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Chapter 9

Three days passed.

The police asked Myron a lot of questions. He gave a lot of half answers and also, as a bar-licensed attorney, he called upon attorney-client privilege, known in the United Kingdom as legal professional privilege, so as not to name Win. Yes, he had flown over at the request of a client on the Lock-Horne jet. No, he couldn’t say a word about having spoken to or seeing his client. Yes, he delivered money in the hopes of securing the release of Patrick Moore and Rhys Baldwin. No, he had no idea what happened to the wall. No, Myron said, he had no idea who stabbed a twenty-six-year-old man with a long rap sheet of trouble named Scott Taylor in the throat, killing him. No, he didn’t know anything about three men killed near King’s Cross station days before. He was, after all, in New York City at that time.

No sign of Fat Gandhi. No sign of Rhys.

There was only so long the cops could hold him. They had no evidence of any serious wrongdoing. Someone (Win) had sent a young lawyer named Mark Wells to represent Myron. Wells helped.

So they reluctantly cut Myron loose. Now it was noon and he was back at the Crown pub cooling his heels on the same stool. Win came in and took the stool next to him. The barman dropped down two ales.

“Mr. Lockwood,” he said. “It’s been months. Wonderful to see you again.”

“And you too, Nigel.”

Myron looked at the barman, then at Win, then arched an eyebrow to indicate a question.

“I just flew in from the United States today when I heard the news,” Win said.

The barman stared at Myron. Myron stared at the barman, then at Win, and then said, “Ah.”

The barman moved away.

“Won’t customs have you entering the country before today?”

Win smiled.

“Of course not,” Myron said. “By the way, thanks for sending that lawyer, Wells.”

“Solicitor.”

“What?”

“In Great Britain, you call him a solicitor. In America, you call him a lawyer.”

“In Great Britain, I call you anal. In the United States, I call you an assh-”

“Yes, quite, I see your point. Speaking of solicitors, mine is currently with the police. He will explain that it was indeed I who retained your services and that you, as my other solicitor, were protecting my interests.”

Myron said, “I did tell them attorney-client privilege.”

“So I will back that up. We will also turn over the anonymous email sent to me that started this. Perhaps Scotland Yard will have better luck tracking down the sender than I did.”

“You think?”

“No chance. I was feigning modesty.”

“It doesn’t wear well on you,” Myron said. “So how did you do it?”

“I told you that we cased the arcade. But not just inside.”

Myron nodded. “So you figured out where that safe room was.”

“Yes. Then we hooked up a Fox MJ listening device. If you press it to any wall, you can hear everything. We waited until you called out the safe word.”

“And then?”

“It was an RPG-29.”

“Very subtle.”

“My forte.”

“Thank you,” Myron said.

Win pretended not to hear.

“So how’s Patrick?” Myron asked. “The cops wouldn’t tell me anything. I saw in the papers that his parents flew over, but no one will even confirm if it’s him.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“We will soon get some additional information on all that from a better source.”

“Who?”

Win shook him off. “You may be wondering why the police didn’t question you more about the throat stabbing.”

“Not really,” Myron said.

“No?”

“In the confusion, no one saw it. I figured that you probably took the knife with you, so they had nothing to tie me to it.”

“Not exactly. For one thing, the police have confiscated your clothing.”

“I liked those pants.”

“Yes, they were very slimming. But they’ll test the blood on them. It will be a match with the victim’s, of course.”

Myron finally gave in and took a sip. “Will that be a problem?”

“I don’t think so. Do you remember your black friend with the machete?”

“Black friend?”

“Oh yes, let’s be politically correct right this very moment. Is he Anglo-African? I must consult the handbook.”

“My bad. What about him?”

“His name is Lester Connor.”

“Okay.”

“When the police arrived on the scene, Lester was unconscious and-surprise, surprise-had the bloody knife in his hand. Naturally he said the knife had been planted.”

“Naturally.”

“But you could say that you saw Lester stab Scott Taylor in the throat.”

“I could indeed.”

“But?”

“But I won’t,” Myron said.

“Because?”

“Because it wouldn’t be true.”

“Mr. Connor tried to kill you.”

“Yeah, but to be fair, I broke his laptop.”

“False equivalency,” Win said.

“Better than false testimony.”

“Touché.”

“If they ask, I’ll say that someone stabbed the guy and he fell on me. In the confusion, I didn’t see who or even notice.”

“That should play,” Win said.

“Are there any leads on Rhys?”

“Remember what I said about a better source,” Win said.

“What about him?”

“What about her?” Win shook his head. “God, Myron, you’re such a sexist. And here she is now.”

Win looked toward the door. Myron did the same and immediately recognized the woman who’d entered. It was Brooke Baldwin, Win’s cousin and, more to the point, mother of the still-missing Rhys.

Myron hadn’t seen Brooke in, what, five years, he surmised.

A barstool appeared between Myron and Win. They both scooched over to make room. Brooke walked over without hesitation, grabbed the beer that Nigel had already put out for her, and started guzzling. Half was gone when she put it down. Nigel gave a nod of approval.

“Needed that,” Brooke said.

Myron had met too many parents/spouses/loved ones of missing people. Most appeared frail and drained, which seemed both obvious and right. With Brooke, it was more the opposite. She was tanned, defiant, healthy, with a coiled energy, as though she had just finished her morning laps in some Olympic-sized pool or gone a few rounds with a boxing trainer. Her petite frame was thick with ropy muscles. The word that first came to mind when you saw this wealthy suburban soccer mom who had taken one of life’s cruelest body blows: fierce.

Brooke Lockwood Baldwin might have been raised in stone mansions and elite prep schools, but she fit in in a pub like this. She could probably challenge you to a game of darts or sweep the glasses off the bar and kick your ass in arm wrestling.

Brooke turned to Myron and, without so much as a hello, said, “Tell me exactly what happened.”

He did. He told her everything from his arrival in London through the police questioning. She gazed at him steadily with bright green eyes.

When he finished, Brooke said, “So you had Rhys by the ankle.”

“I think so, yeah.”

Her voice was softer now. “You touched him.”

The words hung in the air for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” Myron said. “I tried to hang on.”

“I’m not blaming you. Did you see his face?”

“No.”

“So we don’t know for certain it was Rhys.”

“I can’t say for sure, no,” Myron said.

Brooke looked at Win. Win said nothing. She turned back to Myron.

“On the other hand, we have no reason to believe it isn’t my son, do we?”

Win spoke for the first time. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Do we know for certain the other boy is Patrick?”

“Yes,” Brooke said. “At least, Nancy says he’s Patrick.”

“She’s sure?” Myron asked.

“That’s what she and Hunter say. They’re divorced now, you know. Hunter and Nancy. They broke up not long after.”

She didn’t say after what. She didn’t have to.

“We all flew over together. The four of us. Back together again. I don’t remember the last time we even talked to each other. We’re still neighbors. We should have moved out, I guess, but… she always blamed me. Nancy, I mean.”

“Seems unfair,” Myron said.

“Myron?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t patronize me, okay?”

“Not my intent.”

“The boys were at my house. It was my au pair. I should have been home watching them. If the roles were reversed… Whatever; it was a long time ago.”

Win asked, “Is there any independent confirmation that the boy is Patrick?”

“Like what?”

“Like DNA.”

“I mentioned that. I guess they’ll do it eventually, but right now there is some sort of legal mumbo jumbo. Patrick-I mean, assuming it’s Patrick-is a minor, so they need to get permission from his parents.”

Win nodded. “And yet there is no concrete proof Nancy and Hunter are the boy’s parents.”

“Irony, right?”

“So what has Patrick said?” Myron asked. “Where have they been? Who took them?”

Brooke picked up the mug, looked at the contents for a second, then downed them. Myron and Win watched and waited.

“Patrick hasn’t said anything yet.”

Silence for a moment.

“He’s that wounded?”

“Apparently. It’s not like they let me see him. Only family allowed in the hospital room.”

“How serious are the injuries?”

“Nancy says he’ll survive, but he’s been pretty much out of it. Talk about irony. For ten years, we don’t have a clue about Rhys. Not a peep. Now suddenly there is someone who can give me answers, and I can’t even talk to him.”

Brooke closed her eyes and rubbed them with a thumb and forefinger. Myron reached out to touch her shoulder. Win stopped him with a shake of his head.

“Anyway,” she said as her eyes opened, “we are holding a press conference this afternoon. As you know, the media has gotten some of the story. Now it’s time to release the rest.”

“It’s been three days,” Myron said. “Why the wait?”

Brooke stood and turned so she could lean her back on the bar. “So, day one, two detectives or whatever they call them from Scotland Yard sit Chick and me down. ‘We have a dilemma,’ they say. If we go to the press and splash Rhys’s age-progression photograph all over the place, there are, the detectives explained, two things that might happen. One”-Brooke raised her index finger-“we mount pressure and find Rhys. Two”-the middle finger joined the index-“we mount pressure and whoever is holding him kills him and dumps the body.”

“They told you that?” Myron said.

“Just that way. They advised us to give them a little time and see if they could dig up any leads quietly.”

“I assume they haven’t.”

“Correct. Rhys, it seems, has vanished without a trace. Again.”

Again.

And again her eyes closed. And again Myron reached his hand out. And again Win stopped him with a shake of his head. Win wasn’t being cold. He just didn’t want her to fall apart yet. Myron got it.

“So the investigators,” Win said, “they changed their suggestion?”

“No,” Brooke said, “I did. I decided. My choice. We go public. Will that help find my son or kill him? Don’t know. Nice, right?”

“It’s the right move,” Win said. “It’s the only move.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

Myron saw Brooke’s two fists tighten. Her face started to redden, and when it did, Brooke suddenly looked like her cousin Win, or at least you could see the family resemblance. When Brooke spoke again, there was an edge in her voice.

“So now you think I should have a say in what happens to my son?”

Win did not reply.

“You received an anonymous email,” Brooke said.

“Yes.”

“You showed up and ended up killing three guys.”

“Louder,” Win said. “I think the gentlemen in the corner didn’t hear you.”

But Brooke was having none of it. “Why didn’t you tell me about the email?”

“It was anonymous. I figured that it would go nowhere.”

“Bullshit,” Brooke said. “You found it credible enough to check it out.”

“Yes.”

“So why didn’t you tell me, Win?”

No reply.

“Because you thought I’d fall apart? Because you didn’t want to get my hopes up?”

Silence.

“Win?”

He turned and faced her full on. “Yes,” he said. “That’s why.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make.”

He spread his hands. “Yet make it I did.”

“What, you think I couldn’t take it? You think you were sparing me additional pain?”

“Something like that.”

“You know nothing about my pain.” Brooke leaned in closer. “How dare you? How dare you decide that for me?”

She stared at him hard. Win said nothing.

“Win?”

“You’re right,” he said. “I should have told you.”

“Not good enough.”

“It’s going to have to be, Brooke.”

“No, sorry, you don’t get off that easily. Maybe if you told me about the email, I would have flown over. Maybe I could have helped in some way. Maybe-no, definitely-things would have gone differently.”

Win said nothing.

“Instead,” Brooke said, pointing out the window of the pub, “my boy is still out there. Alone. You messed up, Win. You messed up big-time.”

“Let’s slow down a second,” Myron said. “We don’t know if that would have changed-”

Brooke snapped her gaze toward Myron, cutting him off. “Is Rhys here, Myron?”

Now it was Myron who said nothing.

“Bottom line: Is he here?” She turned back to her cousin. “We had our first real lead in ten years. In ten horrible, miserable years. And now…”

“Brooke?”

It was Win.

“I get it,” he said. “You’re angry.”

“Man, you’re perceptive.”

“But more than that, you’re trying to motivate me,” Win said. “There is no need. You know that too.”

Their eyes met. If someone passed a hand between those eyes, it would probably have been chopped off via laser.

Her phone rang.

“Find him, Win.”

“I will.”

They both blinked. Brooke took out her phone and put it to her ear. “Hello?” She hung up a few seconds later. “That was the police.”

“What did they want?”

“It’s Patrick. He’s awake.”