“Uh-huh,” Myron said. “And Win is the scary one here, right?”

Jake laughed. “Touché. But to answer your question, I don’t know if Squires would be into kidnapping. Wouldn’t surprise me though.”

Myron thanked him and hung up. He looked up. At least a dozen security cameras lined the top of the shrubs like tiny sentinels.

What now?

For all he knew, Chad Coldren was laughing his ass off, watching him on one of those security cameras. This whole thing could be an exercise in pure futility. Of course, Linda Coldren had promised to be a client. Much as he didn’t want to admit it to himself, the idea was not wholly unpleasant. He considered the possibility and started to smile. If he could also somehow land Tad Crispin …

Yo, Myron, a kid may be in serious trouble.

Or, more likely, a spoiled brat or neglected adolescent—take your pick—is playing hooky and having some fun at his parents’ expense.

So the question remained: What now?

He thought again about the videotape of Chad at the ATM machine. He didn’t go into details with the Coldrens, but it bothered him. Why there? Why that particular ATM machine? If the kid was running away or hiding out, he might have to pick up money. Fine and dandy, that made sense.

But why would he do it at Porter Street?

Why not do it at a bank closer to home? And equally important, what was Chad Coldren doing in that area in the first place? There was nothing there. It wasn’t a stop between highways or anything like that. The only thing in that neighborhood that would require cash was the Court Manor Inn. Myron again remembered motelier extraordinaire Stuart Lipwitz’s attitude and wondered.

He started the car. It might be something. Worth looking into, at any rate.

Of course, Stuart Lipwitz had made it abundantly clear that he would not talk. But Myron thought he had just the tool to make him change his mind.

14

“Smile!”

The man did not smile. He quickly shifted the car in reverse and backed out. Myron shrugged and lowered the camera. It was on a neck strap and bounced lightly against his chest. Another car approached. Myron lifted the camera again.

“Smile!” Myron repeated.

Another man. Another no smile. This guy managed to duck down before shifting his car into reverse.

“Camera shy” Myron called out to him. “Nice to see in this age of paparazzi overkill.”

It didn’t take long. Myron had been on the sidewalk in front of the Court Manor Inn for less than five minutes when he spotted Stuart Lipwitz sprinting toward him. Big Stu was in full custom—gray tails, wide tie, a concierge key pin in the suit’s lapel. Gray tails at a no-tell motel. Like a maître d’ at Burger King. Watching Stu move closer, a Pink Floyd song came to mind: Hello, hello, hello, is there anybody out there? David Bowie joined in: Ground control to Major Tom.

Ah, the seventies.

“You there,” he called out.

“Hi, Stu.”

No smile this time. “This is private property,” Stuart Lipwitz said, a little out of breath. “I must ask you to remove yourself immediately.”

“I hate to disagree with you, Stu, but I am on a public sidewalk. I got every right to be here.”

Stuart Lipwitz stammered, then flapped his arms in frustration. With the tails, the movement kind of reminded Myron of a bat. “But you can’t just stand there and take pictures of my clientele,” he semi-whined.

“ ‘Clientele,’ ” Myron repeated. “Is that a new euphemism for john?”

“I’ll call the police.”

“Ooooo. Stop scaring me like that.”

“You are interfering with my business.”

“And you are interfering with mine.”

Stuart Lipwitz put his hands on his hips and tried to look threatening. “This is the last time I’ll ask you nicely. Leave the premises.”

“That wasn’t nice.”

“Excuse me?”

“You said it was the last time you’d ask me nicely,” Myron explained. “Then you said, ‘Leave the premises.’ You didn’t say please. You didn’t say, ‘Kindly leave the premises.’ Where’s the nice in that?”

“I see,” Lipwitz said. Beads of sweat dotted his face. It was hot and the man was, after all, in tails. “Please kindly leave the premises.”

“Nope. But now, at least, you’re a man of your word.”

Stuart Lipwitz took several deep breaths. “You want to know about the boy, don’t you? The one in the picture.”

“You bet.”

“And if I tell you if he was here, will you leave?”

“Much as it would pain me to leave this quaint locale, I would somehow tear myself away.”

“That, sir, is blackmail.”

Myron looked at him. “I would say ‘blackmail is such an ugly word,’ but that would be too cliché. So instead I’ll just say ‘Yup.’ ”

“But”—Lipwitz started stammering—“that’s against the law!”

“As opposed to, say, prostitution and drug dealing and whatever other sleazy activity goes on in this fleabag?”

Stuart Lipwitz’s eyes widened. “Fleabag? This is the Court Manor Inn, sir. We are a respectable—”

“Stuff it, Stu. I got pictures to take.” Another car pulled up. Gray Volvo station wagon. Nice family car. A man about fifty years old was neatly attired in a business suit. The young girl in the passenger seat must have shopped—as the mall girls had recently taught him—at Sluts “R” Us.

Myron smiled and leaned toward the window. “Whoa, sir, vacationing with your daughter?”

The man splashed on a classic deer-caught-in-the-headlights look. The young prostitute whooped with laughter. “Hey, Mel, he thinks I’m your daughter!” She whooped again.

Myron raised the camera. Stuart Lipwitz tried to step in his way, but Myron swept him away with his free hand. “It’s Souvenir Day at the Court Manor,” Myron said. “I can put the picture on a coffee mug if you’d like. Or maybe a decorative plate?”

The man in the business suit reversed the car. They were gone several seconds later.

Stuart Lipwitz’s face reddened. He made two fists. Myron looked at him. “Now Stuart …”

“I have powerful friends,” he said.

“Ooooo. I’m getting scared again.”

“Fine. Be that way.” Stuart turned away and stormed up the drive. Myron smiled. The kid was a tougher nut to crack than he’d anticipated, and he really didn’t want to do this all day. But let’s face it: There were no other leads and besides, playing with Big Stu was fun.