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Chapter 30

Back in the car, Myron asked, “How was your urination?”

“Hilarious. They aren’t there. He’s alone. For now.”

Myron knew that had been Win’s play with the “urination” request. “So why was he holding the rifle?”

“Perhaps he was hunting. It’s his property. He has the right. Perhaps that’s his thing.”

“Hunting?”

“Yes. He sits out there on a lovely day, enjoys his view, imbibes his whiskey-then a deer strolls by and he blasts it.”

“Sounds like an awesome time.”

“Don’t judge,” Win said.

“You don’t hunt.”

“I also don’t judge. You eat meat. You wear leather. Even vegans kill animals, albeit very few of them, when they plow out fields. None of us have completely clean hands.”

Myron couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve missed you, Win.”

“Yes. Yes, you have.”

“Have you been back in the States at all?”

“Who says I ever left?” Win pointed to the sound system. “I even saw this.”

Myron had his smartphone hooked up to the car’s sound system. They were listening to the soundtrack from Hamilton. Lin-Manuel Miranda was singing with raw, naked pain in his voice, “You knock me out, I fall apart.”

“Wait,” Myron said, “you saw Hamilton?”

Win did not reply.

“But you hate musicals. I was always trying to get you to go.”

Win put his finger to his lips and pointed again. “Shh, here it comes.”

“What?”

“The last line. Listen… now.”

The song dealt with Hamilton’s grief after losing his son in a duel. Win put his hand to his ear as the company sang, “They are going through the unimaginable.”

“That’s Brooke,” Win said. “That’s Chick. Going through the unimaginable.”

Myron nodded. This song broke his heart every time. “We need to tell Brooke what Fat Gandhi said.”

“Yes.”

“We need to tell her now.”

“In person,” Win said.

Myron was back in the driver’s seat. He didn’t drive like Win, but he could hit the accelerator when needed. They crossed the Delaware River over the Dingmans Ferry Bridge, putting them back in New Jersey.

“Something else is bothering me,” Myron said.

“I’m listening.”

“Fat Gandhi said he didn’t know Patrick, that Patrick didn’t work for him.”

“That’s correct.”

“Patrick showed up on his turf, got into trouble with some of Fat Gandhi’s thugs, and ran away when you intervened.”

“Correct again.”

Myron shook his head. “Then this whole thing has to be a setup.”

“How so?”

“Someone emails you anonymously. He tells you where Patrick is and when he’ll be there. You go. Patrick is there, probably for the first time. Because if he had been there before, Fat Gandhi’s thugs would have roughed him up back then, right?”

Win considered that. “Makes sense.”

“So someone wanted you to find him. Someone sent Patrick-if it is Patrick-to that spot so you would”-Myron used his fingers to make quote marks-“‘rescue’ him.”

“Makes sense,” Win said again.

“Any thoughts on who?”

“No thoughts. But there is something else we need to consider.”

“What’s that?”

“According to what you told me, Mickey and Ema seem to feel that the boy might not be Patrick.”

Myron nodded. “That’s right.”

“When will we have the DNA results?”

“Joe Corless said he was working on it, priority one. Should be soon.”

“Suppose this boy isn’t Patrick,” Win said. “What’s the play then?”

“I don’t know,” Myron said. “Suppose this boy is Patrick. What’s the play then?”

On the soundtrack, Leslie Odom Jr.’s Aaron Burr is furious that Alexander Hamilton has endorsed Thomas Jefferson.

“A setup makes no sense,” Win said, “and yet it has to be a setup of some kind, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Myron said. “Or it doesn’t.”

“Deep.”

“In short,” Myron said, “we still don’t know what the hell is going on.”

Win smiled. “You’d think we’d be used to that by now.”

They were ten minutes away from Brooke’s when Win said, “Take a right.”

“Where?”

“Union Avenue.”

“Where are we going?”

“Bear with me. Park here.”

The name of the shop selling “Organic Coffee & Crêpes” was CU Latte. Myron frowned at the pun. Win loved it.

“What are we doing here?”

“A little surprise for you,” Win said. “Come on.”

The barista wore a hipster beanie and fungus-like facial hair. His poncho had to be made from hemp.

CU Latte was all in.

They ordered two Turkish coffees and sat down.

“What’s going on?”

Win checked his phone and pointed to the door. “Now.”

Myron looked at the door as Zorra entered in all his sartorial splendor. He wore his Veronica Lake-on-meth wig, a green monogrammed sweater, and a skirt in a hue Zorra would undoubtedly call “sea foam.”

When Zorra spotted Myron, he spread his arms and shouted, “Dreamboat!”

Zorra’s wig was half on, half off. His facial hair would make the barista even greener, though this time with envy. Myron remembered an old clip his father had shown him of Milton Berle in drag. Like that, only less attractive.

“I thought he was in Finland,” Myron muttered to Win as Zorra approached.

“He just landed at Newark,” Win said.

“Long flight,” Zorra said. “Zorra had no time to freshen up. I must look a fright.”

Myron wasn’t about to touch that one. He rose and gave Zorra a hug. He smelled like a male flight attendant’s cologne.

“How long has it been?” Zorra asked.

“Too long,” Myron said. Or maybe not long enough.

“Zorra is happy to see you.”

“Same,” Myron said. Then, getting back on track, he asked, “So what’s the deal with Vada Linna?”

“Her new name is Sofia Lampo.”

“Did you find her?”

“She works at a fast-food restaurant, dreamboat. In a small town outside Helsinki. How you say-the middle of nowhere. So I went there. But her boss said she hasn’t shown up for work for three days. This concerned Zorra. So I do some research. She’s not home either. I make some calls. You know. Old contacts. They can find anything.”

“So did you find her?” Myron asked.

Zorra smiled. It was not a pretty smile. “Very soon, dreamboat.”

“I’m not following.”

“Yesterday Sofia Lampo took a plane from Helsinki to Newark. She’s here, dreamboat. Vada Linna-or Sofia Lampo-is back.”

“Let’s start with the obvious question,” Myron said when he and Win were back in the car. “Why would the au pair come back to the United States?”

“What have we told ourselves since this all began?”

“That something isn’t right,” Myron said. “That we’re missing something.”

“Whatever that ‘something’ is,” Win said, “it’s been missing for ten years. It’s been missing since the boys vanished.”

“So what now?” Myron asked.

“Your call.”

Myron made the final turn onto the Baldwins’ street. “We need to tell Brooke what Fat Gandhi told you. We don’t have the right to keep it from her. She also needs to know about the au pair coming back.”

“That’s a lot,” Win said.

“Too much?”

“No,” Win said. “Brooke can handle more than you can imagine.”

As they pulled into the driveway, the front door opened. Brooke stepped out. She came to the passenger side of the car and gave her cousin Win a long hug. Win wasn’t normally much for long hugs, but he held on. Brooke put her head on Win’s shoulder. Neither cried. Neither collapsed or anything like that. They didn’t move or readjust their arms or pull each other closer. They just stayed there for several beats.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Brooke said.

“Me too.”

When they let each other go, Brooke turned and studied Myron’s face. “This isn’t good news, is it?”

“Nothing definitive,” Win said.

“But not good.”

“No,” Win said, “not good.”

They were about to head inside when another car started down the driveway. Myron recognized the Lexus sedan from Nancy Moore’s garage. They all stood and waited as the car came to a stop. The driver’s door opened. Nancy Moore stepped out. The front passenger door opened.

Patrick Moore stepped out.

Brooke stiffened when she saw their faces. Under her breath, she said, “This isn’t good news either.”