Promise Me

  "What was his name?"

  The kid shrugged.

  "What did he want?"

  "He was asking about Aimee."

  A lump of fear hardened in his chest. "What did you tell him?"

  "That she comes in here a lot, but I think he already knew that. No big deal."

  Drew Van Dyne stepped closer. "Describe this guy."

  He did. Van Dyne thought about the warning call he'd received earlier today. It sounded like Myron Bolitar.

  "Oh, one other thing," the kid said.

  "What?"

  "When he left, I think he went to Bedroom Rendezvous."

  Claire and Myron decided to let Myron talk to Mr. Davis alone.

  "Aimee Biel was one of my most gifted students," Harry Davis said.

  Davis was pale and shaking and didn't have the same confident stride Myron had seen just that morning.

  "Was?" Myron said.

  "Pardon me?"

  "You said 'was.' 'Was one of my most gifted students.' "

  His eyes went wide. "She isn't in my class anymore."

  "I see."

  "That's all I meant."

  "Right," Myron said, trying to keep him on the defensive. "When exactly was she your student?"

  "Last year."

  "Great." Enough with the prelims. Straight for the knockout punch: "So if Aimee wasn't your student anymore, what was she doing at your house Saturday night?"

  Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead like plastic gophers in one of those arcade games. "What makes you think she was?"

  "I dropped her off there."

  "That's not possible."

  Myron sighed and crossed his legs. "There are two ways to play this, Mr. D. I can get the principal in here or you can tell me what you know."

  Silence.

  "Why were you talking to Randy Wolf this morning?"

  "He's also a student of mine."

  "Is or was?"

  "Is. I teach sophomores, juniors, and seniors."

  "I understand that the students here have voted you Teacher of the Year the past four years."

  He said nothing.

  Myron said, "I went here."

  "Yes, I know." There was a small smile on his lips. "It would be hard to miss the lingering presence of the legendary Myron Bolitar."

  "My point is, I know what an accomplishment winning Teacher of the Year is. To be that popular with your students."

  Davis liked the compliment. "Did you have a favorite teacher?" he asked.

  "Mrs. Friedman. Modern European History."

  "She was here when I started." He smiled. "I really liked her."

  "That's sweet, Mr. D, really, but there's a girl missing."

  "I don't know anything about it."

  "Yeah, you do."

  Harry Davis looked down.

  "Mr. D?"

  He didn't look up.

  "I don't know what's going on, but it's all coming apart now. All of it. You know that, I think. Your life was one thing before we had this chat. It's another thing now. I don't want to sound melodramatic, but I won't let go until I find out everything. No matter how bad it is. No matter how many people are hurt."

  "I don't know anything," he said. "Aimee has never been to my house."

  If asked right then, Myron would have said that he wasn't all that mad. In hindsight, that was the problem: a lack of warning. He had been talking in a measured voice. The threat had been there, sure, but it wasn't even worth checking. If he had felt it coming, he would have been able to prepare himself. But the fury just flooded in, snapping him into action.

  Myron moved fast. He grabbed Davis from behind the neck, squeezed the pressure points near the base of the shoulders, and pulled him toward the window. Davis let out a little cry as Myron pushed his face hard against the one-way glass.

  "Look out there, Mr. D."

  In the waiting area Claire sat upright. Her eyes were closed. She thought that no one was watching. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  Myron pushed harder.

  "Ow!"

  "You see that, Mr. D?"

  "Let go of me!"

  Damn. The fury spread, diffused. Reason bled back in. As with Jake Wolf, Myron scolded his loss of temper and released his grip. Davis stood back and rubbed the back of his neck. His face was scarlet now.

  "You come anywhere near me," Davis said, "and I'll sue you. Do you understand?"

  Myron shook his head.

  "What?"

  "You're done, Mr. D. You just don't know it yet."

  CHAPTER 38

  Drew Van Dyne headed back to Livingston High School.

  How the hell had Myron Bolitar connected him to this mess? He was in full panic mode now. He had assumed that Harry Davis, Mr. Friggin' Dedicated Teacher, wouldn't say anything. That would have been better, would have left Van Dyne to handle whatever arose. But now, somehow, Bolitar had ended up at Planet Music. He had been asking about Aimee.

  Someone had talked.

  As he pulled up to the school, he saw Harry Davis burst out the door. Drew Van Dyne was no student of body language, but man, Davis did not look like himself. His fists were clenched, his shoulders slumped, his feet in a fast shuffle mode. Usually he walked with a smile and a wave, sometimes even whistling. Not today.

  Van Dyne drove through the lot, pulling the car into Davis's path. Davis saw him and veered to the right.

  "Mr. D?"

  "Leave me alone."

  "You and me, we need to have a little chat."

  Van Dyne was out of the car. Davis kept moving.

  "You know what will happen if you talk to Bolitar, don't you?"

  "I haven't talked," Davis said, teeth clenched.

  "Will you?"

  "Get in your car, Drew. Leave me the hell alone."

  Drew Van Dyne shook his head. "Remember, Mr. D. You got a lot to lose here."

  "As you keep pointing out."

  "More than any of us."

  "No." Davis had reached his car. He slid into the front seat and before he closed his door he said, "Aimee has the most to lose, wouldn't you say?"

  That made Van Dyne pause. He tilted his head. "What do you mean by that?"

  "Think about it," Davis said.

  He closed the door and drove off. Drew Van Dyne took a deep breath and moved back to his car. Aimee had the most to lose. . . . It got him thinking. He started up the engine and began to pull out when he noticed the school's side door open again.

  Aimee's mother came out the very same door that beloved educator Harry Davis had stormed out just minutes ago. And behind her was Myron Bolitar.

  The voice on the phone, the one that had warned him earlier: Don't do anything stupid. It's under control.

  It didn't feel under control. It didn't feel that way at all.

  Drew Van Dyne reached for the car radio as though he were underwater and it held oxygen. The CD feature was on, the latest from Cold-play. He drove away, letting Chris Martin's gentle voice work on him.

  The panic would not leave.

  This, he knew, was where he usually made the wrong decision. This is where he usually messed up big-time. He knew that. He knew that he should just back up, think it through. But that was how he lived his life. It was like a car wreck in slow motion. You see what you're heading for. You know there is going to be an ugly collision. You can't stop or get out of the way.

  You're powerless.

  In the end, Drew Van Dyne made the phone call.

  "Hello?"

  "We may have a problem," Van Dyne said.

  On other end of the phone, Drew Van Dyne heard Big Jake Wolf sigh.

  "Tell me," Big Jake said.

  Myron dropped Claire off before heading to the Livingston Mall. He hoped to find Drew Van Dyne at Planet Music. No luck. The poncho kid wouldn't talk this time, but Sally Ann said that she'd seen Drew Van Dyne arrive, talk briefly to the poncho kid, and then sprint out. Myron had Van Dyne's home number. He tried it, but there was no answer.

  He call
ed Win. "We need to find this guy."

  "We're spread a little thin right now."

  "Who can we get to watch Van Dyne's house?"

  Win said, "How about Zorra?"

  Zorra was a former Mossad spy, an assassin for the Israelis, and a transvestite who wore stiletto heels--literally. Many transvestites are lovely. Zorra was not one of them.

  "I'm not sure she'll blend into the suburbs, are you?"

  "Zorra knows how to blend."

  "Fine, whatever you think."

  "Where are you headed?"

  "Chang's Dry Cleaning. I need to talk to Roger."

  "I'll call Zorra."

  Business was brisk at Chang's. Maxine saw Myron enter and gestured with her head for him to come forward. Myron moved ahead of the line and followed her into the back. The smell of chemicals and lint was cloying. It felt like dust particles were clinging to his lungs. He was relieved when she opened the back door.

  Roger sat on a crate in the alley. His head was down. Maxine folded her arms and said, "Roger, do you have something to say to Mr. Bolitar?"

  Roger was a skinny kid. His arms were reeds with absolutely no definition. He did not look up as she spoke.

  "I'm sorry I made those phone calls," he said.

  It was like he was a kid who'd broken a neighbor's window with an errant baseball and his mother had dragged him across the street to apologize. Myron did not need this. He turned to Maxine. "I want to talk to him alone."

  "I can't let you do that."

  "Then I go to the police."

  First Joan Rochester, now Maxine Chang--Myron was getting damn good at threatening terrified mothers. Maybe he'd start slapping them around too, really feel like a big man.

  But Myron did not blink. Maxine Chang did. "I will be right inside."

  "Thank you."

  The alley reeked, as all alleys do, of past garbage and dried urine. Myron waited for Roger to look up at him. Roger didn't.

  "You didn't just call me," Myron said. "You called Aimee Biel, right?"

  He nodded, still not looking up.

  "Why?"

  "I was calling her back."

  Myron made a skeptical face. Since the kid's head was still down, the effort was a bit of a waste. "Look at me, Roger."

  He slowly raised his eyes.

  "Are you telling me that Aimee Biel called you first?"

  "I saw her in school. She said we needed to talk."

  "About what?"

  He shrugged. "She just said we needed to talk."

  "So why didn't you?"

  "Why didn't we what?"

  "Talk. Right then and there."

  "We were in the hall. There were people all around. She wanted to talk privately."

  "I see. So you called her?"

  "Yes."

  "And what did she say?"

  "It was weird. She wanted to know about my grades and extracurricular activities. It was more like she wanted to confirm them. I mean, we know each other a little. And everyone talks. So she already knew most of that stuff."

  "That's it?"

  "We only talked for, like, two minutes. She said she had to go. But she also said she was sorry."

  "About?"

  "About my not making Duke." He put his head down again.

  "You got a lot of anger stored up, Roger."

  "You don't understand."

  "Tell me then."

  "Forget it."

  "I wish I could, but see, you called me."

  Roger Chang studied the alley as though he'd never really seen it before. His nose twitched, and his face twisted in disgust. Finally he found Myron's face. "I'm always the Asian geek, you know? I was born in this country. I'm not an immigrant. When I talk, half the time people expect me to sound like an old Charlie Chan movie. And in this town, if you don't have money or you're not good at sports . . . I see my mother sacrifice. I see how hard she works. And I think to myself: If I can just stick it out. If I can just work hard in high school, not worry about all that stuff I'm missing, just work hard, make the sacrifice, it will all be okay. I'll be able to move out of here. I don't know why I focused on Duke. But I did. It was, like, my one goal. Once I made it, I could relax a little. I'd be away from this store. . . ."

  His voice drifted off.

  "I wish you'd have said something to me," Myron said.

  "I'm not good at asking for help."

  Myron wanted to tell him he should do more than that, maybe get some therapy to deal with the anger, but he hadn't walked a mile in the kid's shoes. He didn't have the time either.

  "Are you going to report me?" Roger asked.

  "No." Then: "You could still get in on wait-list."

  "They've already cleared it."

  "Oh," Myron said. "Look, I know it seems like life and death now, but what school you make isn't that important. I bet you'll love Rutgers."

  "Yeah, sure."

  He didn't sound convinced. Part of Myron was angry, but another part--a growing part--remembered Maxine's accusation. There was a chance, a decent chance, that by helping Aimee, Myron had destroyed this young man's dream. He couldn't just walk away from that, could he?

  "If you want to transfer after a year," Myron said, "I'll write a letter."

  He waited for Roger to react. He didn't. So Myron left him alone in the stench of the alley behind his mother's dry cleaning store.

  CHAPTER 39

  Myron was on his way to meet up with Joan Rochester--she was afraid to be home when her daughter called in case her husband was around--when his mobile phone rang. He checked the caller ID and his heart skipped a beat when he saw the name ALI WILDER pop up.

  "Hey," he said.

  "Hey."

  Silence.

  "I'm sorry about before," Ali said.

  "Don't apologize."

  "No, I sounded hysterical. I know what you were trying to do with the girls."

  "I didn't want to get Erin involved."

  "It's all right. Maybe I should be concerned or whatever, but I just really want to see you."

  "Me too."

  "Come over?"

  "I can't right now."

  "Oh."

  "And I'll probably be working on this until late."

  "Myron?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't care how late."

  He smiled.

  "Whatever the time, come by," Ali said. "I'll be waiting. And if I fall asleep, throw pebbles at my window and wake me up. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Be careful."

  "Ali?"

  "Yes?"

  "I love you."

  There was a little intake of air. Then, with a little song in the voice: "I love you too, Myron."

  And suddenly, it was as if Jessica were a wisp of smoke.

  Dominick Rochester's office was a depot for school buses.

  Outside his window was a plethora of yellow. This place was his cover. School buses could do wonders. If you transport kids in the seats, you could pretty much transport anything else in the undercarriage. Cops might stop and search a truck. They never do that with a school bus.

  The phone rang. Rochester picked it up and said, "Hello?"

  "You wanted me to watch your house?"

  He did. Joan was drinking more than ever. It could have been from Katie's disappearance, but Dominick was no longer so sure. So he had one of his guys keep an eye. Just in case.

  "Yeah, so?"

  "Earlier today some guy stopped by to talk to your wife."

  "Earlier today?"

  "Right."

  "How much earlier?"

  "Couple of hours maybe."

  "Why didn't you call then?"

  "Didn't think much about it, I guess. I mean, I wrote it down. But I thought you only wanted me to call you if it was important."

  "What does he look like?"

  "His name is Myron Bolitar. I recognized him. He used to play ball."

  Dominick pulled the receiver closer, pushing it against his ear as though he cou
ld travel through it. "How long did he stay?"

  "Fifteen minutes."

  "Just the two of them?"

  "Yeah. Oh, don't worry, Mr. Rochester. I watched them. They stayed downstairs, if that's what you're wondering. There was no . . ." He stopped, not sure how to put it.

  Dominick almost laughed. This dopey guy thought he was having his wife watched in case she was sleeping around. Man, that was rich. But now he wondered: Why had Bolitar come by and stayed so long?

  And what had Joan told him?

  "Anything else?"

  "Well, that's the thing, Mr. Rochester."

  "What's the thing?"

  "There is something else. See, I wrote down about Bolitar's visit, but since I could see where he was, I didn't worry much, you know?"

  "And now?"

  "Well, I'm following Mrs. Rochester. She just drove to some park in town here. Riker Hill. You know it?"

  "My kids went to elementary school there."

  "Good, okay. She's sitting on a bench. But she's not alone. See, your wife is sitting there with that same guy. With Myron Bolitar."

  Silence.

  "Mr. Rochester?"

  "Get a man on Bolitar too. I want him followed. I want them both followed."

  During the Cold War, the Riker Hill Art Park, located right smack in the bosom of suburbia, had been a military control base for air-defense missiles. The army called it Nike Battery Missile Site NY-80. For real. From 1954 until the end of the Nike air defense system in 1974, the site was operational for both Hercules and Ajax missiles. Many of the U.S. Army's original buildings and barracks now serve as studios where painting, sculpture, and crafts flourish in a communal setting.

  Years ago, Myron had found this all somewhat poignant and oddly comforting--the war relic now housing artists--but the world was different now. In the eighties and nineties, it had all been cute and quaint. Now this "progress" felt like phony symbolism.

  Near the old military radar tower, Myron sat on the bench with Joan Rochester. They hadn't done more than nod at each other. They were waiting. Joan Rochester cradled her mobile phone as if it were an injured animal. Myron checked his watch. Any minute now, Katie Rochester was supposed to call her mother.

  Joan Rochester looked off. "You're wondering why I stay with him."

  In truth, he wasn't. First off, awful as this situation was, he was still feeling a little giddy from his phone call with Ali. He knew that was selfish, but this was the first time in seven years he had told a woman that he loved her. He was trying to push all that from his mind, trying to focus on the task at hand, but he couldn't help feeling a little high from her response.

  Second--and maybe more relevant--Myron had long ago stopped trying to figure out relationships. He had read about battered woman syndrome and perhaps that was at play here and this was a cry for help. But for some reason, in this particular case, he didn't care enough to reach out and answer that call.