“Back up there,” Naomi says. “Sleep disorder?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if it’s weird or ironic or what, but ever since he woke up from the accident, Mr. Shane has suffered from a peculiar, possibly unique sleep disorder. Like they’ve studied him, written articles about it.”

“Ironic would not be the correct term,” Naomi suggests. “Tragic would be the correct term. Is that agreed?”

“Great song, though,” Dane interjects airily.

“Nuts,” Jack says, suddenly animated. “If you don’t know what ironic means, don’t use it in the lyrics. Rain on a wedding day isn’t irony, it’s bad weather. It sucks, but it isn’t ironic.”

Naomi interjects, “Enough on the golden-oldie lyrics. Back to subject, please. Teddy?”

“A death row pardon two minutes too late is definitely ironic,” Teddy points out, in a small, hesitant voice.

“Teddy!”

“Okay, okay. Took a while to separate the facts from the legend, but despite or possibly because of his sleep disorder, which means he sometimes stays awake for days at a time and eventually hallucinates, Randall Shane is considered to be among the best solo operatives who specialize in child recovery.”

“Not among,” Jack says, arms folded. “The best, period. Randall Shane is the last of the real kid finders. They broke the mold.”

Teddy shrugs his narrow shoulders, as if to concede the point. “Unlike many in the field, which can be pretty shady, monetary gain does not seem to be his primary motivation. For him it’s a calling.”

“Most of his cases are pro bono,” Jack concedes.

“Seventy percent,” Teddy says.

“Whatever, Shane ain’t about the money. He can’t even afford to drive a decent car,” Jack says.

Teddy suddenly has a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Current ride, a five-year-old Townie, previously registered to John B. Delancey of Gloucester, Mass.”

Jack shrugs his wide, well-tailored shoulders, but he’s no doubt impressed. “Donation to a good cause. And no, I didn’t get a tax deduction because Shane has never registered as a nonprofit, although he should.”