She turned her gaze to Myron. “I did that school check on Dennis Lex. I tracked down any and all educational institutions any of his siblings or parents had gone to. Nothing. College, high school, middle school—even grammar school. No trace of Dennis Lex.”

“But?” Myron said.

“Preschool.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope.”

“You found his preschool?”

“I’m more than just a great piece of ass,” Esperanza said.

Win said, “Not to me, my dear.”

“You’re sweet, Win.”

Win bowed his head slightly.

“Miss Peggy Joyce,” Esperanza said. “She still teaches and runs the Shady Wells Montessori School for Children in East Hampton.”

“And she remembers Dennis Lex?” Myron said. “From thirty years ago?”

“Apparently.” Esperanza shoved in another spoonful and tossed Myron a sheet of paper. “This is her address. She’s expecting you this morning. Drive safely now, ya hear?”

22

The car phone rang. “The old man is a lying sack of shit.” It was Greg Downing.

“What?”

“The geezer is lying.”

“You mean Nathan Mostoni?”

“Jesus Christ, what other old man have I been watching?”

Myron switched ears. “What makes you think he’s lying, Greg?”

“Lots of things.”

“Like?”

“Like starting with Mostoni never hearing from the bone marrow center. Does that sound logical to you?”

He thought of Karen Singh and her dedication and the stakes. “No,” Myron said, “but it’s like we said before—he might be confused.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Nathan Mostoni goes out plenty on his own, for one thing. Sometimes he acts loony, but other times, he seems just fine. He shops himself. He talks to people. He dresses like a normal person.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Myron said.

“No? An hour ago he went out, right? So I got close to the house, right up against the back window, and I dialed that number, the one you got for the donor.”

“And?”

“And I hear a phone inside the house ringing.”

That made Myron pause.

“So what do you think we should do?” Greg asked.

“I’m not sure. Have you seen anybody else at the house?”

“Nobody. Mostoni goes out but nobody’s been here. And I tell you something else. He looks younger now. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s weird. You making any headway on your end?”

“I’m not sure.”

“That’s some answer, Myron.”

“The only one I got.”

“So what do you think we should do about Mostoni?”

“I’ll have Esperanza do a background check. In the meantime, stay on him.”

“Time’s a-ticking away here, Myron.”

“I know that. I’ll be in touch.”

He disconnected the call and flipped on the radio. Chaka Khan was singing “Ain’t Nobody Love You Better.” If you can listen to that one without moving your feet, you got some serious rhythm issues. He took the Long Island Expressway east, which was shockingly clear today. Usually the road was more or less a parking lot that swayed forward every couple of minutes.

People always tell you that the Hamptons, the swanky Long Island summer spot where Manhattanites get away from it all by being with other Manhattanites, is best in the off season. You always hear that about vacation spots. People, mostly vacationers themselves, whine through the high-season months, waiting to reach this apex of a theoretically swarmless nirvana. But—and this was the part Myron never understood—no one is ever in the Hamptons in the off months. No one. Downtown is dead to the point of craving tumbleweeds. Shop owners sigh and discount nothing. The restaurants are less crowded, sure, but they’re also closed. And hey, let’s be honest here, the weather and beaches and even the people-watching are big draws here. Who goes to a Long Island beach in the winter?

The school was in a residential neighborhood with older, more modest homes—a place where the true Long Island regulars, none of whom hang out with Alec and Kim at Nick and Toni’s, resided. Myron parked in a church lot and followed the signs down the steps into the rectory’s basement. A young woman, a hall monitor of sorts, greeted Myron at the landing. He gave her his name and said he was here to see Ms. Joyce. The young woman nodded and told him to follow her.

The corridor was silent. Strange when one considered that this was a preschool. Preschool. Another new term. In Myron’s day, they had called them nursery schools. Myron wondered when the name had changed and what group had considered the term nursery school somehow discriminatory. Professional RNs? Breastfeeding mothers? Bottle-fed infants maybe?

Still silent. Perhaps it was vacation or naptime. Myron was about to ask the young hall monitor when she opened a door. He looked in. Wrong-a-mundo. The room was chock full of small children, probably twenty give or take, and they were all working independently and in total silence. The older teacher smiled at Myron. She whispered to the little boy she was working with—he was doing something with blocks and letters—and stood.

“Hello,” she said to Myron, speaking softly.

“Hi,” Myron whispered back.

She leaned toward the young monitor. “Miss Simmons, will you help Mrs. McLaughlin?”

“Of course.”

Peggy Joyce wore an open yellow sweater over a buttoned-at-the-neck blouse. The collar was frilly. She had half-moon glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. “We can chat in my office.”

“Okay.” He followed her. The place was silent as, well, a place without children. Myron asked, “Do you give those kids Valium?”

She smiled. “Just a little Montessori.”

“A little what?”

“You don’t have children, do you?”

The question caused a pang, but he answered in the negative.

“It’s a teaching philosophy created by Dr. Maria Montessori, Italy’s first female physician.”

“It seems to work.”

“I suppose.”

“Do the children act like this at home?”

“Good Lord, no. Truth be told, it doesn’t translate into the real world. But few things do.”

They moved into the office, which consisted of a wooden desk, three chairs, one file cabinet.