“It’s not like that.”

“It is like that,” she said. “It is exactly like that. When Win goes out on these night errands, he doesn’t hurt the innocent, does he?”

Myron considered the question. “No,” he said.

“So what’s the problem? He is just attacking a different type of guilty. He picks out the guilty instead of you.”

Myron shook his head. “It’s not the same thing.”

“Because you judge?”

“I don’t send him out to hurt people. I send him out to watch people or to back me up.”

“I’m not sure I see the difference.”

“Do you know what he does when he night visits, Esperanza? He walks through the worst neighborhoods he can find in the middle of the night. Old FBI buddies tell him where drug dealers or child pornographers or street gangs hang out—alleyways, abandoned buildings, whatever—and he goes strolling through those hellholes no cop would dare tread.”

“Sounds like Batman,” Esperanza countered.

“You don’t think it’s wrong?”

“Oh, I think it’s wrong,” she replied steadily. “But I’m not sure you do.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Think about it,” she said. “About why you’re really upset.”

Footsteps approached. Win stuck his head in the doorway. He was smiling like a guest star on the opening credits of the Love Boat. “Good morning, all,” he said with far too much cheer. He bussed Esperanza’s cheek. He was decked out in classic, though fairly understated, golf clothes. Ashworth shirt. Plain golf cap. Sky-blue pants with pleats.

“Will you be staying with us, Esperanza?” he asked in his most solicitous tone.

Esperanza looked at him, looked at Myron. Nodded.

“Wonderful. You can use the bedroom down the hall on the left.” Win turned to Myron. “Guess what?”

“I’m all ears, Mr. Happy Face,” Myron said.

“Crispin still wants to meet with you. It appears that your walking out last night actually made something of an impression on him.” Big smile, spread hands. “The reluctant suitor approach. I must try it sometime.”

Esperanza said, “Tad Crispin? The Tad Crispin?”

“The very,” Win replied.

She gave Myron an approving look. “Wow.”

“Indeed,” Win said. “Well, I must be going. I’ll see you at Merion. I’ll be at the Lock-Horne tent most of the day.” Renewing the smile. “Ta-ta.”

Win started to leave, stopped, snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot.” He tossed Myron a videotape. “Maybe this will save you some time.”

The videotape landed on the bed. “Is this …?”

“The bank security tape from First Philadelphia,” Win said. “Six-eighteen on Thursday afternoon. As per your request.” One more smile, one more wave. “Have a great day.”

Esperanza watched him go. “ ‘Have a great day’?” she repeated.

Myron shrugged.

“Who the hell was that guy?” she asked.

“Wink Martindale,” Myron said. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs and watch this.”

12

Linda Coldren opened the door before Myron knocked.

“What is it?” she asked.

Linda’s face was drawn, accentuating the already high cheekbones. Her eyes had a lost and hollow look. She hadn’t slept. The pressure was growing unbearable. The worrying. The not knowing. She was strong. She was trying to stand up to it. But her son’s disappearance was beginning to gnaw away at her core.

Myron held up the videotape. “Do you have a VCR?” he asked.

In something of a daze, Linda Coldren led him to the same television he had seen her watching yesterday when they first met. Jack Coldren appeared from a back room, his golf bag on his shoulder. He, too, looked worn. There were sacks under his eyes, fleshy pouches like soft cocoons. Jack tried to toss up a welcoming smile, but it sputtered up like a lighter low on fluid.

“Hey, Myron.”

“Hey, Jack.”

“What’s going on?”

Myron slid the tape into the opening. “Do you know anybody who lives on Green Acres Road?” he asked.

Jack and Linda looked at each other.

“Why do you want to know that?” Linda asked.

“Because last night I watched your house. I saw somebody crawl out a window.”

“A window?” It was Jack. He lowered his eyebrows. “What window?”

“Your son’s.”

Silence.

Then Linda asked, “What does that have to do with Green Acres Road?”

“I followed whoever it was. He turned down Green Acres Road and disappeared—either into a house or into the woods.”

Linda lowered her head. Jack stepped forward and spoke. “The Squires live on Green Acres Road,” he said. “Chad’s best friend, Matthew.”

Myron nodded. He was not surprised. He flicked on the television. “This is a bank security tape from First Philadelphia.”

“How did you get it?” Jack asked.

“It’s not important.”

The front door opened and Bucky entered. The older man, dressed today in checked pants with a yellow-and-green top, stepped into the den doing his customary neck craning bit. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

Nobody replied.

“I said—”

“Just watch the screen, Dad,” Linda interrupted.

“Oh,” Bucky said softly, moving in closer.

Myron turned the channel to Three and hit the PLAY button. All eyes were on the screen. Myron had already seen the tape. He studied their faces instead, watching for reactions.

On the television, a black-and-white image appeared. The bank’s driveway. The view was from up high and a bit distorted, a concave fish-eye effect to capture as much space as possible. There was no sound. Myron had the tape all cued up on the right spot. Almost immediately a car pulled into view. The camera was on the driver’s side.

“It’s Chad’s car,” Jack Coldren announced.

They watched in rapt silence as the car window lowered. The angle was a bit odd—above the car and from the machine’s point of view—but there was no doubt. Chad Coldren was the driver. He leaned out the window and put his card in the ATM machine slot. His fingers tripped across the buttons like an experienced stenographer’s.