DARKEST FEAR by Harlan Coben Page B

eyes,” Myron said.
    “What?”
    “Never mind. Are you Davis Taylor?”
    “What do you want?”
    “We’re looking for Davis Taylor.”
    “Don’t know no Davis Taylor.”
    “This is 221 North End Drive?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And there’s no Davis Taylor living here?”
    “Just me and my boy Daniel. But he’s been away. Overseas.”
    “Spain?” Myron asked. He pronounced it Spahhheeeeen. Elton would have been proud.
    “What?”
    “Never mind.” The old man turned to Greg, tried again to readjust the glasses, gave another squint. “I know you. You play basketball, right?”
    Greg gave the old man a gentle if not superior smile—Moses gazing down at a skeptic after the Red Sea parted. “That’s right.”
    “You’re Dolph Schayes.”
    “No.”
    “You look like Dolph. Helluva shooter. Saw him play in St. Louis last year. What a touch.”
    Myron and Greg exchanged a glance. Dolph Schayes had retired in 1964.
    “I’m sorry,” Myron said. “We didn’t catch your name.”
    “You’re not wearing uniforms,” the old man said.
    “No, sir, he only wears it on the court.”
    “Not that kind of uniform.”
    “Oh,” Myron said, though he had no idea why.
    “So you can’t be here about Daniel. That’s what I mean. I was afraid you were with the army and …” His voice drifted off then.
    Myron saw where this was going. “Your son is stationed overseas?”
    The old man nodded. “Nam.”
    Myron nodded, feeling bad now about the Elton John teasing. “We still didn’t catch your name.”
    “Nathan. Nathan Mostoni.”
    “Mr. Mostoni, we’re looking for someone named Davis Taylor. It’s very important we find him.”
    “Don’t know no Davis Taylor. He a friend of Daniel’s?”
    “Might be.”
    The old man thought about it. “Nope, don’t know him.”
    “Who else lives here?”
    “Just me and my boy.”
    “And it’s just the two of you?”
    “Yep. But my boy is overseas.”
    “So right now you live here alone?”
    “How many different ways you gonna ask that question, boy?”
    “It’s just that it’s a pretty big house,” Myron said.
    “So?”
    “Ever take in any boarders?”
    “Sure. Had a college girl just moved out of here.”
    “What was her name?”
    “Stacy something. I don’t remember.”
    “How long did she live here?”
    “About six months.”
    “And before that?”
    That one took some thought. Nathan Mostoni scratched his face like a dog going after his own belly. “A guy named Ken.”
    “Did you ever have a tenant named Davis Taylor?” Myron asked. “Or something like that?”
    “Nope. Never.”
    “Did this Stacy have a boyfriend?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Do you know her last name?”
    “My memory ain’t so good. But she’s at the college.”
    “Which college?”
    “Waterbury State.”
    Myron turned to Greg and another thought hit him. “Mr. Mostoni, have you heard the name Davis Taylor before today?”
    Another squint. “What do you mean?”
    “Has anybody else visited you or called you and asked about Davis Taylor?”
    “No, sir. Never heard the name before.”
    Myron looked at Greg again, then turned back to the old man. “So no one from the bone marrow center has been in touch with you?”
    The old man cocked his head and put a hand to his ear. “The bone what?”
    Myron asked a few more questions, but Nathan Mostoni started time-traveling again. There was nothing more to get here. Myron and Greg thanked him and headed back down the cracked pathway.
    When they were back in the car, Greg asked, “Why didn’t the bone marrow center contact this guy?”
    “Maybe they did,” Myron said. “Maybe he just forgot.”
    Greg didn’t like it. Neither did Myron. “So what’s next?” Greg asked.
    “We run a background check on Davis Taylor. Find out everything we can about him.”
    “How?
    “It’s easy nowadays. Just a few keystrokes and my partner will know it all.”
    “Your partner? You mean that violent wacko you used to