Promise Me

  Myron almost smiled. The girl had good taste.

  The computer was already on, a screen saver of a fish tank rolling by. Myron wasn't a computer expert, but he knew enough to get started. Claire had given him Aimee's password and told him about Erik going through the e-mail. He checked it anyway. He brought up AOL and signed on.

  Yep, all the e-mail had been deleted.

  He hit Windows Explorer and put her files in date order, to see what she had worked on most recently. Aimee had been writing songs. He thought about that, about this creative young woman, about where she was now. He scanned through the most recent word processing documents. Nothing special. He tried checking her downloads. There were some recent photographs. He opened them. Aimee with a bunch of school pals, he guessed. Nothing obviously special about them either, but maybe he'd have Claire take a look.

  Teens, he knew, were huge with instant messaging online. From the relative calm of their computers, they had conversations with dozens of people sometimes at the same time. Myron knew plenty of parents who whined about this, but in his day, they'd spent hours tying up the phone gossiping with one another. Was IMing any worse?

  He brought up her buddy list. There were at least fifty screen names like SpazaManiacJack11, MSGWatkins, and YoungThangBlaine742. Myron printed them out. He'd let Claire and Erik go through them with one of Aimee's friends, see if there was a name that didn't belong, that none of them knew about. It was a long shot, but it would keep them busy.

  He let go of the computer mouse and started to search the old-fashioned way. The desk came first. He went through her drawers. Pens, papers, note cards, spare batteries, a smattering of computer software CDs. Nothing personal. There were several receipts from a place called Planet Music. Myron checked the guitars. They had Planet Music stickers on the back.

  Big wow.

  He moved to the next drawer. More nothing.

  In the third drawer, Myron saw something that made him stop. He reached down and gently lifted it into view. He smiled. Protected in a plastic sleeve . . . it was Myron's rookie basketball card. He stared at his younger self. Myron remembered the photo shoot. He had done several dumb poses--taking a jump shot, pretending to pass, the old-fashioned triple-threat position--but they'd settled for one of him bending down and dribbling. The background was an empty arena. In the picture he wore his green Boston Celtics jersey--one of maybe five times he got to wear it in his entire life. The card company had printed up several thousand before his injury. They were collector's items now.

  It was nice to know Aimee had one, though he wondered what the police might make of it.

  He put it back in the drawer. His fingerprints would be on it now, but then again they would be all over the room. Didn't matter. He pressed on. He wanted to find a diary. That was what you always saw in the movies. The girl writes a diary, and it talks about her secret boyfriend and double life and all that. That worked in fiction. It wasn't happening for him in reality.

  He hit an undergarments drawer. He felt yucky but he persevered. If she was going to hide anything, this could be the place. But there was nothing. Her tastes seemed on the wholesome side for a teenage girl. Tank tops were as bad as it got. Near the bottom, however, he found something particularly racy. He pulled it into view. There was a tag on it from a mall lingerie store called Bedroom Rendezvous. It was white, sheer, and looked like something out of a nurse fantasy. He frowned and wondered what to make of it.

  There was a smattering of bobble-head dolls. An iPod with white earbuds was lounged out on the bed. He checked the tunes. She had Aimee Mann on there. He took that as a small victory. He'd given her Aimee Mann's Lost in Space a few years back, thinking the first name might pique her interest. Now he could see that she had five of Aimee Mann's CDs. He liked that.

  There were photographs stuck onto a mirror. They were all group pictures--Aimee with a slew of girlfriends. There were two of the volleyball team, one in classic team pose, another a celebration shot taken after they'd won the counties. There were several pictures of her high school rock band, Aimee playing lead guitar. He looked at her face while she played. Her smile was heartbreaking, but what girl that age doesn't have a heartbreaking smile?

  He found her yearbook. He started paging through it. Yearbooks had come a long way since he'd graduated. For one thing, they included a DVD. Myron would watch it, he guessed, if he had the time. He looked up Katie Rochester's entry. He'd seen that photograph before, on the news. He read about her. She'd miss hanging with Betsy and Craig and Saturday nights at the Ritz Diner. Nothing significant. He turned to Aimee Biel's page. Aimee mentioned a whole bunch of her friends; her favorite teachers, Miss Korty and Mr. D; her volleyball coach, Mr. Grady; and all the girls on the team. She ended with, "Randy, you've made the past two years so special. I know we'll be together always."

  Good ol' Randy.

  He checked out Randy's entry. He was a good-looking kid with wild, almost Rastafarian curls. He had a soul patch and a big white smile. He talked mostly about sports in his write-up. He mentioned Aimee too, how much she'd "enriched" his time in high school.

  Hmm.

  Myron thought about that, looked again at the mirror, and for the first time wondered if perhaps he'd stumbled across a clue.

  Claire opened the door. "Anything?"

  Myron pointed to the mirror. "This."

  "What about it?"

  "How often do you come in this room?"

  She frowned. "A teenager lives here."

  "Would that mean rarely?"

  "Pretty much never."

  "Does she do her own laundry?"

  "She's a teenager, Myron. She does nothing."

  "So who does it?"

  "We have a live-in. Her name is Rosa. Why?"

  "The photographs," he said.

  "What about them?"

  "She has a boyfriend named Randy, right?"

  "Randy Wolf. He's a sweet kid."

  "And they've been together awhile?"

  "Since sophomore year. Why?"

  Again he gestured to the mirror. "There are no pictures of him. I looked all over the room. No photos of him anywhere. That's why I was asking about when you were last in the room." He looked back at her. "Did there used to be?"

  "Yes."

  He pointed to several blank spots on the bottom of the mirror. "This all looks out of sequence, but I bet she removed the pictures from here."

  "But they just went to the prom together, what, three nights ago."

  Myron shrugged. "Maybe they had a big fight there."

  "You said Aimee looked emotional when you picked her up, right?"

  "Right."

  "Maybe they'd just broken up," Claire said.

  "Could be," Myron said. "Except she hasn't been home since then, and the photographs on the mirror are gone. That would imply that they broke up at least a day or two before I picked her up. One more thing."

  Claire waited. Myron showed her the lingerie from Bedroom Rendezvous. "Have you seen this before?"

  "No. You found it in here?"

  Myron nodded. "Bottom of the drawer. It looks unworn. The tag is still on it."

  Claire went quiet.

  "What?"

  "Erik was telling the police how Aimee's been acting strangely lately. I fought him on it, but the truth is, she has. She's grown very secretive."

  "Do you know what else struck me about this room?"

  "What?"

  "Forgetting this lingerie--which might be relevant and might be nothing--the opposite of what you just said: There is almost nothing secretive in here. I mean, she's a high school senior. There should be something, right?"

  Claire considered that. "Why do you think that is?"

  "It's like she's working hard to hide something. We need to check other places where she might have kept personal stuff, someplace that you and Erik wouldn't think to snoop. Like her school locker maybe."

  "Should we do that now?"

  "I think it'd be better to talk
to Randy first."

  She frowned. "His father."

  "What about him?"

  "His name is Jake. Big Jake, everyone calls him. He's bigger than you. And the wife is a flirt. Last year Big Jake got into a fight at one of Randy's football games. Beat this poor guy senseless in front of his kids. He's a total putz."

  "Total?"

  "Total."

  "Whew." Myron pantomimed wiping the sweat off his brow. "A partial putz, I mind. A total putz--that's my bag."

  CHAPTER 20

  Randy Wolf lived in the new Laurel Road section. The brand-new estates of brushed brick had more square footage than Kennedy Airport. There was a faux wrought-iron gate. The gate was open enough for Myron to walk through. The grounds were over-landscaped, the lawn so green it looked like someone had gone overboard with spray paint. There were three SUVs parked in the driveway. Next to them, gleaming from a fresh waxing and seemingly perfect sun placement, sat a little red Corvette. Myron started humming the matching Prince tune. He couldn't help it.

  The familiar whack of a tennis ball drifted in from the backyard. Myron headed toward the sound. There were four lithe ladies playing tennis. They all wore ponytails and tight tennis whites. Myron was a big fan of women in tennis whites. One of the lithe ladies was about to serve when she noticed him. She had great legs, Myron observed. He checked again. Yep, great.

  Ogling tan legs probably wasn't a clue, but why chance it?

  Myron waved and gave the woman serving his best smile. She returned it and signaled to the ladies to excuse her for a moment. She jogged toward him. Her dark ponytail bounced. She stopped very close to him. Her breathing was deep. Sweat made the tennis whites cling. It also made them a little see-through--again Myron was just being observant--but she didn't seem to care.

  "Something I can do for you?"

  She had one hand on her hip.

  "Hi, my name is Myron Bolitar."

  Commandment Four from the Bolitar Book on Smoothness: Wow the ladies with a dazzling first line.

  "Your name," she said. "It rings a bell."

  Her tongue moved around a lot when she talked.

  "Are you Mrs. Wolf?"

  "Call me Lorraine."

  Lorraine Wolf had that way of speaking where everything sounded like a double entendre.

  "I'm looking for your son, Randy."

  "Wrong reply," she said.

  "Sorry."

  "You were supposed to say that I looked too young to be Randy's mother."

  "Too obvious," Myron said. "An intelligent woman like you would have seen right through that."

  "Nice recovery."

  "Thanks."

  The other ladies gathered by the net. They had towels draped around their necks and were drinking something green.

  "Why are you looking for Randy?" she asked.

  "I need to talk to him."

  "Well, yes, I figured that out. But maybe you could tell me what this is about?"

  The back door opened with an audible bang. A large man--Myron was six-four, two-fifteen and this guy had at least two inches and thirty pounds on him--stepped out the door.

  Big Jake Wolf, Myron deducted, was in da house.

  His black hair was slicked back. He had a mean squint going.

  "Wait, isn't that Steven Seagal?" Myron asked, sotto voce.

  Lorraine Wolf smothered a giggle.

  Big Jake stomped over. He kept glaring at Myron. Myron waited a few seconds, then he winked and gave Big Jake the Stan Laurel, five-finger wave. Big Jake did not look pleased. He marched to Lorraine's side, put his arm around her, tugged her tight against his hip.

  "Hi, honey," he said, his eyes still on Myron.

  "Well, hi, back!" Myron said.

  "I wasn't talking to you."

  "Then why were you looking at me?"

  Big Jake frowned and pulled his wife closer. Lorraine cringed a little, but she let him. Myron had seen this act before. Raging insecurity, he suspected. Jake released his glare long enough to kiss his wife's cheek before retightening his grip. Then he started glaring again, holding his wife firmly against his side.

  Myron wondered if Big Jake was going to pee on her to mark his territory.

  "Go back to your game, honey. I'll handle this."

  "We were just finishing anyway."

  "Then why don't you ladies go inside and have a drink, hmm?"

  He let her go. She looked relieved. The ladies walked down the path. Myron again checked their legs. Just in case. The women smiled at him.

  "Hey, what are you looking for?" Big Jake snapped.

  "Potential clues," Myron said.

  "What?"

  Myron turned back to him. "Never mind."

  "So what do you want here?"

  "My name is Myron Bolitar."

  "So?"

  "Good comeback."

  "What?"

  "Never mind."

  "You some kind of comedian?"

  "I prefer the term 'comic actor.' Comedians are always typecast."

  "What the . . . ?" Big Jake stopped, got his bearings. "You always do this?"

  "Do what?"

  "Stop by uninvited?"

  "It's the only way people will have me," Myron said.

  Big Jake squinted a little more. He wore tight jeans and a silk shirt that had one too many buttons open. There was a gold chain enmeshed in chest hair. "Stayin' Alive" wasn't playing in the background, but it should have been.

  "Wild stab in the dark here," Myron said. "The red Corvette. It's yours, right?"

  He glared some more. "What do you want?"

  "I'd like to speak to your son, Randy."

  "Why?"

  "I'm here on behalf of the Biel family."

  That made him blink. "So?"

  "Are you aware that their daughter is missing?"

  "So?"

  "That 'so' line. It never gets old, Jake, really. Aimee Biel is missing and I'd like to ask your son about it."

  "He has nothing to do with that. He was home Saturday night."

  "Alone?"

  "No. I was with him."

  "How about Lorraine? Was she there too? Or was she out for the evening?"

  Big Jake didn't like Myron using his wife's first name. "None of your business."

  "Be that as it may, I'd still like to talk to Randy."

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't want Randy mixed up in this."

  "In what?"

  "Hey," he pointed at Myron, "I don't like your attitude."

  "You don't?" Myron gave him the wide game-show-host smile and waited. Big Jake looked confused. "Is this better? Rosier, am I right?"

  "Get out."

  "I would say, 'Who's going to make me,' but really, that would be sooo expected."

  Big Jake smiled and stepped right up to Myron. "You wanna know who's going to make you?"

  "Wait, hold on, let me check the script." Myron mimed flipping pages. "Okay here it is. I say, 'No, who?' Then you say, 'I am.' "

  "Got that straight."

  "Jake?"

  "What?"

  "Are any of your children home?" Myron asked.

  "Why? What's that gotta do with anything?"

  "Lorraine, well, she already knows you're a little man," Myron said, not moving an inch, "but I'd hate to beat your ass in front of your kids."

  Jake's breathing turned into a snort. He didn't back up, but he was having trouble holding the eye contact. "Ah, you ain't worth it."

  Myron rolled his eyes, but he bit back the that's-the-next-line-in-the-script rejoinder. Maturity.

  "Anyway, my son broke up with that slut."

  "By slut, you mean . . . ?"

  "Aimee. He dumped her."

  "When?"

  "Three, four months ago. He was done with her."

  "They went to the prom together last week."

  "That was for show."

  "For show?"

  He shrugged. "I'm not surprised any of this happened."

  "Why
do you say that, Jake?"

  "Because Aimee was no good. She was a slut."

  Myron felt his blood tick. "And why do you say that?"

  "I know her, okay? I know the whole family. My son has a bright future. He's going to Dartmouth in the fall, and I want nothing getting in the way of that. So listen to me, Mr. Basketball. Yeah, I know who you are. You think you're such hot stuff. Big, tough basketball stud who never made it to the pros. Big-time All-American who crapped out in the end. Who couldn't hack it once the going got tough."

  Big Jake grinned.

  "Wait, is this the part where I break down and cry?" Myron asked.

  Big Jake put his finger on Myron's chest. "You just stay the hell away from my son, you understand me? He has nothing to do with that slut's disappearance."

  Myron's hand shot forward. He grabbed Jake by the balls, and squeezed. Jake's eyes flew open. Myron positioned his body so that nobody could see what he was doing. Then he leaned in so he could whisper in Jake's ear.

  "We're not going to call Aimee that anymore, are we, Jake? Feel free to nod."

  Big Jake nodded. His face was turning purple. Myron closed his eyes, cursed himself, let go. Jake sucked in a deep breath, staggered back, dropped to one knee. Myron felt like a dope, losing control like that.

  "Hey, look, I'm just trying to--"

  "Get out," Jake hissed. "Just . . . just leave me alone."

  And this time, Myron obeyed.

  From the front seat of a Buick Skylark, the Twins watched Myron walk down the Wolfs' driveway.

  "There's our boy."

  "Yep."

  They weren't really twins. They weren't even brothers. They didn't look alike. They did share a birthday, September 24, but Jeb was eight years older than Orville. That was part of how they got the name--having the same birthday. The other was how they met: at a Minnesota Twins baseball game. Some would claim that it was a sadistic turn of fate or ridiculously bad star alignment that brought them together. Others would claim that there was a bond there, two lost souls that recognized a kindred spirit, as if their streak of cruelty and psychosis were some kind of magnet that drew them to each other.

  Jeb and Orville met in the bleachers at the Dome in Minneapolis when Jeb, the older Twin, got into a fight with five beer-marinated head cases. Orville stepped in and together they put all five in the hospital. That was eight years ago. Three of the guys were still in comas.

  Jeb and Orville stayed together.

  These two men, both life-loners, neither married, never in a long-term relationship, became inseparable. They moved around from city to city, town to town, always leaving havoc in their wake. For fun, they would enter bars and pick fights and see how close they could come to killing a man without actually killing him. When they destroyed a drug-dealing motorcycle gang in Montana, their rep was cemented.