He had Myron sit on the couch. “Want something to drink?”

“Sure, whatever,” Myron said. The coffee table had one photograph on it. A man had his arms around two boys. All three were smiling too hard, like they’d just come in second place and didn’t want to appear disappointed. They were standing in a garden of some sort. Behind them loomed a marble statue of a woman with a bow and arrow over her shoulder. Myron picked up the frame and studied it. “This you?”

Gibbs lifted his head while scooping a handful of ice into a glass. “I’m on the right,” he said. “With my brother and my father.”

“Who’s that a statue of?”

“Diana the Huntress. You familiar with her?”

“Didn’t she turn into Wonder Woman?”

Stan chuckled. “Sprite okay?”

Myron put the photograph down. “Sure.”

Stan Gibbs poured the drink, brought it out to Myron, handed it to him. “What do you know about Dennis Lex?”

“Just that he exists,” Myron said.

“So why mention his name to me?”

Myron shrugged. “Why did you react so strongly to hearing it?”

Gibbs took out another cigarette, lit it. “You’re the one who came to me.”

“True.”

“Why?”

No secret. “I’m looking for a man named Davis Taylor. He’s a bone marrow donor who matched a kid and then vanished. I traced him to an address in Connecticut, but he’s not there. So I dug a little more and found out that Davis Taylor is a name change. His real name is Dennis Lex.”

“I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“This might sound a little nutty,” Myron said. “But I left a voice mail message for Davis Taylor né Dennis Lex. When he called back, he made little sense. But he kept telling me to ‘sow the seeds.’ ”

A small quake ran through Stan Gibbs. It passed quickly. “What else did he say?”

“That was pretty much it. I should sow the seeds. I should say good-bye to the child. Stuff like that.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Gibbs said. “He probably just read my article and decided to have a little fun at your expense.”

“Probably,” Myron said. “Except that wouldn’t really explain your reaction to Dennis Lex’s name.”

Stan shrugged, but there wasn’t much behind it. “The family is famous.”

“If I said Ivana Trump, would you have reacted the same?”

Gibbs stood. “I need some time to think about this.”

“Think out loud,” Myron said.

Stan just shook his head.

“Did you make up the story, Stan?”

“Another time.”

“Not good enough,” Myron said. “You owe me something here. Did you plagiarize the story?”

“How do you expect me to answer that?”

“Stan?”

“What?”

“I don’t care about your situation. I’m not here to judge you or tell on you. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you made up the story or not. All I care about is finding the bone marrow donor. Period. End of story. El Fin.”

Stan’s eyes started to well up. He took another puff of the cigarette. “No,” he said. “I never plagiarized. I never saw that book in my life.”

It was like the room had been holding its breath and finally let go.

“How do you explain the similarities between your article and that novel?”

He opened his mouth, stopped, shook his head.

“Your silence makes you look guilty.”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

“Yeah, you do. I’m trying to save a kid’s life here. You’re not that wrapped up in your problems, are you, Stan?”

Stan moved back into the kitchen. Myron stood and followed him. “Talk to me,” Myron said. “Maybe I can help.”

“No,” he said. “You can’t.”

“How do you explain the similarities, Stan? Just tell me that, okay? You must have thought about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it.”

“Meaning?”

He opened the refrigerator and grabbed another can of Sprite. “Do you think all psychotics are original?”

“I’m not following you.”

“You received a call from a guy who told you about sowing the seeds.”

“Right.”

“There are two possibilities that explain why he did that,” Stan said. “One, he is the same killer I wrote about. Or two?” Stan looked at Myron.

“He just repeated what he’d read in the article,” Myron said.

Stan snapped and pointed at Myron.

“So you’re saying that the kidnapper you interviewed read this novel and it, what, influenced him somehow? That he copied it?”

Stan took a swig from the can. “That’s a theory,” he said.

And a damn good one, Myron thought. “So why didn’t you say that to the press? Why didn’t you defend yourself?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Some people say it’s because you were afraid they’d look closer at your work. That they’d find other fabrications.”

“And some people are morons,” he finished.

“So why didn’t you fight?”

“I spent my whole life being a journalist,” Stan said. “Do you know what it means for a journalist to be called a plagiarist? It’s like a daycare worker being called a child molester. I’m done. No words can change that. I’ve lost everything to this scandal. My wife, my kids, my job, my reputation—”

“Your mistress?”

He shut his eyes suddenly, tightly, like a child trying to make the bogeyman go away.

“The police think you killed Melina,” Myron said.

“I’m well aware of that.”

“Tell me what’s going on here, Stan.”

He opened his eyes and shook his head. “I have to make some calls, check out some leads.”

“You can’t just cut me loose.”

“I have to,” he said.

“Let me help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“But I need yours.”

“Not right now,” Stan said. “You’ll have to trust me on this.”

“I’m not big on trust,” Myron said.

Stan smiled. “Neither am I,” he said. “Neither am I.”