Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

Ema had walked into the gym.

She narrowed her eyes and scanned the stands. Myron gave a small wave. She nodded that she saw him and started toward him. Myron rose and met her halfway.

"What's up?" he asked.

"It's about Patrick," Ema said. "You better come with me."

*

Ema didn't take him far, just to the head custodian's office in the high school's main building. She opened the door and held it for him. Myron stepped inside and recognized the kid at the desk.

"Hello, Mr. Bolitar!"

They called the kid Spoon. Mickey had given him the nickname, though Myron wasn't sure of the origins. Spoon's father was the head custodian at the high school, which explained why Spoon had access to this space. The office was small and tidy and loaded with perfectly pruned plants.

"I told you to call me Myron."

The kid swiveled his chair so that he was facing Myron. Spoon wasn't wearing a pocket protector, but he had the look of a kid who should have been. Using one finger, Spoon pushed his Harry Potter glasses up his nose.

Spoon gave Myron a crooked grin. "You know those stickers that supermarkets put on fruit?"

Ema sighed. "Not now, Spoon."

"Sure I know them," Myron said.

"Do you peel them off your fruit before you eat it?"

"I do."

"Did you know," Spoon continued, "that those stickers are edible?"

"I did not."

"You don't have to peel them off, if you don't want to. Even the glue is food grade."

"Good info. Is that why I'm here?"

"Of course not," Spoon said. "You're here because I think Patrick Moore is about to leave his house."

Myron stepped toward the desk. "What makes you say that?"

"He just finished Skyping with someone on his laptop." Spoon leaned back in his chair. "Are you aware, Myron, that Skype's headquarters are located in Luxembourg?"

Ema rolled her eyes.

"Who did Patrick Skype with?" Myron asked.

"That I can't say."

"What did they talk about?"

"That I can't say either. The keylogger planted by my lovely associate"--he gestured toward Ema, who looked like she wanted to kick him--"does just that. It records--or logs, if you prefer--the keys struck on a keyboard. So I can see Patrick Moore signed into Skype. I can't, of course, see what they said."

"So what makes you think he's leaving the house?" Myron asked.

"A simple deduction, my friend. Immediately after turning off Skype, Patrick Moore--or whoever is using his computer--visited the New Jersey Transit website. From what I can gather, he was searching for bus routes into New York City."

Myron checked his watch. "How long ago was this?"

Spoon checked the elaborate watch on his wrist. "Fourteen minutes and eleven, twelve, thirteen seconds ago."

Chapter 27

For reasons Myron could never fathom, Big Cyndi was great at tailing people. Perhaps it was that she was so obvious, so in your face, so out there, that you never really saw her or suspected a woman who wore a clingy purple Batgirl costume to be following you. Her costume, a somewhat larger replica of the one Yvonne Craig wore on the old Batman TV show, was snug to the point where it might be mistaken for sausage casing.

Today, however, the outfit did blend in a very particular way. Myron spotted Big Cyndi the moment he entered Times Square. Think of every cliche you can about Times Square, mush them together, stack cliche upon cliche, the ones about the kinetic waves of humanity and the traffic and the ginormous billboards and moving screens and neon lights. Then take what you're imagining and raise it to the tenth power.

Welcome to Times Square.

Times Square is an assault on every sense, and somehow that includes not only scent but taste. Everything is in motion and swirling and you want to give the entire square a giant Adderall.

There, along with Spider-Man, Elmo, Mickey Mouse, Buzz Lightyear, and Olaf from Frozen, stood Big Cyndi in full costume. Tourists were lined up to pose for photographs with her "Batgirl."

"They love me, Mr. Bolitar," Big Cyndi called out.

"Who doesn't?"

Big Cyndi tee-heed and struck poses that would have made Madonna in her "Vogue" days blush. An Asian tourist offered her some cash after taking the picture, but Big Cyndi refused. "Oh, I couldn't, kind sir."

"Are you sure?" the tourist asked.

"This is charity." She bent down closer to him. "If I wanted to be paid for wearing this outfit, I would still be hooking."

The tourist hurried away.

Big Cyndi looked at Myron. "I was joking, Mr. Bolitar."

"I know that."

"I never hooked."

"Good to know."

"Though I made beaucoup bucks when I wore this working the pole."

"Uh-huh," Myron said, not wanting to go down this particular lane of memory.

"At Leather and Lace, remember?"

"I do, yes."

"And okay, sometimes things went too far when I'd get hired for a lap dance, if you get my drift."

"Drift gotten," Myron said quickly. "So, uh, where's Patrick? Can you give me an update?"

"Young Patrick sneaked out of his house two hours ago," Big Cyndi said. "He walked approximately one mile into town and took bus 487. I looked it up. Bus 487's final destination is Port Authority in New York City. I drove my car and arrived before the bus. I waited for him to get off and followed him here."

"Here where?" Myron asked.

"Don't turn suddenly, because you'll be obvious."

"Okay."

"Patrick is standing behind you, between the Madame Tussauds wax museum and Ripley's Believe It or Not!"

Myron waited. Then he said, "Can I look now?"

"Turn slowly."

Myron did. Patrick stood on Forty-Second Street wearing a baseball cap pulled low. His shoulders were hunched as though he was trying to disappear.

"Has he talked to anyone?" Myron asked.

&nbs

p; "No," Big Cyndi replied. "Mr. Bolitar?"

"Yes?"

"Do you mind if I pose for more photographs while we wait? My public demands it."

"Go for it."

Myron kept his eye on Patrick, but he also couldn't help but watch Big Cyndi work the crowd. Thirty seconds after she got back into action, the queue to have a photo taken with her was so long the Naked Cowboy looked at her askance. She glanced at Myron. Myron gave her a big thumbs-up.

Here was the simple, awful truth: It was often hard to see beyond Big Cyndi's size. We as a society have many prejudices, but there are very few of our fellow citizens we stigmatize and judge less charitably than what we consider to be "large" women. Big Cyndi was all too aware of that. She had once explained her outgoing lifestyle, if you will, thusly: "I'd rather see shock on their faces than pity, Mr. Bolitar. And I'd rather they see brazen or outrageous than shrinking or scared."

Myron turned back toward Ripley's just as a teenage girl sidled up to Patrick.

Who the . . . ?

Myron remembered what Mickey and Ema had told him about Patrick's claim of having a girlfriend. But if he'd been living in quasi-captivity in London, how would he know anyone in New York City?

Good question.

Patrick and the girl exchanged a quick, awkward hug before heading inside Ripley's. Big Cyndi was by Myron's side now. When Myron started toward the ticket window, Big Cyndi stopped him.

"He knows you," she reminded him.

"You'll go in?"

Big Cyndi pointed to the sign with an index finger the size of a baguette. "It's called an 'odditorium.' Who better?"

Hard to argue.

"You wait by the exit," she said. "I'll text you updates."

Myron stayed on the street for an hour and people-watched. He liked people-watching. Great views of sunsets and water and greens are wonderful, he supposed, but after a while, they become something you barely notice. But if you're in a spot where you can watch people walk by--every race, gender, size, shape, religion, language, whatever--you are never bored. Everyone is their own universe--a life, a dream, a hope, a sorrow, a joy, a surprise, a revelation, a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end--even when they simply walk by you on the street.

The phone vibrated when Big Cyndi's text came in: EXITING NOW.

Big Cyndi always texted in capital letters.

Patrick kept his head low as he came out. The teenage girl stood right next to him. Big Cyndi loomed behind them.

The teenage girl gave Patrick a quick peck on the cheek. Then Patrick started heading west, away from Times Square. The girl moved east. They were splitting up. Big Cyndi looked at Myron for instructions. Myron gestured to Patrick. Big Cyndi nodded and started to follow him. Myron fell into a current of humans and tailed the girl.