“I’m wanted in several states,” Myron said.

Millie did not seem discouraged. She shrugged, left. Myron turned back to Jake.

“All right,” Myron said. “Where’s the file?”

Jake flipped it open. He handed Myron a picture of a handsome, healthy man. Tan, fit, wearing tennis shorts. Myron had seen the picture in the paper after the murder.

“Meet Alexander Cross,” Jake began. “Age twenty-four at the time of the murder. Wharton graduate. Son of United States senator Bradley Cross of Pennsylvania. On the night of July twenty-fourth, six years ago, he was attending a party at a tennis club called Old Oaks in Wayne, Pennsylvania. The esteemed senator was there. It’s a pretty ritzy place—fancy food, indoor and outdoor courts, hard court, clay, lit, unlit, the works. Even grass courts.”

“Okay.”

“What happened next is a bit fuzzy, but here’s what we have. Alexander Cross and three buddies were taking a walk around the grounds.”

“At night? During a party?”

“Not unheard of.”

“Not common either.”

Jake shrugged. “Anyway, they heard a noise coming from the western end of the club. They went to check it out. They ran into two suspicious-looking youths.”

“Suspicious-looking?”

“The youths were—what are they calling us today?—African American.”

“Ah,” Myron said. “Is it safe to assume that Old Oaks did not have a lot of African American members?”

“Like none. It’s exclusive.”

“So you and I could never be members.”

“Real shame,” Jake said. “I bet we’d have loved that party.”

“So what happened next?”

“According to the witnesses, the white youths approached the black youths. One of the black youths—later identified as one Errol Swade—reacted by whipping out a switchblade.”

Myron made a face. “A switchblade?”

“Yeah, I know. Such a cliché. No imagination. Anyway, an incident ensued. Alexander Cross was stabbed. The two youths ran. A few hours later the police caught up with them in north Philadelphia, not far from where the youths lived. During the apprehension, one of the punks pulled out a gun. A Curtis Yeller. Sixteen years old. A police officer shot him. Yeller’s mother was at the scene, from what I understand. She was cradling the kid in her arms when he died.”

“She saw him being shot?”

Jake shrugged. “Doesn’t say.”

“So what happened to Errol Swade?”

“He escaped. A nationwide manhunt began. His mug shot was in all the papers, sent to all the stations. Lot of cops on it, of course—the victim being the son of a U.S. senator and all. But here’s where things get interesting.”

Myron sipped the Diet Coke. Flat.

“They never found Errol Swade,” Jake said.

Myron felt his heart sink. “Never?”

Jake shook his head.

“Are you telling me Swade escaped?”

“Appears so.”

“How old was he?”

“Nineteen at the time of the incident.”

Myron mulled that over a moment. “That would make him twenty-five now.”

“Whoa. A math major.”

Myron did not smile. Millie brought the food. She made another comment, but Myron did not hear it. Twenty-five years old. Myron couldn’t help but wonder. It was a dumb thought. Unforgivable. And maybe even racist. But there it was. Twenty-five years old. Duane claimed to be twenty-one, but who knew for sure?

But no. It can’t be.

Myron took another sip of the flat soda. “What do you know about Errol Swade?” he asked.

“A pedigree punk. He had already been in jail three times. First offense was stealing a car. He was twelve. Assorted felonies followed. Muggings, assaults, car thefts, armed robberies, drugs. Also a member of an ultraviolent street gang. Guess what the gang was called.”

Myron shrugged. “Josie and the Pussycats?”

“Close. The Stains. Short for Bloodstains. They always wear a shirt dipped in a victim’s blood. Kinda like a Boy Scout badge.”

“Charming.”

“Errol Swade and Curtis Yeller were also cousins. Swade had been living with the Yellers since his release a month earlier. Let’s see what else. Swade was a dropout. Big surprise. A coke addict. Another shocker. And a major league moron.”

“So how has he eluded the police for so long?”

Jake picked up his burger and took a bite. A big bite. Half the burger vanished. “He couldn’t have,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“No way he could have stayed out of trouble this long. Impossible.”

“Hold up. Did I miss something here?”

“Officially the police are still looking,” Jake said. “But unofficially they’re sure he’s dead. The kid was a dumb punk. He couldn’t find his ass with both hands, never mind hide from a nationwide dragnet.”

“So what happened?”

“Rumor has it the senator got a favor from the mob. They knocked him off.”

“Senator Cross put out a hit on him?”

“What, that surprises you? The guy’s a politician. That’s like a step below child molester.”

“Weren’t you elected sheriff?”

Jake nodded. “There you go.”

Myron risked a bite of his sandwich. Tasted a bit like a sink sponge. “Do you have a physical description of Errol Swade?” he asked, almost hoping the answer was no.

“I got better. I got Swade’s mug shot.” Jake dusted his hands off, rubbed them on his shirt for good measure. Then he reached into the folder and withdrew a photograph. He handed it to Myron. Myron tried not to appear too eager.

It wasn’t Duane.

Not even close. Not even with plastic surgery. For one, Errol Swade was much lighter skinned. Swade’s head was shaped like a block, completely different from Duane’s. His eyes were spaced too far apart. Everything was different. His height was listed as six-four, three inches taller than Duane. Can’t fake being shorter.

Myron almost sighed with relief. “Does the name Valerie Simpson pop up in that file?” he asked.

Jake’s eyes caught a little fire. “Who?”

“You heard me.”

“Golly, Myron, that wouldn’t be the same Valerie Simpson who was murdered yesterday?”

“By coincidence it is. Is her name in there?”