“It doesn’t.”

Neil stood and walked over to the window. He turned the wand controlling the blinds, closing them for a moment, then opening them again. He stared down at a construction site.

“There were text messages,” Neil said, “between Chick Baldwin and Nancy Moore.”

Myron waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, Myron asked, “What kind of text messages?”

“Lots of them.”

“Do you know what they said?”

“No. They were deleted off both their phones. The phone company doesn’t keep a record of the content.”

“I assume you asked Chick and Nancy about them?”

“We did.”

“And?”

“They both claimed it was just normal stuff. Some of it was about their boys. Some of it was about the Moores maybe investing with Chick.”

“Did the Moores invest with Chick?”

“They did not. And the texts were at all hours of the day. And night.”

“I see,” Myron said. “Did you talk to their spouses about it?”

“We did not. The FBI was involved by now. You have to remember what it was like. The pressure, the fear, the not knowing. The families were already hanging on by a thread. We investigated this angle hard and came up with nothing. We didn’t see a reason to cause anyone any more pain.”

“And now?”

Neil turned away and looked down at Myron in the chair. “And now I still don’t see a reason to cause anyone any more pain. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”

There was a knock on the door. Neil told the knocker to come in. A young man stuck his head in the doorway. “You have that meeting with the governor in ten minutes.”

“Thank you. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

The young man closed the door. Neil Huber moved back to his desk. He scooped up his mobile phone and wallet and jammed them into his pockets. “It’s an old saw, but a case like this never leaves you. I blame myself in part. I know, I know, but I do. I wonder maybe, just maybe, if I were a better cop . . .”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Myron rose.

“Do what you have to,” Neil said, starting for the door. “But keep me in the loop.”

Chapter 19

Is it noon yet?” Chick asked.

Myron checked his watch. “Five minutes away.”

“I better set up the laptop, then.”

They were sitting at the enormous marble bar at La Sirena, an Italian restaurant in Chelsea’s famed Maritime Hotel. The place was somehow sleek and warm, modern yet with a definitive sixties vibe. The border between dining inside and dining alfresco was almost nonexistent. Myron made a mental note to take Terese here pronto.

There was no television on the wall—it wasn’t that kind of place—so Chick brought a laptop so they could live-stream the CNN interview.

“I couldn’t stay home today,” Chick said. His skin always glistened, so that he looked as though he’d undergone some kind of hot-wax treatment. Maybe he had. “Brooke and I just stare at each other and wait. It brings it all back, you know?”