just say it’s a long story?”