"You know him?"
"I went to school with his brother Bernie. I was at his funeral." He sat back. "So what's next? Are you getting a warrant for my house, my car, what?"
"Both." She checked her watch. "They're being served now."
"You'll probably find evidence that Aimee was in both. I told you about the party, about being in my basement. And I told you I drove her the night before."
"All very neat and convenient, yes."
Myron closed his eyes. "Are you going to take my computer too?"
"Of course."
"I have a lot of private correspondences on it. Client information."
"They'll be careful."
"No, they won't. Do me a favor, Muse. Inspect the computer yourself, okay?"
"You trust me? I'm almost flattered."
"Okay, look, cards on the table," Myron said. "I know I'm a good suspect."
"Really? Why? Because you were the last person who saw her? Because you're a single ex-jock who lives alone in his childhood home and picks up teenage girls at two in the morning?" She shrugged. "Why would you be a suspect?"
"I didn't do it, Muse."
She kept her eyes focused on the road.
"What is it?" Myron asked.
"Tell me about the gas station."
"The . . ." And then he saw it. "Oh."
"Oh what?"
"What do you have--a surveillance video or the attendant's testimony?"
She said nothing.
"Aimee got mad at me because she thought I'd tell her parents."
"Why would she think that?"
"Because I kept asking her questions--where she'd been, who she'd been with, what happened."
"And you'd promised to take her wherever she wanted, no questions asked."
"Right."
"So why were you reneging?"
"I wasn't reneging."
"But?"
"She didn't look right."
"How's that?"
"She wasn't in a part of the city where kids would go to drink at that hour. She didn't look drunk. I didn't smell booze on her. She looked more upset than anything else. So I thought I'd try to find out why."
"And she didn't like that?"
"Right. So at the gas station, Aimee jumped out of the car. She wouldn't get back in until I promised I wouldn't ask any more questions or tell her parents. She said"--Myron frowned, hating to betray this sort of confidence--"she said that there were problems at home."
"With Mom and Dad?"
"Yes."
"What did you say?"
"That that was normal."
"Man," Loren said, "you are good. What other nuggets did you offer? 'Time heals all wounds'?"
"Give me a break, Muse, will you?"
"You're still my prime suspect, Myron."
"No, I'm not."
She lowered her eyebrows. "Excuse me?"
"You're not this stupid. Neither am I."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You've known about me since last night. So you made some calls. Who did you talk to?"
"You mentioned Jake Courter earlier."
"You know him?"
Loren Muse nodded.
"And what did Sheriff Courter say about me?"
"That in the tri-state area, you've caused more ass discomfort than hemorrhoids."
"But that I didn't do it, right?"
She said nothing.
"Come on, Muse. You know I couldn't be this stupid. Phone records, credit card charges, E-ZPass, an eyewitness at the gas station . . . it's overkill. Plus you know my story will pan out. The phone records show that Aimee called me first. That fits in with what I'm telling you."
They drove in silence for a while. The car radio buzzed. Loren picked it up. Lance Banner said, "I got a local with me. We're good to go."
"I'm almost there," she said. Then to Myron: "What exit did you take--Ridgewood Avenue or Linwood?"
"Linwood."
She repeated it into the microphone. She pointed at the green sign through the windshield. "Linwood Avenue West or East?"
"Whichever one says Ridgewood."
"That would be west."
He sat back. She took the ramp. "Do you remember how far away from here?"
"I'm not sure. We drove straight for a while. Then we started making a lot of turns. I don't remember."
Loren frowned. "You don't hit me as the forgetful type, Myron."
"Then I got you fooled."
"Where were you before she called?"
"At a wedding."
"Drink much?"
"More than I should have."
"Were you drunk when she called?"
"I probably would have passed a Breathalyzer."
"But you were, shall we say, feeling it?"
"Yes."
"Ironic, don't you think?"
"Like an Alanis Morissette song," he said. "I have a question for you."
"I'm not really into answering your questions, Myron."
"You asked me if I knew Katie Rochester. Was that just routine--two missing girls--or do you have a reason to believe that their disappearances are related?"
"You're kidding, right?"
"I just need to know--"
"Squat. You need to know squat. Now walk me through it again. Everything. What Aimee said, what you said, the phone calls, the drop-off, everything."
He did. On the corner of Linwood Avenue, Myron noticed a Ridgewood police car slide in behind them. Lance Banner sat in the passenger seat.
"They coming along for jurisdiction?" Myron asked.
"More like protocol. Do you remember where you drove from here?"
"I think we turned right by that big pool."
"Okay. I have a map up on the computer. We'll try to find the cul-de-sacs and see what happens."
Myron's hometown of Livingston was nouveau and Jewish-y, former farmland converted into look-alike clusters of split-levels, with one big mall. Ridgewood was old Victorians and WASPy, lusher landscapes, and a true town center with restaurants and shops. The houses in Ridgewood were built in a variety of eras. Trees lined both sides of the streets, age tilting them toward the center to form a protective canopy. There was less sameness here.
Was this street familiar?
Myron frowned. He couldn't say. Not much sameness during the day, but at night, it all looked woodsy. Loren headed down a cul-de-sac. Myron shook his head. Then another and another. The roads twisted seemingly without reason or plan, like something in an abstract painting.
More dead ends.
"You said before that Aimee didn't seem drunk," Loren said.
"That's right."
"How did she seem?"
"Distraught." He sat up. "I was thinking that maybe she'd broken up with her boyfriend. I think his name is Randy. Have you talked to him yet?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I need to explain myself to you?"
"It's not that, but a girl vanishes, you investigate--"
"There wasn't an investigation. She's of age, no signs of violence, missing only a few hours . . ."
"Enter me."
"Exactly. Claire and Erik called her friends, of course. Randy Wolf, the boyfriend, wasn't supposed to see her last night. He stayed home with his parents."
Myron frowned. Loren Muse spotted it in the rearview mirror. "What?" she asked.
"Saturday night at the end of his senior year," he said, "and Randy stays home with his mommy and daddy?"
"Do me a favor, Bolitar. Just look for the house, will you?"
As soon as she made the turn, Myron felt the pang of deja vu. "On the right. At the end of the cul-de-sac."
"That's it?"
"I'm not sure yet." Then: "Yeah. Yeah, this is it."
She pulled up to it and parked. The Ridgewood police car parked behind them. Myron looked out the window. "Move up a few yards."
Loren did as he asked. Myron kept his eyes on the house.
"Well?"
&
nbsp; He nodded. "This is it. She opened that gate on the side of the house." He almost added That was the last time I saw her, but he held back.
"Wait in the car."
She got out. Myron watched. She headed over and talked to Banner and a cop with Ridgewood police logos on his uniform. They chatted and gestured toward the house. Then Loren Muse started up the walk. She rang the doorbell. A woman answered it. Myron couldn't see her at first. Then she stepped outside. Nope, not familiar. She was slim. Her blond hair peeked out from a baseball cap. She looked like she'd just finished a workout.
The two women talked for a full ten minutes. Loren kept glancing back at Myron as if she feared he'd try to escape. Another minute or two passed. Loren and the woman shook hands. The woman went back inside and closed the door. Loren walked back to the car and opened the back door.
"Show me where Aimee walked."
"What did she say?"
"What do you think she said?"
"That she never heard of Aimee Biel."
Loren Muse touched her index finger to her nose and then pointed at him.
"This is the place," Myron said. "I'm sure of it."
Myron traced her path. He stopped at the gate. He remembered how Aimee had stood here. He remembered her wave, that there was something there, something that bugged him.
"I should have . . ." He stopped. No point. "She went in here. She disappeared from sight. Then she came back and waved that I should leave."
"And you did?"
"Yes."
Loren Muse looked in the backyard before she walked him back to another squad car. "They'll drive you home."
"Can I have my cell phone?"
She tossed it to him. Myron got into the back of the car. Banner started it up. Myron took hold of the door handle.
"Muse?"
"What?"
"There was a reason she picked this house," Myron said.
He closed the door. They drove off in silence. Myron watched that gate, watched it grow smaller until finally it, like Aimee Biel, was gone.
CHAPTER 17
Dominick Rochester, the father of Katie, sat at the head of the dining room table. His three boys were there too. His wife, Joan, was in the kitchen. That left two empty chairs--hers and Katie's. He chewed his meat and stared at the chair, as if willing Katie to appear.
Joan came out of the kitchen. She had a platter of sliced roast beef. He gestured toward his near-empty plate, but she was already on it. Dominick Rochester's wife stayed home and took care of the house. None of that working-woman crap. Dominick wouldn't have it.
He grunted a thank-you. Joan returned to her seat. The boys were all chowing down in silence. Joan smoothed her skirt and picked up her fork. Dominick watched her. She used to be so damned beautiful. Now she was glassy-eyed and meek. She hunched over in a permanent cower. She drank too much during the day, although she thought he didn't know. No matter. She was still the mother of his children and kept in line. So he let it slide.
The phone rang. Joan Rochester leaped to her feet, but Dominick signaled her to sit with a wave of his hand. He wiped his face as though it were a windshield and rose from his seat. Dominick was a thick man. Not fat. Thick. Thick neck, thick shoulders, thick chest, thick arms and thighs.
The last name Rochester--he hated that. His father had changed it because he wanted to sound less ethnic. But his old man was a weakling and a loser. Dominick thought about changing it back, but that would look weak too. Like maybe he worried too much about what other people would think. In Dominick's world, you never showed weakness. They had walked all over his father. Made him shut down his barbershop. Poked fun at him. His father thought he could rise above it. Dominick knew better.
You bust heads or you get your head busted. You don't ask questions. You don't reason with them--at least, not at first. At first, you bust heads. You bust heads and take licks until they respect you. Then you reason with them. You show them you're willing to take a hit. You let them see you're not afraid of blood, not even your own. You want to win, you smile right through your blood. That gets their attention.
The phone rang again. He checked the caller ID. The number was blocked, but most people who called here didn't like people to know their business. He was still chewing when he lifted the receiver.
The voice on the other end said, "I have something for you."
It was his contact at the county prosecutor's office. He swallowed the meat. "Go ahead."
"There's another missing girl."
That got his attention.
"She's from Livingston too. Same age, same class."
"Name?"
"Aimee Biel."
The name didn't mean anything to him, but he really didn't know Katie's friends very well. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Any of you know a girl named Aimee Biel?"
No one said anything.
"Hey, I asked a question here. She'd be Katie's year."
The boys shook their heads. Joan didn't move. His eyes met hers. She shook her head slowly.
"There's more," his contact said.
"Like what?"
"They found a link to your daughter."
"What kind of link?"
"I don't know. I've just been eavesdropping. But I think it has something to do with where they both went missing. Do you know a guy named Myron Bolitar?"
"The old basketball star?"
"Yeah."
Rochester had seen him a few times. He also knew that Bolitar had had run-ins with some of Rochester's nastier colleagues.
"What about him?"
"He's involved."
"How?"
"He picked up the missing girl in midtown Manhattan. That's the last time she was seen. She used the same ATM as your Katie."
He felt a jolt. "He what?"
Dominick's contact explained a bit more, about how this Bolitar guy had driven Aimee Biel back over to Jersey, how a gas station attendant saw them arguing, and how she just disappeared.
"The police talk to him?"
"Yeah."
"What did he say?"
"I don't think very much. He lawyered up."
"He . . ." Dominick felt a red swirl build in his head. "Son of a bitch. Did they arrest him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Not enough yet."
"So, what, they just let him walk?"
"Yeah."
Dominick Rochester didn't say anything. He got very quiet. His family noticed. They all went very still, afraid to move. When he finally spoke again, his voice was so calm, his family held their breaths.
"Anything else?"
"That's it for now."
"Keep digging."
Dominick hung up the phone. He turned toward the table. His whole family was watching him.
Joan said, "Dom?"
"It was nothing."
He felt no need to explain. This didn't involve them. It was his job to handle stuff like this. The father was the soldier, the one who kept vigil so that his family could sleep untroubled.
He headed to the garage. Once inside, he closed his eyes and tried to smother the rage. It wouldn't happen.
Katie . . .
He eyed the metal baseball bat. He remembered reading about Bolitar's injured knee. If he thought that hurt, if he thought a mere knee injury was pain . . .
He made some calls, did a little background. In the past, Bolitar had gotten in trouble with the Ache brothers, who ran New York. Bolitar was supposedly a tough guy, good with his fists, who hung out with a psycho named Windsor Something.
Taking on Bolitar would not be easy.
But it wouldn't be all that difficult either. Not if Dominick got the best.
His cell phone was a throwaway, the kind you can buy in cash with a false name and toss away after you use up your minutes. No way to trace it back to him. He grabbed a fresh one off the shelf. For a moment he just held it and debated his next move. His breathing was labored.
Dominick had busted his share of
heads in his day, but if he dialed this number, if he did indeed call the Twins, he was crossing a line he'd never gone near before.
He thought about his daughter's smile. He thought about how she had to wear braces when she was twelve and how she wore her hair and the way she used to look at him, a long time ago, when she was a little girl and he was the most powerful man in the world.
Dominick pressed the digits. After this call, he would have to get rid of the phone. That was one of the Twins' rules, and when it came to those two, it didn't matter who you were, didn't matter how tough or how hard you'd scraped to buy this fancy house in Livingston, you don't mess around with the Twins.
The phone was answered on the second ring. No hello. No greeting at all. Just silence.
Dominick said, "I'm going to need both of you."
"When?"
Dominick picked up the metal bat. He liked the weight of it. He thought about this Bolitar guy, this guy who drove off with a missing girl and then lawyered up, who was free now and probably watching TV or enjoying a nice meal.
No way you let that slide. Even if you gotta bring in the Twins.
"Now," Dominick Rochester said. "I need you both now."
CHAPTER 18
When Myron arrived back at his house in Livingston, Win was already there.
Win was sprawled out in a chaise lounge on the front lawn. His legs were crossed. He wore khakis sans socks, a blue shirt, a Lilly Pulitzer tie of dizzying green. Some people could wear anything and make it work. Win was one of those people.
He had his face tilted to the sun, eyes closed. He did not open them as Myron approached.
"Do you still want to go to the Knicks game?" Win asked.
"I think I'll pass."
"You mind if I take someone else then?"
"No."
"I met a girl at Scores last night."
"She's a stripper?"
"Please." Win held up a finger. "She's an erotic dancer."
"Career woman. Nice."
"Her name is Bambi, I think. Or maybe Tawny."
"Is that her real name?"
"Nothing about her is real," Win said. "By the way, the police were here."
"Searching the place?"
"Yes."
"They take my computer?"
"Yes."
"Damn."
"Fret not. I arrived before them and backed up your personal files. Then I erased the hard drive."
"You," Myron said. "You're good."
"The best," Win said.
"Where did you back it up?"
"USB hard drive on my key chain," he said, dangling it, his eyes still closed. "Kindly move to the right a little. You're blocking my sun."
"Has Hester's investigator learned anything new?"
"There was an ATM charge on young Ms. Biel's card," Win said.
"Aimee took out cash?'
"No, a library book. Yes, cash. Apparently, Aimee Biel picked up a thousand dollars at an ATM machine a few minutes before she called you."