turned and spotted Hunter Moore, Nancy’s ex-husband and Patrick’s father.
“Come on,” the man said. “We have to go.”
He let go of the door and disappeared to the left.
If Hunter Moore had recognized Myron, he didn’t show it. Then again, there was little reason he would have. They had never met before—he hadn’t been at the Baldwin house that day—and he seemed in a rush to hurry along his ex-wife.
Nancy scooped up the bag and coffee. She turned to Myron.
“It feels so inept to say thank you again. The idea that after all these years, that after finding Patrick alive, he would have been killed if it wasn’t for you . . .”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ll always be in your debt.”
She hurried away then, out the door and turning left to follow her ex’s path. For a moment Myron didn’t move. The barista said, “Would you like a refill?”
“No, thanks.”
Myron still didn’t move.
“You okay, mate?” the barista asked.
“Fine.”
He stared at the door some more. And then a curious thought hit him. The hospital was to the right. But both Hunter and Nancy Moore had turned left.
Did that mean anything?
Nope. At least, not on its own. They could be picking up something at a pharmacy or getting some fresh air or . . .
Myron moved to the door. He stepped outside onto the street and looked to his left. Nancy Moore was stepping into a black van.
“Wait,” Myron said.
But she was too far away and the street was noisy. The van door slid closed as Myron started to run.
“Hold up a second,” he shouted.
But the van was already on its way. Myron watched it head down the street and disappear around a corner. He stopped and took out his smartphone. It was probably nothing. Maybe the police were taking them someplace for questioning. Maybe after round-the-clock sitting beside their son they needed a few hours of rest.
Both of them?
Uh-uh, no way. Did Nancy Moore strike him as the type whowould need a break from the child who had been missing for ten years? No chance. More likely that she would never leave his side, that she would be afraid to take her eyes off him for more than a moment.
Myron took out his phone and hit what was still speed dial 1 on his phone. He didn’t worry about a trace. The number would bounce to and fro and end up on some untraceable burner.
“Articulate,” Win said.
“I think there’s a problem.”
“Do tell.”
He told him about Nancy and Hunter Moore and the black van. He crossed the street and headed toward the hospital entrance. He finished telling Win what he knew and hung up. Then he called Brooke’s phone. No answer.
A hospital sign—several signs, now that Myron looked around—read NO MOBILE PHONE USE . People were staring. Myron put his away with an apologetic shrug and headed for the check-in desk.
“I’m here to see a patient.”
“Name of the patient?”
“Patrick Moore.”
“And your name?”
“Myron Bolitar.”
“Please wait one moment.”
Myron’s eyes scanned the room. He spotted Brooke and Chick sitting by a window in the corner of the waiting area. Brooke lifted her eyes, met his, and stood. He hurried toward her.
“What’s wrong?” Brooke asked.
“What did the police tell you?”
“Nothing. We haven’t been allowed up to see him.”
“Do you know his room number?”
“Yes, Nancy told me yesterday. It’s 322.”
Myron turned. “Let’s go.”
“What happened?”
He hurried around the corner. There was a security guard. “Pass, please.”
“No,” Myron said.
That confused the guard. “What?”
His name tag read LAMY .
Myron was big, six four, 225. He knew when to make himself even bigger. Like now. “I need to go up to the third floor and check on a patient.”
“Then get a pass.”
“There are two ways this can go, uh, Lamy. I can knock you on your ass and embarrass you, and who knows the repercussions. You may be tougher than you look, in which case I will be forced to hurt you. Maybe
“Come on,” the man said. “We have to go.”
He let go of the door and disappeared to the left.
If Hunter Moore had recognized Myron, he didn’t show it. Then again, there was little reason he would have. They had never met before—he hadn’t been at the Baldwin house that day—and he seemed in a rush to hurry along his ex-wife.
Nancy scooped up the bag and coffee. She turned to Myron.
“It feels so inept to say thank you again. The idea that after all these years, that after finding Patrick alive, he would have been killed if it wasn’t for you . . .”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ll always be in your debt.”
She hurried away then, out the door and turning left to follow her ex’s path. For a moment Myron didn’t move. The barista said, “Would you like a refill?”
“No, thanks.”
Myron still didn’t move.
“You okay, mate?” the barista asked.
“Fine.”
He stared at the door some more. And then a curious thought hit him. The hospital was to the right. But both Hunter and Nancy Moore had turned left.
Did that mean anything?
Nope. At least, not on its own. They could be picking up something at a pharmacy or getting some fresh air or . . .
Myron moved to the door. He stepped outside onto the street and looked to his left. Nancy Moore was stepping into a black van.
“Wait,” Myron said.
But she was too far away and the street was noisy. The van door slid closed as Myron started to run.
“Hold up a second,” he shouted.
But the van was already on its way. Myron watched it head down the street and disappear around a corner. He stopped and took out his smartphone. It was probably nothing. Maybe the police were taking them someplace for questioning. Maybe after round-the-clock sitting beside their son they needed a few hours of rest.
Both of them?
Uh-uh, no way. Did Nancy Moore strike him as the type whowould need a break from the child who had been missing for ten years? No chance. More likely that she would never leave his side, that she would be afraid to take her eyes off him for more than a moment.
Myron took out his phone and hit what was still speed dial 1 on his phone. He didn’t worry about a trace. The number would bounce to and fro and end up on some untraceable burner.
“Articulate,” Win said.
“I think there’s a problem.”
“Do tell.”
He told him about Nancy and Hunter Moore and the black van. He crossed the street and headed toward the hospital entrance. He finished telling Win what he knew and hung up. Then he called Brooke’s phone. No answer.
A hospital sign—several signs, now that Myron looked around—read NO MOBILE PHONE USE . People were staring. Myron put his away with an apologetic shrug and headed for the check-in desk.
“I’m here to see a patient.”
“Name of the patient?”
“Patrick Moore.”
“And your name?”
“Myron Bolitar.”
“Please wait one moment.”
Myron’s eyes scanned the room. He spotted Brooke and Chick sitting by a window in the corner of the waiting area. Brooke lifted her eyes, met his, and stood. He hurried toward her.
“What’s wrong?” Brooke asked.
“What did the police tell you?”
“Nothing. We haven’t been allowed up to see him.”
“Do you know his room number?”
“Yes, Nancy told me yesterday. It’s 322.”
Myron turned. “Let’s go.”
“What happened?”
He hurried around the corner. There was a security guard. “Pass, please.”
“No,” Myron said.
That confused the guard. “What?”
His name tag read LAMY .
Myron was big, six four, 225. He knew when to make himself even bigger. Like now. “I need to go up to the third floor and check on a patient.”
“Then get a pass.”
“There are two ways this can go, uh, Lamy. I can knock you on your ass and embarrass you, and who knows the repercussions. You may be tougher than you look, in which case I will be forced to hurt you. Maybe
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