Promise Me

  "And Dominick doesn't know about any of this?"

  "He's not stupid. He thinks Katie probably ran away."

  Myron thought about it. "Then I don't get something. If he suspects Katie ran away, why did he go to the press?"

  Joan Rochester smiled then, but it was the saddest smile Myron had ever seen. "Don't you see?"

  "No."

  "He likes to win. No matter what the cost."

  "I still don't--"

  "He did it to put pressure on them. He wants to find Katie. He doesn't care about anything else. That's his strength. He doesn't mind taking hits. Big hits. Dom doesn't embarrass. He never feels shame. He's willing to lose or suffer to make you hurt and suffer more. That's the kind of man he is."

  They fell quiet. Myron wanted to ask why she stayed married to him, but that wasn't his business. There were so many cases of abused women in this country. He'd like to help, but Joan Rochester wouldn't accept it--and he had more pressing matters on his mind. He thought back to the Twins, about not being bothered by their deaths, about Edna Skylar and the way she handled what she thought of as her purer patients.

  Joan Rochester had made her choice. Or maybe she was just a little less innocent than the others.

  "You should tell the police," Myron said.

  "Tell them what?"

  "That your daughter is a runaway."

  She snorted. "You don't get it, do you? Dom would find out. He has sources in the department. How do you think he found out about you so fast?"

  But, Myron realized, he hadn't learned about Edna Skylar. Yet. So his sources weren't infallible. Myron wondered if he could use that, but he didn't see how. He moved closer now. He took Joan Rochester's hands in his and made her look him in the eye.

  "Your daughter will be safe. I guarantee it. But I need to talk to her. That's all. Just talk. Do you understand?"

  She swallowed. "I don't have much choice, do I?"

  Myron said nothing.

  "If I don't cooperate, you'll go to Dom."

  "Yes," Myron said.

  "Katie is supposed to call me tonight at seven," she said. "I'll let you talk to her then."

  CHAPTER 35

  Win called Myron on the cell phone.

  "Drew Van Dyne, your assistant Planet Music manager, is also a teacher at Livingston High."

  "Well, well," Myron said.

  "Indeed."

  Myron was on his way to pick up Claire. She had told him about the "she's fine" phone call. Myron had immediately reached out for Berruti, who was, as the voice mail informed him, "away from her desk." He told her what he needed in the message.

  Now Myron and Claire were going to Livingston High to check out Aimee's locker. Myron also hoped to catch up with her ex, Randy Wolf. And Harry "Mr. D" Davis. And now, most of all, Drew "Music Teacher-Lingerie Buyer" Van Dyne.

  "You have anything else on him?"

  "Van Dyne is married, no kids. He's had two DUIs in the past four years and one drug arrest. He has a juvie record but it's sealed. That's all I have so far."

  "So what is he doing buying lingerie for a student like Aimee Biel?"

  "Pretty obvious, I would say."

  "I just talked to Mrs. Rochester. Katie got pregnant and ran away with her boyfriend."

  "A not-uncommon story."

  "No. But what--do we think Aimee did the same?"

  "Ran away with her boyfriend? Not likely. No one has reported Van Dyne missing."

  "He doesn't have to go missing. Katie's boyfriend is probably afraid of Dominick Rochester. That's why he's with her. But if no one knew about Aimee and Van Dyne . . ."

  "Mr. Van Dyne would have little to fear."

  "Exactly."

  "So pray tell, why would Aimee run away?"

  "Because she's pregnant."

  "Bah," Win said.

  "Bah what?"

  "What precisely would Aimee Biel be afraid of?" Win asked. "Erik is hardly a Dominick Rochester type."

  Win had a point. "Maybe Aimee didn't run away. Maybe she got pregnant and wanted to have it. Maybe she told her boyfriend, Drew Van Dyne . . ."

  "Who," Win picked up the thread, "as a schoolteacher, would be ruined if word got out."

  "Yes."

  It made awful sense. "There's still one big hole," Myron said.

  "That being?"

  "Both girls used the same ATM machine. Look, the rest doesn't even rise to the level of coincidence. Two girls getting pregnant in a school with almost a thousand girls? It is statistically insignificant. Even if you add two girls running away because of it, okay, the odds that there is a connection rise, but it's still more than plausible that they aren't related, wouldn't you say?"

  "I would," Win agreed.

  "But then you add in both using the same ATM machine. How do we explain that?"

  Win said, "Your little statistical diagnosis goes through the roof."

  "So we're missing something."

  "We're missing everything. At this stage, this whole matter is too flimsy to label supposition."

  Another point for Win. They might be theorizing too early, but they were getting close. There were other factors too, like Roger Chang's threatening "bastard" phone calls. That might be connected, might not be. He also didn't know how Harry Davis fit in. Maybe he was a liaison between Van Dyne and Aimee, but that seemed a stretch. And what should Myron make of Claire's "she's fine" phone call? Myron wondered about the timing and the motive--to comfort or terrorize; and either way, why?--but so far, nothing had come to him.

  "Okay," Myron said to Win, "are we all set for tonight?"

  "We are indeed."

  "I'll talk to you later then."

  Win hung up as Myron pulled into Claire and Erik's driveway. Claire was out the front door before Myron came to a complete stop.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  Claire didn't bother answering the obvious. "Did you hear from your phone contact?"

  "Not yet. Do you know a teacher at Livingston High named Drew Van Dyne?"

  "No."

  "The name doesn't ring a bell?"

  "I don't think so. Why?"

  "You remember the lingerie I found in her room? I think he might have bought it for her."

  Her face reddened. "A teacher?"

  "He worked at that music store at the mall."

  "Planet Music."

  "Yes."

  Claire shook her head. "I don't understand any of this."

  Myron put a hand on her arm. "You have to stay with me, Claire, okay? I need you to be calm and focus."

  "Don't patronize me, Myron."

  "I don't mean to, but look, if you go off half-cocked when we get to the school--"

  "We'll lose him. I know that. What else is going on?"

  "You were dead-on about Joan Rochester." Myron filled her in. Claire sat there and stared at the window. She nodded every once in a while, but the nod didn't seem to be connected to anything he said.

  "So you think Aimee might be pregnant?"

  Her voice was indeed calm now, too matter-of-fact. She was trying to disengage. That might be a good thing.

  "Yes."

  Claire put her hand to her lip and started plucking. Like in high school. This was all so weird, driving this route they'd gone on a thousand times in their youth, Claire plucking her lip like the algebra final was coming up. "Okay, let's try to look at this rationally for a moment," she said.

  "Right."

  "Aimee broke up with her high school boyfriend. She didn't tell us. She was very secretive. She was erasing e-mails. She wasn't herself. She had lingerie in her drawer that was probably bought by a teacher who worked in a music store she used to frequent."

  The words hung heavy in the air.

  "I have another thought," Claire said.

  "Go on."

  "If Aimee was pregnant--God, I can't believe I'm talking like this--she would have gone to a clinic of some sort."

  "Could be. Maybe she'd just buy a home pregnancy test though."


  "No." Claire's voice was firm. "Not in the end. We talked about stuff like this. One of her friends got a false positive on one of those once. Aimee would get it checked. She'd probably find a doctor too."

  "Okay."

  "And around here, the only clinic is at St. Barnabas. I mean, that's the one everyone uses. So she might have gone there. We should call and see if someone could check the records. I'm the mother. That should count for something, right?"

  "I don't know what the laws on that stuff are now."

  "They keep changing."

  "Wait." Myron picked up his mobile phone. He dialed the hospital's switchboard. He asked for Dr. Stanley Rickenback. Myron gave his name to the secretary. He pulled onto the circle in front of the high school and parked. Rickenback picked up the phone, sounding somewhat excited by the call. Myron explained what he wanted. The excitement vanished.

  "I can't do that," Rickenback said.

  "I have her mother right here."

  "You just told me she's eighteen years old. It's against the rules."

  "Listen, you were right about Katie Rochester. She was pregnant. We're trying to find out if Aimee was too."

  "I understand that, but I can't help you. Her medical records are confidential. With all the new HIPAA rules, the computer system keeps track of everything, even who opens a patient's file and when. Even if I didn't think it was unethical, it would be too big a personal risk, I'm sorry."

  He hung up. Myron stared out the window. Then he called the switchboard back.

  "Dr. Edna Skylar, please."

  Two minutes later, Edna said, "Myron?"

  "You can access patient files from your computer, can't you?"

  "Yes."

  "All the patients in the hospital?"

  "What are you asking?"

  "Remember our talk about innocents?"

  "Yes."

  "I want you to help an innocent, Dr. Skylar." Then, thinking about it, he said, "In this case, maybe two innocents."

  "Two?"

  "An eighteen-year-old girl named Aimee Biel," Myron said, "and if we're correct, the baby she's carrying."

  "My God. Are you telling me Stanley was right?"

  "Please, Dr. Skylar."

  "It's unethical."

  He just let the silence wear on her. He had made his argument. Adding more would be superfluous. Better to let her think it through on her own.

  It didn't take long. Two minutes later, he heard the computer keys clacking.

  "Myron?" Edna Skylar said.

  "Yes."

  "Aimee Biel is three months pregnant."

  CHAPTER 36

  Livingston High School principal Amory Reid was dressed in Haggar slacks, an off-white short-sleeve dress shirt made of material flimsy enough to highlight the wife-beater tee beneath it, and thick-soled black shoes that might have been vinyl. Even when his tie was loosened, it looked as though it were strangling him.

  "The school is, of course, very concerned."

  Reid's hands were folded on his desk. On one hand he wore a college ring with a football insignia on it. He had uttered the line as though he'd been rehearsing in front of a mirror.

  Myron sat on the right, Claire on the left. She was still dazed from the confirmation that her daughter, the one she knew and loved and trusted, had been pregnant for the past three months. At the same time there was a feeling akin to relief. It made sense. It explained recent behavior. It might provide an explanation for what had been, so far, inexplicable.

  "You can, of course, check her locker," the principal informed them. "I have a master key to all the locks."

  "We also want to talk to two of your teachers," Claire said, "and a student."

  His eyes narrowed. He looked toward Myron, then back to Claire. "Which teachers?"

  "Harry Davis and Drew Van Dyne," Myron said.

  "Mr. Van Dyne is already gone for the day. He leaves on Tuesdays at two p.m."

  "And Mr. Davis?"

  Reid checked a schedule. "He's in room B-202."

  Myron knew exactly where that was. After all these years. The halls were still lettered from A to E. Rooms beginning with 1 were on the first floor, 2 on the second floor. He remembered one exasperated teacher telling a tardy student that he wouldn't know his E hall from his--get this--his A hall.

  "I can see if I can pull Mr. D out of class. May I ask why you want to talk to these teachers?"

  Claire and Myron exchanged a glance. Claire said, "We'd rather not say at this time."

  He accepted that. His job was political. If he knew something, he'd have to report it. Ignorance, for a little while, might just be bliss. Myron had nothing big on either teacher yet, just innuendo. Until he had more, there was no reason to inform the school principal.

  "We'd also like to talk to Randy Wolf," Claire said.

  "I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

  "Why not?"

  "Off school grounds, you can do whatever you want. But here, I would need to get parental permission."

  "Why?"

  "That's the rules."

  "If a kid is caught cutting class, you can talk to them."

  "I can, yes. But you can't. And this isn't a case of cutting class." Reid shifted his gaze. "Furthermore, I'm a little confused why you, Mr. Bolitar, are here."

  "He's my representative," Claire said.

  "I understand that. But that doesn't give him much standing in terms of talking to a student--or, for that matter, a teacher. I can't make Mr. Davis talk to you either, but I can at least bring him into this office. He's an adult. I can't do that with Randy Wolf."

  They started down the corridor to Aimee's locker.

  "There is one more thing," Amory Reid said.

  "What's that?"

  "I'm not sure it relates, but Aimee got into a bit of trouble recently."

  They stopped. Claire said, "How?"

  "She was caught in the guidance office, using a computer."

  "I don't understand."

  "Neither did we. One of the guidance counselors found her in there. She was printing out a transcript. Turns out it was just her own."

  Myron thought about that. "Aren't those computers password-protected?"

  "They are."

  "So how did she get in?"

  Reid spoke a little too carefully. "We're not sure. But the theory is, someone in the administration made an error."

  "An error how?"

  "Someone may have forgotten to sign out."

  "In other words, they were still logged on so she could gain access?"

  "It's a theory, yes."

  Pretty dumb one, Myron thought.

  "Why wasn't I informed?" Claire asked.

  "It wasn't really that big a deal."

  "Breaking into school transcripts isn't a big deal?"

  "She was printing out her own. Aimee, as you know, was an excellent student. She has never gotten in trouble before. We decided to let her go with a stern warning."

  And save yourself some embarrassment, Myron thought. It wouldn't pay to let it out that a student had managed to break into the school computer system. More sweeping under the rug.

  They arrived at the locker. Amory Reid used his master key to unlock it. When he opened the door, they all stood back for a moment. Myron was the first to step forward. Aimee's locker was frighteningly personal. Photographs similar to the ones he'd seen in her room adorned the metallic surface. Again no Randy. There were images of her favorite guitar players. On one hanger was a black Green Day American Idiot tour T-shirt; on the other, a New York Liberty sweat-shirt. Aimee's textbooks were piled on the bottom, covered in protective sleeves. There were hair ties on the top shelf, a brush, a mirror. Claire touched them tenderly.

  But there was nothing in here that seemed to help. No smoking gun, no giant sign reading THIS WAY TO FINDING AIMEE.

  Myron felt lost and empty, and staring into the locker, at something so Aimee--it just made her absence that much more obscene.

  The mood was broken wh
en Reid's mobile phone buzzed. He picked it up, listened for a moment, and then he hung up.

  "I found someone to cover Mr. Davis's class. He's waiting for you in the office."

  CHAPTER 37

  Drew Van Dyne was thinking about Aimee and trying to figure out his next step when he arrived at Planet Music. Whenever he did that, whenever he got too confused by life and the poor choices he'd often made, Van Dyne either self-medicated or, as he was doing now, he turned to music.

  The iPod ear buds were jammed deep into the canals. He was listening to Alejandro Escovedo's "Gravity," enjoying the sound, trying to put together how Escovedo had written the song. That was what Van Dyne liked to do. He'd tear a song down in the best way possible. He'd come up with a theory about the origin, how the idea had come, the first bit of inspiration. Was that first seed a guitar riff, the chorus, a specific stanza or lyric? Had the writer been heartbroken or sad or filled with joy--and why specifically had he been feeling that way? And where, after that first step, did he go with the song? Van Dyne could see the songwriter at the piano or strumming the guitar, taking notes, altering it, tweaking it, whatever.

  Bliss, man. Pure, simple bliss. Figuring out a song. Even if. Even if there was always a small voice, deep in the background, saying, "It should have been you, Drew."

  You forget about the wife who looks at you like you're a dog turd and now wants a divorce. You forget about your father, who abandoned you when you were still a kid. You forget about your mother, who tries now to make up for the fact that she didn't give a rat's ass for too many years. You forget the mind-numbing, regular-Joe teaching job you hate. You forget that the job is no longer something you're doing while waiting for your big break. You forget that your big break, when you're honest with yourself, will never come. You forget that you're thirty-six years old and that no matter how hard you try to kill it, your damn dream will not die--no, that would be too easy. Instead the dream stays and taunts and lets you know that it will never, ever, come true.

  You escape into the music.

  What the hell should he do now?

  That was what Drew Van Dyne was thinking as he walked past the Bedroom Rendezvous. He saw one of the salesgirls whisper to another. Maybe they were talking about him, but he didn't much care. He entered Planet Music, a place he both loved and loathed. He loved being surrounded by music. He loathed being reminded that none of it was his.

  Jordy Deck, a younger, less talented version of himself, was behind the counter. Van Dyne could see from the young kid's face that something was wrong.

  "What?"

  "A big dude," the kid said. "He came in here looking for you."