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Little Pocahontas had always been a fan favorite. She would always be winning on skill, all lithe and tiny and beautiful, dancing around the ring, darting to and fro, earning high marks and cheers from the crowd, when suddenly her evil opponents would cheat to turn the tide. This cheating usually took the form of either jamming sand in Little Pocahontas’s eyes (Esperanza was great at acting out “burning eyes”) or using the dreaded “foreign object” to render her helpless.

Tonight Commie Connie and Iron Curtain Irene did both.

With Big Chief Mama being distracted by the crooked referee, who had been seduced by Commie Connie’s promise of sexual favors, Iron Curtain Irene used the sand in the eye while Commie Connie jabbed Esperanza in the kidney with the foreign object. Little Pocahontas was in trouble! The two evil wrestlers now teamed up on Little Pocahontas—something else that was illegal!—pounding her mercilessly, the crowd begging someone to help the poor beauty, when finally Big Chief Mama saw what was happening, pushed the referee out of the ring, and rescued the hot heroine, and together Little Pocahontas and Big Chief Mama faced down the Axis of Evil.

Massively entertaining.

The crowd, including Myron and Mickey, stood and roared.

“So why were you in London?” Mickey asked.

“I was helping an old friend.”

“Do what?”

“We were trying to locate two missing kids.”

Mickey turned to him, his face suddenly serious. “Wasn’t one found?”

“You saw that?”

“It was on some news alert. Patrick something.”

“Patrick Moore.”

“He’s my age, right? Disappeared when he was six?”

“That’s right.”

“What about the other kid?”

“Rhys Baldwin.” Myron shook his head. “We’re still looking for him.”

Mickey swallowed, turned back to the match. In the ring, Little Pocahontas had just swept the leg of Iron Curtain Irene, knocking her to the mat. Commie Connie was already on the ground and—gasp—Big Chief Mama was standing on the top rope.

“The big finale,” Myron said with a grin.

Seemingly defying gravity, Big Chief Mama bent at the knees and leapt off the top rope and high into the air. The crowd held its collective breath as, almost in slow motion, she began to hurtle back toward earth, landing on both of her opponents with a clearly audible splat.

Neither opponent moved.

When Big Chief Mama rose, you half expected her two adversaries to be pancake flat on the canvas, like Silly Putty or something out of a cartoon. Big Chief Mama rolled over Connie. Pocahontas rolled over Irene. Together they pinned their opponents and the bell rang and the ring announcer shouted, “The winner and still Cougar Tag Team Champions, from the
reservation straight to your heart, let’s hear it for Little Pocahontas and Big Chief Mama!”

With the entire arena up on its feet, Big Cyndi lifted Esperanza onto her shoulders. They waved and blew kisses as the applause rained down on them.

And then the next match began.

A
n hour later,
Myron and Mickey flashed their passes and headed backstage. Big Cyndi, still in the leather merry widow and headdress, ran over to Myron and shouted, “Oh, Mr. Bolitar!”

Big Cyndi’s makeup had started to run, so that her face resembled a box of crayons left too close to the fireplace.

“Hey, Big Cyndi.”

She wrapped her tree-trunk arms around Myron and pulled him close, lifting him ever so slightly off his feet. Big Cyndi was still covered with sweat, and when she hugged you, it was all consuming, like being wrapped up in damp attic insulation.

Myron smiled and enjoyed the ride. When she finally put him back down, he said, “You remember my nephew.”

“Oh, Mr. Mickey!”

Big Cyndi bear-hugged him the same way. Mickey looked a little confused—it was a wild ride for the inexperienced—but he hung in there. “Hey, Cyndi, you were great out there.”

She gave Mickey a funny look. “Cyndi?”

“Sorry. Big Cyndi.”

That pleased her. Big Cyndi had been Myron’s receptionist when he and Esperanza had their sports agency. She preferred formalities, so Myron was always Mr. Bolitar and she had always insisted others call her Big Cyndi, not just Cyndi. She had even legally changed her name so that official documents now read, last name: Cyndi, first name: Big.

“Where’s Esperanza?” Myron asked.

“Doing a VIP meet-n-greet,” Big Cyndi said. “She’s very popular, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Most of the VIPs are men, Mr. Bolitar.”

“Right.”

“They pay five hundred dollars per ticket. The perk is they get a photograph with Little Pocahontas. Not that I don’t have my own fan base, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

“I charge a thousand, Mr. Bolitar. I’m more discriminating.”

“Good to know.”

“Care for a green smoothie? You don’t look good, Mr. Bolitar.”

“No, thanks.”

“Mr. Mickey?”

Mickey held up a hand. “I’m good.”

Two minutes later, Esperanza entered the room wrapping a bathrobe around the suede bikini costume. Mickey quickly stood
when she entered. There were no two ways about it. Esperanza had the kind of looks that made all men and boys react. She had the kind of beauty that reminded you of sunsets on the Caribbean or moonlit strolls on the beach.

“Oh, that’s sweet of you to stand, Mickey.”

Esperanza frowned at Myron, who remained seated just to prove his point. She gave Mickey a quick kiss on the cheek. Mickey congratulated her on a great show. Myron sat and waited. He and Esperanza had been close friends for a long time. She’d worked with him at the sports agency, going to law school at night, and ended up being his partner. He knew her. She knew him.

So he waited.

After a few minutes of chatter, Esperanza took Mickey’s hand. “Do you mind if I talk to your uncle alone for a few minutes?”

“Oh, sure thing.”

“Come on, Mr. Mickey,” Big Cyndi said, beckoning him to follow her. “Commie Connie spotted you in the first row and said she wanted to meet you.”

“Uh, okay.”

“She said that you looked—and I quote her directly—‘delicious.’”

Mickey blanched, but he followed her out of the room.

“He’s a good kid,” Esperanza said.

“He is.”

“He stop hating you yet?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“And how are his parents?”

Myron lifted his hand, tipped it left, then right. “We’ll see.”

Esperanza closed the door. “So you were in London.”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going.”

“It was last-minute.”

“And I saw on the news that a missing boy was found in London.”

“Yep.”

“But not Win’s cousin.”

“No,” Myron said. “It was the other kid. Patrick Moore.”

“I also read about some big explosion where the kid was found. It took out an entire wall.”

“You know Win,” Myron said. “He isn’t much for subtlety.”

Esperanza met his eye. “So it’s true? You really saw Win?”

“Yes. He called me for help.”

“Is he okay?”

“Was he ever?”

“You know what I mean.”

“He seems fine.”

“So all those rumors about Win losing his mind and being a recluse . . . ?”

“He started them.”

Myron filled her in on everything that had happened. Esperanza sat across from him and listened. It brought him back to better days, when they were younger and starting out and they would discuss contracts and endorsement deals for hours on end. For so many years, Esperanza had been a part of Myron’s everyday life. He missed that.

When he finished, Esperanza shook her head. “Something isn’t right here.”

“I know, right?”

“And tomorrow you meet with the boy you rescued?”

“We hope.”

“Big Cyndi and I can help with this, you know.”

“I can handle it. You two are busy.”

“Don’t do that, Myron.”

“Don’t do what? You have a business to run.”

“A business I run. Big Chief Mama and Little Pocahontas get rotated in and out of the lineup. We can be free anytime you need us.” Esperanza leaned forward. “This is Win’s cousin. I want to be a part of it. So will Big Cyndi. Don’t shut us out.”

Myron nodded. “Okay.” Then: “Where’s Hector, by the way?”

Her face darkened. When she spoke again, the words came out in an angry spit. “He’s with his father.”

“Oh. I take it from your tone that the custody battle is not going well.”

“Tom has an in with the judge. A golfing buddy, believe it or not.”

“You can’t get a venue change?”

“My attorney says no. Guess what Tom’s claiming.”

“What?”

“I lead a”—Esperanza made quote marks with her fingers—“‘prurient’ lifestyle.”

“Because you’re a wrestler?”

“Because I’m bisexual.”

Myron frowned. “For real?”

“Yep.”

“But bisexuality is so mainstream now.”

“I know,” Esperanza said.

“Practically a cliché.”

“Tell me about it. I feel so passé.”

She turned away.

“So it’s bad?”

“I may lose him, Myron. You know Tom. He is one of those master-of-the-universe, take-no-prisoner types. It isn’t about what’s right or wrong or the truth. It’s all about winning. It’s all about beating me no matter what the cost.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Answer one question.”

“What?”

“You knew he was a twat waffle, didn’t you?”

Myron didn’t reply.

“So how did you let me marry him?”

“I didn’t think it was my business to interfere,” Myron said.

“Whose business was it, then?”

Boom. Drop the mic. Esperanza just stared at him for a second. She had no family. She had only Myron and Win and Big Cyndi.

“Would you have listened to me?” Myron asked.

“No more than you listened to me when I told you how awful Jessica was.”

“I eventually saw the light.”

“Oh yes, you saw the light. Right after she dumped you and married another man.” Esperanza held up her hand. “Sorry, that was stupid. I’m just pissed off.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Besides, now you have Terese.”

“And you approve of her.”

“I love her. If I could get her to switch sides, I’d steal her from you.”

“Flattering,” Myron said.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“If Win is back, does this mean I’m not your best man anymore?”

“You never were,” Myron said. “It’s the ‘man’ part that gives him the edge.”

“Sexist.”

“But Terese and I wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“We want you to officiate the ceremony.”

Esperanza didn’t often look stunned. She did now. “Really?”

“Yeah. You have to get ordained online or something, but we really want you to be the one who marries us.”

Esperanza said, “Bastard.”

“What?”

“I have to do another meet-n-greet and now I’m going to start crying.”

“No, you won’t. You’re too tough.”

“True.” She rose and started for the door. “Myron?”

“Yeah.”

“How many times has Win asked for help?”

“I think this is the first.”

“We need to find Rhys,” Esperanza said.

*   *   *

Mickey was quiet
on the ride home.

Uncle and nephew didn’t always see eye to eye. Mickey blamed Myron for a lot of what had happened to his father and mother. In a way, that was fair. Esperanza had wondered why Myron had never butted in to warn her about Tom. The reason involved Mickey. Way back when, Myron had butted in when his brother
(and Mickey’s father) Brad had wanted to run away with troubled tennis wunderkind (and Mickey’s mother) Kitty Hammer.

That decision, made with the best of intentions, had led to disaster.

“The missing boy,” Myron said. “He’s your age.”

Mickey was looking out the window. He had been through a lot for someone so young—his unstable upbringing, his mother’s drug addiction, his father’s bizarre return from the grave. Mickey had also, it seemed, inherited the Bolitar “hero complex” gene. He had done a lot of good in a very short time. That made Myron equal parts proud and worried.

“I was thinking maybe you could give me some insight into what he’s thinking,” Myron said to his nephew.

“For real?”

“Yes.”

Mickey made a face. “So when I’m dealing with a guy in his forties, should I get insight into everything about him by asking you?”

“Fair point,” Myron said.

“He was kidnapped, what, ten years ago?”

“Right.”

“Do you know anything about where he was all this time?” Mickey asked.

Myron shook his head. “Just that we found him working as a street hustler.”

Silence.

“Myron?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me everything, okay?”

Myron told him the story. Mickey listened without interrupting.

“So Patrick is home now,” Mickey said.

“Yes.”

“And you’re supposed to see him tomorrow.”

“That’s the plan.”

Mickey rubbed his chin. “If that doesn’t go well, let me know.”

“What makes you think it won’t go well?”

“Nothing.”

“And what will you do if it doesn’t go well?”

Mickey didn’t reply.

“I don’t want you involved in this, Mickey.”

“It’s a missing teen, Myron. Like you said, I might have some insight.”

M
yron’s car climbed
up past the nouveau riche mansions, so expansive they appeared to have been taking some sort of growth hormone. The lawns were overly manicured, the hedges cropped with too much precision. The sun shone down as though someone had pressed a button and cued it up to do so. The brick was perfectly faded, too perfectly, adding to the faux–Las Vegas–Disney effect of the surroundings. No one had a tar driveway. They were made of some kind of fancy limestone that you didn’t want to ruin by driving over it. Everything reeked of money. Myron rolled down the window expecting to hear a fitting soundtrack to this ideal setting, maybe Bach or Mozart, but there was only the sound of silence, which, come to think of it, was the ideal soundtrack.

The homes were beautiful and picturesque and had all the warmth of a chain motel.

There were several news trucks on the street, though not as many as you might think. The gate was open, so Myron pulled into the Baldwins’, yep, limestone driveway. It was eight thirty, half an hour until the meeting with the Moores. Myron stepped out of the car. The grass was so green he almost bent down to see if it’d been freshly painted.

A chocolate Labrador sprinted toward him. Her tail was wagging so excitedly that her butt could barely keep up. She half slid the last few yards to him. Myron got down on one knee and gave the dog a good scratch behind the ears.

A young man—Myron guesstimated his age at twenty—came up behind her. He had the dog’s lead in his hand. His hair was long and wavy, the kind of long and wavy where you keep throwing back your head to keep it out of your eyes. He wore a black Lycra jogging ensemble with navy blue sleeves that exactly matched the navy blue in his sneakers. Myron thought that maybe he could see a little of both parents in his features.

“What’s your dog’s name?” Myron asked.

“Chloe.”

Myron stood. “You must be Clark.”

“And you must be Myron Bolitar.” He took a step and extended his hand. Myron shook it. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same,” Myron said.

Myron did the math quickly in his head. Clark was Rhys’s older brother. He’d been eleven when the kidnapping occurred, making him twenty-one now.

For a moment they both just stood there awkwardly. Clark looked to his right, then his left, then forced up a smile.

“You in school?” Myron asked, just to ask something.

“Yeah, I’m a junior.”

“Where do you go?”

“Columbia.”

“Great school,” Myron said, just to say something. “Do you know your major, or is that an annoying question only adults ask?”

“Political science.”

“Ah,” Myron said. “That was my major.”

“Great.”

More awkwardness.

“Any idea what you want to do when you graduate?” Myron asked because he couldn’t think of something more hackneyed and inane to ask a twenty-one-year-old.

“None whatsoever,” Clark said.

“No rush.”

“Thanks.”

Was that sarcasm? Either way, more awkwardness ensued.

“I should probably go inside,” Myron said, pointing toward the front door, in case Clark didn’t know what he meant by “inside.”

Clark nodded. Then he said, “You’re the one who saved Patrick.”

“I had help.” Which again was a stupid thing to say. The kid wasn’t looking for humility right now. Then: “Yeah, I was there.”

“Mom says you almost saved Rhys.”

Myron had no idea how to reply to that, so he started to glance around, and then it dawned on him.

This was the crime scene.

The path he was now standing on had been the one Nancy Moore took when she first rang the bell to retrieve Patrick from
his playdate. It was the one Brooke would take a little while later when they couldn’t reach Vada Linna, the au pair.

“You were eleven,” Myron said.

Clark nodded. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Do you remember anything?”

“Like what?”

“Like anything. Where were you when it happened?”

“Why does that matter?”

“I’m just taking another look at the whole thing, that’s all.”

“So what do I have to do with it?”

“Nothing,” Myron said. “But that’s how I do it. Investigate, I mean. I stumble in the dark. I ask a lot of dumb questions. Most go nowhere. But sometimes even a dumb question creates a spark.”

“I was in school,” Clark said. “Mr. Dixon’s class. Fifth grade.”

Myron considered that. “Why weren’t Rhys and Patrick in school?”

“They were in kindergarten.”

“So?”

“So in this town, kindergarteners only go for a half day.”

Myron mulled that over for a moment. “What do you remember?”

“Nothing really. I came home from school. The police were here.” He shrugged.

“See?” Myron said.

“See what?”

“You helped.”

“How?”

The front door opened. Brooke stepped out. “Myron?”

“Yeah, sorry, I was just talking to Clark.”

Without another word, Clark put the lead on the dog and
started jogging toward the road. Myron headed toward Brooke, not sure if he should kiss her cheek or shake her hand or what. Brooke pulled him in for a hug, so he went with it. She smelled nice. She wore blue jeans and a white blouse. They looked good on her.

“You’re early,” Brooke said.

“Do you mind showing me the kitchen?” Myron asked.

“Getting right to it, eh?”

“I didn’t think you’d want me to ease into it.”

“You thought right. This way.”

The floor was marble, so their footsteps echoed in the three-story foyer. There was a grand staircase, a look you didn’t often see in real life. The walls were light mauve and covered in tapestries. There were steps to move from the living room into a rectangular kitchen the approximate size and dimensions of a tennis court. Everything was either white or chrome, and Myron wondered at the effort it must take to keep a room like this clean. There were floor-to-ceiling windows offering a rather breathtaking view of the backyard, a swimming pool, and a gazebo. Farther out, Myron could see the start of the woods.

“So if I remember the police report right,” Myron said, “your nanny was by the sink.”

“That’s right.”

Myron spun to his left. “And the two boys were sitting at the kitchen table.”

“Right. They’d been out playing in the yard.”

Myron pointed out the windows. “The backyard?”

“Yes.”

“So they’re playing outside. Then your nanny brings them in here for a snack.”

Myron walked over to the sliding glass door and tried it. It was locked. “They would have come in this door?”

“Yes.”

“And then she left the door unlocked.”

“We used to always leave it unlocked,” Brooke said. “We felt safe back here.”

That quieted the room.

Myron broke it: “According to your nanny, the kidnappers were wearing black and ski masks and all that.”

“Right.”

“And you don’t have any surveillance cameras or anything like that?”

“We do now. But then, no. We had a camera by the front door so we could see who rang the bell.”

“I assume the police checked it out.”

“Nothing to check. It didn’t record. We only used it for live viewing.”

There was a round kitchen table with four chairs. Rhys had only the one sibling—Clark—so Myron wondered whether it had always been like that, the four chairs, and after what happened to Rhys, no one had the heart to move it. Did they sit there at dinner every night for ten years, at that table, the one chair empty?

He looked at Brooke. She knew what he was thinking. It was all over her face.

“We sometimes eat on the island too,” she said.

There was a large rectangular marble island in the middle of the kitchen. A variety of upscale brass pans hung from the ceiling above it. One side had storage. The other had six barstools.

“One thing,” Myron said.

“What?”

“Everything faces the windows. I mean, except for one of the chairs at the kitchen table. The sink has a view. The stove has a view. The barstools and even the table.”

“Yes.”

Myron walked over to the sliding glass door. He looked to his left, then to his right. “So three men in ski masks get all this way—all the way to this door—and no one sees them?”

“Vada was busy,” Brooke said. “She was preparing the snack. The boys, well, they wouldn’t be looking out the window. They were probably playing some kind of video game or messing around.”

Myron looked at how wide open the yard was, how big the windows were. “I guess that’s possible.”

“What else would it be?”

No reason to answer that quite yet. “Clark told me he was in school when the boys were taken.”

“Right. So?”

“Most kids finish school around three in the afternoon. The kindergarteners in this town only go half a day, right?”

“Right. They were let out at eleven thirty.”

“And the kidnappers knew that too.”

“So?”

“So nothing. It suggests some planning on their part; that’s all.”

“The police figured that. They figured that they probably followed Vada or Rhys and knew their schedule.”

Myron thought about that. “But Rhys didn’t come home after school every day, did he? I mean, I assume sometimes his playdates took him to other kids’ homes. I assume he went to Patrick’s sometimes, for example.”

“Right.”

“So on the one hand, this looks carefully planned out. Three men. Knowing the schedule. And then on the other, they rely on your au pair leaving this sliding door unlocked and no one seeing them as they approached.”

“They could have known she never locked it.”

“By spying on how she entered the kitchen from the yard? Unlikely.”

“They also could have smashed the window,” Brooke said.

“I’m not following.”

“Let’s say Vada had spotted them. Do you think she could have gotten to the door and locked it in time? And then what? They could have smashed the glass and grabbed the boys.”

It was all possible, Myron thought. But why wait? Why not grab the boys when they were out in the yard? Were they afraid someone would see?

It was too early to theorize. He needed to gather more facts.

“So here they are, the kidnappers, stepping inside right where we are now,” Myron said.

Brooke stiffened for a moment. “Yes.”

“That was kind of abrupt, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. But it doesn’t mean I have to be insensitive either.”

“Let’s get this out of the way,” Brooke said.

“Get what out of the way?”

“You’re probably wondering how I do it,” Brooke said. “How I come into this kitchen every day and walk right past where Rhys was taken. Do I block? Do I cry sometimes? I do a little of both, I guess. But mostly I remember. Mostly I come in this kitchen and what happened is my companion. And I need that. Everyone wondered why we didn’t move away. Why we invite this pain. I’ll tell
you why. Because this pain is better. This pain is better than the pain of giving up on him. A mother doesn’t give up on her child. So I can live with the pain. I can’t live with giving up.”

Myron thought about what Win had told him, about how the lack of closure was eating at Brooke, making it all the more unbearable. There comes a time when you have to know the answers. Maybe you can live with the pain, but the not knowing, the purgatory, the limbo, had to eat away at your bones.

“Do you understand now?” Brooke said.

“I do, yeah.”

“Then ask your next question,” she said.

Myron dove right in. “Why the basement?” He pointed to the sliding glass door. “You break in here. You’ve grabbed the boys. You have the nanny. You decide to leave her alive. You decide to tie her up. So why not do it here? Why bring her down to the basement?”

“For the reason you just stated.”

“That being?”

“If they tied her up here, you’d be able to see from the backyard.”

“But if the backyard is that exposed, why go that way in the first place?”

Myron heard heavy footsteps coming down the steps. He checked his watch. Eight forty-five
A.M.

“Brooke?”

It was Chick. He hurried into the room and pulled up when he saw Myron. Chick wore a business suit and tie and sported a fancy leather tote, the modern-day equivalent of a briefcase. Was Chick planning on talking to Patrick, and then, what, catching a few hours at the office?

Chick didn’t bother with hello. He held up his mobile phone.

“Don’t you check your texts?” he asked his wife.

“I left my phone in the foyer. Why?”

“Group text from Nancy to both of us,” Chick said. “She wants us to meet at their house, not here.”