"Anything else?"
"Like?"
"They're linking this to another disappearance. A girl named Katie Rochester."
"Two girls disappearing from the same area. Of course they're going to link them."
Myron frowned. "I think there's something else."
Win opened one eye. "Trouble."
"What?"
Win said nothing, just kept staring. Myron turned and followed his gaze and felt his stomach drop.
It was Erik and Claire.
For a moment no one moved.
Win said, "You're blocking my sun again."
Myron saw Erik's face. There was rage there. Myron started toward them, but something made him stop. Claire put her hand on her husband's arm. She whispered something in his ear. Erik closed his eyes. She stepped toward Myron, her head high. Erik stayed back.
Claire walked toward Myron's door. He slid toward her.
Myron said, "You know I didn't--"
"Inside." Claire kept walking toward his front door. "I want you to tell me everything when we're inside."
Essex County prosecutor Ed Steinberg, Loren's boss, was waiting for her when she got back to the office.
"Well?"
She filled him in. Steinberg was a big man, soft in the middle, but he had that wanna-squeeze-him, teddy-bear thing going on. Of course he was married. It had been so long since Loren had met a desirable man who wasn't.
When she finished, Steinberg said, "I did a little more checking up on Bolitar. Did you know he and his friend Win used to do some work with the feds?"
"There were rumors," she said.
"I spoke to Joan Thurston." Thurston was the U.S. Attorney for the State of New Jersey. "A lot of it is hush-hush, I guess, but in sum, everyone thinks Win is several fries short of a Happy Meal--but that Bolitar is pretty straight."
"That's the vibe I got too," Loren said.
"You believe his story?"
"Overall, yeah, I guess I do. It's just too crazy. Plus, as he sort of pointed out himself, would a guy with his experience be dumb enough to leave so many clues behind?"
"You think he's being framed?"
Loren made a face. "That doesn't jibe much either. Aimee Biel called him herself. She'd have to be in on it, I guess."
Steinberg folded his hands on his desk. His sleeves were rolled up. His forearms were big and covered with enough hair to count as fur. "Then odds are, what, she's a runaway?"
"Odds are," Loren said.
"And the fact that she used the same ATM as Katie Rochester?"
She shrugged. "I don't think it's a coincidence."
"Maybe they know each other."
"Not according to either set of parents."
"That doesn't mean anything," Steinberg said. "Parents don't know bupkus about their kids. Trust me here, I had teenage daughters. The moms and dads who claim they know everything about their kids usually know the least." He shifted in his chair. "Nothing found in the search of Bolitar's home or car?"
"They're still going through it," Loren said. "But what can they find? We know she was in the house and in the car."
"The locals handled the search?"
She nodded.
"Then let's let the locals handle the rest of it. We really don't even have a case yet anyway--the girl is of age, right?"
"Right."
"Good, then it's settled. Give it to the locals. I want you concentrating on these homicides in East Orange."
Steinberg told her more about the case. She listened and tried to focus. This was a biggie, no doubt about it. A double murder. Maybe a major hit man back in the area. It was the kind of case she loved. It would take up all her time. She knew that. And she knew the odds. Aimee Biel had withdrawn cash before she called Myron. That meant that she had probably not been abducted, that she was probably just fine--and that either way, Loren Muse really shouldn't be involved anymore.
They say worrying and grief makes you age, but with Claire Biel it was almost the opposite. Her skin was drawn tight around her cheekbones--so tight the blood seemed to stop flowing. There were no lines on her face. She was pale and almost skeletal.
Myron flashed back to an ordinary memory. Study hall, senior year. They would sit and talk and he would make her laugh. Claire was normally quiet, often subdued. She spoke with a soft voice. But when he got her going, when he worked in all her favorite routines from stupid movies, Claire would laugh so hard she'd start to cry. Myron wouldn't stop. He loved her laugh. He loved to see the pure joy when she let go like that.
Claire stared at him. Every once in a while you try to trace your life back to a time like that, when everything was so good. You try to go back and figure out how it started and the path you'd taken and how you ended up here, if there was a moment you could go back to and somehow alter and poof, you wouldn't be here, you'd be someplace better.
"Tell me," Claire said.
He did. He started with the party at his house, overhearing Aimee and Erin in the basement, the promise, the late-night phone call. He went through it all. He told her about the stop at the gas station. He even told her about Aimee talking about how things weren't great with her parents.
Claire's posture stayed rigid. She said nothing. There was a quake near her lips. Every once in a while she would close her eyes. There would be a slight wince, as if she spotted a coming blow but was unwilling to defend herself from it.
Neither spoke when he finished. Claire did not ask any follow-up questions. She just stood there and looked very frail. Myron took a step toward her, but he could see right away it was the wrong move.
"You know I'd never hurt her," he said.
She did not reply.
"Claire?"
"Do you remember that time we met up at Little Park by the circle?"
Myron waited a beat. "We met up there a lot, Claire."
"At the playground. Aimee was three years old. The Good Humor truck came along. You bought her a Toasted Almond Fudge."
"Which she hated."
Claire smiled. "You remember?"
"I do."
"Do you remember what I was like that day?"
He thought about it. "I don't know what you're trying to get at."
"Aimee didn't know her limits. She would try everything. She wanted to go on that high slide. There was a big ladder. She was too young for it. Or at least that's what I thought. She was my first child. I was so afraid all the time. But I couldn't stop her. So I let her climb the ladder, but I would stay right behind her, remember? You made a crack about it."
He nodded.
"Before she was born, I swore I'd never be one of those overprotective parents. Swore it. But Aimee is climbing up this ladder and I'm right behind her, my hands poised behind her butt. Just in case. Just in case she slipped because wherever you are, even someplace as innocent as a playground, all a parent imagines is the worst. I kept picturing her tiny foot missing a step. I kept seeing her fingers slipping off those rails and her little body tipping back and then she'd land on her head wrong and her neck would be at a bad angle . . ."
Her voice faded away.
"So I stayed behind her. And I was ready for anything."
Claire stopped and stared at him.
"I'd never hurt her," Myron said.
"I know," she said softly.
He should have felt relief at that. He didn't. There was something in her tone, something that kept him on the hook.
"You wouldn't harm her, I know that." Her eyes flared up. "But you're not blameless either."
He had no idea what to say to that.
"Why aren't you married?" she asked.
"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"
"You're one of the nicest, sweetest men I know. You love kids. You're straight. So why aren't you married yet?"
Myron held back. Claire was in shock, he told himself. Her daughter was missing. She was just lashing out.
"I think it's because you bring destruction, Myron. Wherever y
ou go, people get hurt. I think that's why you've never been married."
"You think--what?--that I'm cursed?"
"No, nothing like that. But my little girl is gone." Her voice was slow now, one weighted word at a time. "You were the last to see her. You promised that you would protect her."
He just stood there.
"You could have told me," she said.
"I promised--"
"Don't," she said, holding up her hand. "That's no excuse. Aimee wouldn't have ever known. You could have pulled me aside and said, 'Look, I told Aimee that she could call me if she had a problem.' I'd have understood that. I'd have even liked it, because then I would have still been there for her, like with the ladder. I would have been able to protect her because that's what a parent does. A parent, Myron, not a family friend."
He wanted to defend himself, but the arguments wouldn't come.
"But you didn't do that," she went on, her words raining down on him. "Instead you promised that you wouldn't tell her parents. Then you drove her somewhere and dropped her off, but you didn't watch out for her like I would have. Do you understand that? You didn't take care of my baby. And now she's gone."
He said nothing.
"What are you going to do about that?" she asked.
"What?"
"I asked you what you're going to do about it."
He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. "I don't know."
"Yeah, you do." Suddenly Claire's eyes seemed focused and clear. "The police are going to do one of two things. I can see it already. They're backing away. Aimee took money out of an ATM machine before she called you. So they're either going to dismiss her as a runaway or they're going to think you were involved. Or both. You helped her run maybe. You're her boyfriend. Either way, she's eighteen. They're not going to look hard. They're not going to find her. They'll have other priorities."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Find her."
"I don't save people. You yourself pointed that out."
"Then you better start now. My daughter is gone because of you. I hold you accountable."
Myron shook his head. But she was having none of it.
"You made her promise. Right here in this house. You made her promise. Now you do the same, dammit. Promise me you'll find my baby. Promise me you'll bring her home."
And a moment later--the truly final what-if?--Myron did.
CHAPTER 19
Ali Wilder had finally stopped thinking long enough about Myron's impending visit to call her editor, a man she generously referred to as Caligula.
"I just don't get this paragraph, Ali."
She bit back a sigh. "What about it, Craig?" Craig was the name her editor used when he introduced himself, but Ali was sure his real name was Caligula.
Before 9/11, Ali had a solid job with a major magazine in the city. After Kevin's death, there was no way she could keep it. Erin and Jack needed her home. She took a sabbatical and then became a freelance journalist, mostly writing for magazines. At first, everyone offered her jobs. She refused them out of what she now saw as stupid pride. She hated getting the "pity" assignments. She felt above it. She now regretted that.
Caligula cleared his throat, making a production about it, and read her paragraph out loud: "The closest town is Pahrump. Picture Pahrump, rhymes with dump, as what's left on the road if a buzzard ate Las Vegas and spit out the bad parts. Tackiness as art form. A bordello is made to look like a White Castle restaurant, which seems like a bad pun. Signs with giant cowboys compete with signs for fireworks stores, casinos, trailer parks, and beef jerky. All the cheese is American singles."
After a meaningful pause, Caligula said, "Let's start with the last line."
"Uh-huh."
"You say that the only cheese in the town is American singles?"
"Yes," Ali said.
"Are you sure?"
"Pardon me?"
"I mean, did you go to the supermarket?"
"No." Ali started gnawing on a fingernail. "It's not a statement of fact. I'm trying to give you a feel for the town."
"By writing untruths?"
Ali knew where this was going. She waited. Caligula did not disappoint.
"How do you know, Ali, they don't have some other kind of cheese in this town? Did you check all the supermarket shelves? And even if you did, did you consider the fact that maybe someone shops in a neighboring town and brings other cheese into Pahrump? Or that maybe they order by mail service? Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Ali closed her eyes.
"We print that, about the American singles being the only cheese in town, and suddenly we get a call from the mayor and he says, 'Hey, that's not true. We have tons of varieties here. We have Gouda and Swiss and cheddar and provolone--' "
"I get the point, Craig."
" 'And Roquefort and blue and mozzarella--' "
"Craig . . ."
"--and heck, what about cream?"
"Cream?"
"Cream cheese, for crying out loud. That's a kind of cheese, right? Cream cheese. Even a hickville place would have cream cheese. You see?"
"Right, uh-huh." More gnawing on the nail. "I see."
"So that line has to go." She could hear his pen go through it. "Now let's talk about the line before that, the one about trailer parks and beef jerky."
Caligula was short. Ali hated short editors. She used to joke about it with Kevin. Kevin had always been her first reader. His job was to tell her that whatever she had scribbled out was brilliant. Ali, like most writers, was insecure. She needed to hear his praise. Any criticism while she wrote paralyzed her. Kevin understood. So he would rave. And when she battled with her editors, especially those short of sight and stature like Caligula, Kevin always took her side.
She wondered if Myron would like her writing.
He had asked to see some of her pieces, but she'd been putting it off. The man had dated Jessica Culver, one of the top novelists in the country. Jessica Culver had been reviewed on the front page of The New York Times Book Review. Her books had been short-listed for every major literary award. And as if that weren't enough, as if Jessica Culver didn't have it all over Ali Wilder professionally, the woman was ridiculously gorgeous.
How could Ali possibly stack up against that?
The doorbell rang. She checked her watch. Too early for Myron.
"Craig, can I call you back?
Caligula sighed. "Fine, okay. In the meantime I'll just tweak this a bit."
She winced when he said that. There was an old joke about being left on a deserted island with an editor. You are starving. All you have left is a glass of orange juice. Days pass. You are near death. You are about to drink the juice when the editor grabs the glass from your hand and pees into it. You look at him, stunned. "There," the editor says, handing you the glass. "It just needed a little tweaking."
The bell rang again. Erin galloped down the stairs and yelled, "I'll get it."
Ali hung up. Erin opened the door. Ali saw her go rigid. She hurried her step.
There were two men at the door. They both held police badges.
"May I help you?" Ali said.
"Are you Ali and Erin Wilder?"
Ali's legs went rubbery. No, this wasn't a flashback of how she learned about Kevin. But there was still some sort of deja vu here. She turned to her daughter. Erin's face was white.
"I'm Livingston police detective Lance Banner. This is Kasselton detective John Greenhall."
"What's this about?"
"We'd like to ask you both a few questions, if we might."
"What about?"
"Can we come in?"
"I'd like to know why you're here first."
Banner said. "We'd like to ask a few questions about Myron Bolitar."
Ali nodded, trying to figure this through. She turned to her daughter. "Erin, head upstairs for a little while and let me talk to the officers, okay?"
"Actually, uh, ma'am?"
It was Banner. br />
"Yes?"
"The questions we want to ask," he said, stepping through the door and motioning with his head toward Erin. "They're for your daughter, not you."
Myron stood in Aimee's bedroom.
The Biel house was walking distance from his. Claire and Erik had driven ahead of him. Myron talked to Win a few minutes, asked him if he could help track down whatever the police had on both Katie Rochester and Aimee. Then he followed on foot.
When Myron entered the house, Erik was already gone.
"He's driving around," Claire said, leading him down the corridor. "Erik thinks if he goes to where she hangs out, he can find her."
They stopped in front of Aimee's door. Claire opened it.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
"Damned if I know," Myron said. "Did Aimee know a girl named Katie Rochester?"
"That's the other missing girl, right?"
"Yes."
"I don't think so. In fact, I asked her about it, you know, when she was on the news?"
"Right."
"Aimee said she'd seen her around but she didn't know her. Katie went to middle school at Mount Pleasant. Aimee went to Heritage. You remember how it is."
He did. By the time they both got to high school, their cliques were solidified.
"Do you want me to call around and ask her friends?"
"That might be helpful."
Neither of them moved for a moment.
Claire asked, "Should I leave you alone in here?"
"For now, yeah."
She did. She closed the door behind her. Myron looked around. He had told the truth--he didn't have a clue what he was looking for here--but he figured that it would be a good first step. This was a teenage girl. She had to keep secrets in her room, right?
It also felt right, being here. From the moment he'd made the promise to Claire, his entire perspective began to shift. His senses felt strangely attuned. It had been a while since he'd done this--investigate--but the memory muscle jumped in and took effect. Being in the girl's room brought it all back to him. In basketball, you need to get into the zone to do your best. Doing this kind of thing, there was a similar feel. Being here, in the victim's room, did that. Put him in the zone.
There were two guitars in the room. Myron didn't know anything about instruments, but one was clearly electric, the other acoustic. There was a poster of Jimi Hendrix on the wall. Guitar picks were encased in Lucite blocks. Myron read through them. They were collector's picks. One belonged to Keith Richards--others to Nils Lofgren, Eric Clapton, Buck Dharma.