Myron frowned. He wanted to ask the pay phone who had dialed his number and called him a bastard and said that he'd pay for what he'd done. But the phone wouldn't talk to him. It had been that kind of day.
He sat back down and tried to figure out what he needed to do. He still wanted to talk to Randy Wolf and Harry Davis. They probably wouldn't tell him much--they probably wouldn't talk to him at all--but he would figure a way to get a run at them. He also needed to interview that doctor who worked at St. Barnabas, Edna Skylar. She had purportedly seen Katie Rochester in New York. He wanted some details on that.
He called St. Barnabas's switchboard and after two brief explanations, Edna Skylar got on the phone. Myron explained what he wanted.
Edna Skylar sounded annoyed. "I asked the investigators to keep my name out of this."
"They have."
"So how do you know it?"
"I have good contacts."
She thought about that. "What's your standing in this, Mr. Bolitar?"
"Another girl has gone missing."
No response.
"I think there may be a connection between this girl and Katie Rochester."
"How?"
"Could we meet? I can explain everything then."
"I really don't know anything."
"Please." There was a pause. "Dr. Skylar?"
"When I saw the Rochester girl, she indicated that she didn't want to be found."
"I understand that. I just need a few minutes."
"I have patients for the next hour. I can see you at noon."
"Thank you," he said, but Edna Skylar had already hung up.
Lithium Larry Kidwell and the Medicated Five shuffled into Starbucks. Larry headed right for his table.
"Fourteen hundred eighty-eight planets on creation day, Myron. Fourteen hundred eighty-eight. And I haven't seen a penny. You know what I'm saying?"
Larry looked as awful as always. Geographically, they were so close to their old high school, but what had his favorite restaurateur, Peter Chin, said about years flying by but the heart staying the same? Well, only the heart then.
"Good to know," Myron said. He looked back at the pay phone and a thought struck him hard and fast: "Wait."
"Huh?"
"Last time I saw you there were fourteen hundred eighty-seven planets, right?"
Larry looked confused. "Are you sure?"
"I am." Myron's mind started racing. "And if I'm not mistaken, you said the next planet was mine. You said it was out to get me and something about stroking the moon."
Larry's eyes lit up. "Stroking the moon sliver. He hates you bad."
"Where is that moon sliver?"
"In the Aerolis solar system. By Guanchomitis."
"Are you sure, Larry? Are you sure it's not . . ." Myron rose and walked him to the pay phone. Larry cringed. Myron pointed to the sticker, to the image of the quarter moon on the ad for free night calls. Larry gasped.
"Is this the moon sliver?"
"Oh please, oh my god, oh please . . ."
"Calm down, Larry. Who else wants that planet? Who hates me enough to stroke the moon sliver?"
Twenty minutes later, Myron headed into Chang's Dry Cleaning. Maxine Chang was there, of course. There were three people in line. Myron didn't get behind them. He stood to the side and crossed his arms. Maxine kept sneaking glances at him. Myron waited until the customers were gone. Then he approached.
"Where's Roger?" he asked.
"He has school."
Myron met her eye. "Do you know he's been calling me?"
"Why would he call you?"
"You tell me."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I have a friend at the phone company. Roger called me from that booth over there. I have reliable witnesses who can place him there at the right time." That was more than an exaggeration, but Myron went with it. "He threatened me. He called me a bastard."
"Roger wouldn't do that."
"I don't want to get him in trouble, Maxine. What's going on?"
Another customer came in. Maxine shouted something out in Chinese. An elderly woman came out of the back and took over. Maxine gestured with her head for Myron to follow her. He did. They walked past the tracks of moving hangers. When he was a kid, the metallic whir of the tracks had always amazed him, like something out of a cool sci-fi movie. Maxine kept walking until they were out in the back alley.
"Roger is a good boy," she said. "He works so hard."
"What's going on, Maxine? When I was in here the other day, you were acting funny."
"You don't understand how hard it is. To live in a town like this."
He did--he had lived here his whole life--but he held his tongue.
"Roger worked so hard. He got good grades. Number four in his class. These other kids. They're spoiled. All have private tutors. They don't work a real job. Roger, he works here every day after school. He studies in the back room. He doesn't go to parties. He doesn't have a girlfriend."
"What does any of this have to do with me?"
"Other parents hire people to write their children's essays. They pay for classes to improve their boards. They donate money to the big schools. They do other things, I don't even know. It's so important, where you go to college. It can decide your whole life. Everyone is so scared, they do anything, anything to get their kid in the right school. This town, you see it all the time. Nice people maybe, but you can justify any evil as long as you can say, 'It's for my child.' You understand?"
"I do, but I don't see what that has to do with me."
"I need you to understand. That's what we have to compete with. With all that money and power. With people who cheat and steal and will do anything."
"If you're telling me that college acceptance is competitive in this town, I know that. It was competitive when I graduated."
"But you had basketball."
"Yes."
"Roger is such a good student. He works so hard. And his dream is to go to Duke. He told you that. You probably don't remember."
"I remember him saying something about applying there. I don't remember him saying it was his dream or anything. He just listed a bunch of schools."
"It was his first choice," Maxine Chang said firmly. "And if Roger makes it, there is a scholarship waiting for him. He'd have his tuition paid for. That was so important to us. But he didn't get in. Even though he was number four in his class. Even though he had very good boards. Better boards--and better grades--than Aimee Biel."
Maxine Chang looked at Myron with heavy eyes.
"Wait a second. Are you blaming me because Roger didn't get into Duke?"
"I don't know much, Myron. I'm just a dry cleaner. But a school like Duke almost never takes more than one student from a specific high school in New Jersey. Aimee Biel made it. Roger had better grades. He had better board scores. He had great teacher recommendations. Neither of them are athletes. Roger plays the violin, Aimee plays guitar." Maxine Chang shrugged.
"So you tell me: Why did she get in and not Roger?"
He wanted to protest, but the truth stopped him. He had written a letter. He had even called his friend in admissions. People do stuff like that all the time. It doesn't mean that Roger Chang was denied admission. But simple math: When one person gets a spot, someone else doesn't.
Maxine's voice was a plea. "Roger was just so angry."
"That's no excuse."
"No, it's not. I will talk to him. He will apologize to you, I promise."
But another thought came to Myron. "Was Roger just mad at me?"
"I don't understand."
"Was he mad at Aimee too?"
Maxine Chang frowned. "Why would you ask that?"
"Because the next call on that pay phone was to Aimee Biel's cell phone. Was Roger angry with her? Resentful maybe?"
"Not Roger, no. He's not like that."
"Right, he'd only call me and make threats."
"He didn't mean anything. He was just las
hing out."
"I need to talk to Roger."
"What? No, I forbid it."
"Fine, I'll go to the police. I'll tell them about the threatening calls."
Her eyes widened. "You wouldn't."
He would. Maybe he should. But not yet. "I want to talk to him."
"He'll be here after school."
"Then I'll be back at three. If he's not here, I'm going to the police."
CHAPTER 32
Dr. Edna Skylar met Myron in the lobby of St. Barnabas Medical Center. She had all the props--a white coat, a name tag with the hospital logo, a stethoscope dangling across her neck, a clipboard in her hand. She had that impressive doctor bearing too, complete with the enviable posture, the small smile, the firm-but-not-too-firm handshake.
Myron introduced himself. She looked him straight in the eye and said, "Tell me about the missing girl."
Her voice left no room for arguments. Myron needed her to trust him, so he launched into the story, keeping Aimee's last name out of it. They both stood in the middle of the lobby. Patients and visitors walked on either side of them, some coming very close.
Myron said, "Maybe we could go somewhere private."
Edna Skylar smiled, but there was no joy in it. "These people are preoccupied with things much more important to them than us."
Myron nodded. He saw an old man in a wheelchair with an oxygen mask. He saw a pale woman in an ill-fitted wig checking in with a look both resigned and bewildered, as if she was wondering if she'd ever check out and if it even mattered anymore.
Edna Skylar watched him. "A lot of death in here," she said.
"How do you do it?" Myron asked.
"You want the standard cliche about being able to detach the personal from the professional?"
"Not really."
"The truth is, I don't know. My work is interesting. It never gets old. I see death a lot. That never gets old either. It hasn't helped me to accept my own mortality or any of that. Just the opposite. Death is a constant outrage. Life is more valuable than you can ever imagine. I've seen that, the real value of life, not the usual platitudes we hear about it. Death is the enemy. I don't accept it. I fight it."
"And that never gets tiring?"
"Sure it does. But what else am I going to do? Bake cookies? Work on Wall Street?" She looked around. "Come on, you're right--it's distracting out here. Walk with me, but I'm on a tight schedule so keep talking."
Myron told her the rest of the story of Aimee's disappearance. He kept it as short as possible--kept his own name out of it--but he made sure to hit upon the fact that both girls used the same ATM. She asked a few questions, mostly small clarifications. They reached her office and sat down.
"Sounds like she ran away," Edna Skylar said.
"I'm aware of that."
"Someone leaked you my name, is that correct?"
"More or less."
"So you have some idea what I saw?"
"Just the basics. What you said convinced the investigators that Katie was a runaway. I'm just wondering if you saw something that makes you think differently."
"No. And I've gone over it a hundred times in my head."
"You're aware," Myron said, "that kidnap victims often identify with their abductors."
"I know all that. The Stockholm syndrome and all its bizarre offshoots. But it just didn't seem that way. Katie didn't look particularly exhausted. The body language was right. There wasn't panic in her eyes or any kind of cult-like zealousness. Her eyes were clear, in fact. I didn't see signs of drugs there, though granted I only got a brief look."
"Where exactly did you first see her?'
"On Eighth Avenue near Twenty-first Street."
"And she was heading into the subway?"
"Yes."
"A couple of trains go through that station."
"She was taking the C train."
The C train basically ran north-south through Manhattan. That wouldn't help.
"Tell me about the man she was with."
"Thirty to thirty-five. Average height. Nice looking. Long, dark hair. Two-day beard."
"Scars, tattoos, anything like that?"
Edna Skylar shook her head and told him the story, how she'd been walking on the street with her husband, how Katie looked different, older, more sophisticated, different hair, how she wasn't even positive it was Katie until Katie uttered those final words: "You can't tell anybody you saw me."
"And you said she seemed scared?"
"Yes."
"But not of the man she was with?"
"That's right. May I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"I know something about you," she said. "No, I'm not a basketball fan, but Google works wonders. I use it all the time. With patients too. If I'm seeing someone new, I check them out online."
"Okay."
"So my question is, why are you trying to find the girl?"
"I'm a family friend."
"But why you?"
"It's hard to explain."
Edna Skylar gave that a second, seemingly unsure if she should accept his vague response. "How are her parents holding up?"
"Not well."
"Their daughter is most likely safe. Like Katie."
"Could be."
"You should tell them that. Offer them some comfort. Let them know she'll be okay."
"I don't think it'll do any good."
She looked off. Something crossed her face.
"Dr. Skylar?"
"One of my children ran away," Edna Skylar said. "He was seventeen. You know the nature versus nurture question? Well, I was a crappy mother. I know that. But my son was trouble from day one. He got into fights. He shoplifted. He got arrested when he was sixteen for stealing a car. He was heavily into drugs, though I don't think I knew it at that time. This was in the days before we talked about ADD or put kids on Ritalin or any of that. If that was a serious option, I probably would have done it. I reacted instead by withdrawing and hoping he'd outgrow it. I didn't get involved in his life. I didn't give him direction."
She said it all matter-of-factly.
"Anyway, when he ran away, I didn't do anything. I almost expected it. A week passed. Two weeks. He didn't call. I didn't know where he was. Children are a blessing. But they also rip your heart out in ways you could never imagine."
Edna Skylar stopped.
"What happened to him?" Myron asked.
"Nothing overly dramatic. He eventually called. He was out on the West Coast, trying to become a big star. He needed money. He stayed out there for two years. Failed at everything he did. Then he came back. He's still a mess. I try to love him, to care about him, but"--she shrugged--"doctoring comes natural to me. Mothering does not."
Edna Skylar looked at Myron. He could see that she wasn't finished, so he waited.
"I wish . . ." Her throat caught. "It's a horrible cliche, but more than anything, I wish I could start over again. I love my son, I really do, but I don't know what to do for him. He may be beyond hope. I know how cold that sounds, but when you make professional diagnoses all day, you tend to make them in your personal life too. My point is, I've learned that I can't control those I love. So I control those I don't."
"I'm not following," Myron said.
"My patients," she explained. "They are strangers, but I care a great deal about them. It's not because I'm a generous or wonderful person, but because in my mind, they are still innocent. And I judge them. I know that's wrong. I know that I should treat every patient the same, and in terms of treatment, I think I do. But the fact is, if I Google the person and see that they spent time in jail or seem like a lowlife, I try to get them to go to another doctor."
"You prefer the innocents," Myron said.
"Precisely. Those whom--I know how this will sound--those whom I deem pure. Or at least, purer."
Myron thought about his own recent reasoning, how the life of the Twins held no value to him, about how many civilians he'd sacrifice to save his own
son. Was this reasoning that much different?
"So what I'm trying to say is, I think about this girl's parents, the ones you said aren't doing well, and I worry about them. I want to help."
Before Myron could respond, there was a light rap on the door. It opened, and a head of gray hair popped through. Myron rose. The gray-haired man stepped all the way in and said, "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were with someone."
"It's okay, honey," Edna Skylar said, "but maybe you could come back later?"
"Of course."
The gray-haired man wore a white coat too. He spotted Myron and smiled. Myron recognized the smile. Edna Skylar wasn't a basketball fan, but this guy was. Myron stuck out his hand. "Myron Bolitar."
"Oh, I know who you are. I'm Stanley Rickenback. Better known as Mr. Dr. Edna Skylar."
They shook hands.
"I saw you play at Duke," Stanley Rickenback said. "You were something else."
"Thank you."
"I didn't mean to interrupt. I just wanted to see if my blushing bride wanted to join me for the lunchtime culinary delight that is our hospital cafeteria."
"I was just leaving," Myron said. Then: "You were with your wife when she saw Katie Rochester, weren't you?"
"Is that why you're here?"
"Yes."
"Are you a police officer?"
"No."
Edna Skylar was already up. She kissed her husband's cheek. "Let's hurry. I have patients in twenty minutes."
"Yes, I was there," Stanley Rickenback said to Myron. "Why, what's your interest?"
"I'm looking into the disappearance of another girl."
"Wait, another girl ran away?"
"Could be. I'd like to hear your impressions, Dr. Rickenback."
"Of what?"
"Did Katie Rochester seem like a runaway to you too?"
"Yes."
"You seem pretty sure," Myron said.
"She was with a man. She made no move to escape. She asked Edna not to tell anybody and--" Rickenback turned to his wife. "Did you tell him?"
Edna made a face. "Let's just go."
"Tell me what?"
"My darling Stanley is getting old and senile," Edna said. "He imagines things."
"Ha, ha, very funny. You have your expertise. I have mine."
"Your expertise?" Myron said.
"It's nothing," Edna said.
"It's not nothing," Stanley insisted.
"Fine," Edna said. "Tell him what you think you saw."
Stanley turned to Myron. "My wife told you about how she studies faces. That was how she recognized the girl. She looks at people and tries to make a diagnosis. Just for fun. I don't do that. I leave my work at the office."