Who was this man?
Their two youngest daughters, Jane and Lizzie, were both wolfing down PB&J on white bread. They chatted through their sticky mouths. They made noise. Their milk sloshed into small spills. Erik kept reading. Jane asked if they could be excused. Claire said yes. They both darted toward the door.
"Stop," Claire said.
They did.
"Plates in the sink."
They sighed and did the eye-roll--though they were only nine and ten, they had learned from the best, their older sister. They trudged back as though through the deep snow of the Adirondacks, lifted plates that must have seemed like boulders, and somehow scaled the mountain toward the sink.
"Thank you," Claire said.
They took off. The room was quiet now. Erik chewed quietly.
"Is there any more coffee?" he asked.
She poured some. He crossed his legs, careful not to crease his trousers. They had been married for nineteen years, but the passion had slipped out the window in under two. They were treading water now, had been treading for so long that it no longer seemed that difficult. Oldest cliche in the book was about how fast time went by, but it was true. It didn't seem like the passion had been gone that long. Sometimes, like right now, she could look at him and remember a time when just seeing him would take her breath away.
Still not glancing up, Erik asked, "Have you heard from Aimee?"
"No."
He straightened his arm to pull back the sleeve, checked his watch, arched an eyebrow. "Two in the afternoon."
"She's probably just waking up."
"We might want to call."
He didn't move.
"By we," Claire said, "do you mean me?"
"I'll do it if you want."
She reached for the phone and dialed their daughter's cell phone. They'd gotten Aimee her own phone last year. Aimee had brought them an advertisement showing them that they could add a third line for ten dollars a month. Erik was unmoved. But, Aimee whined, all her friends--everyone!--had one, an argument that always always led Erik to remark, "We are not everyone, Aimee."
But Aimee was ready for that. She quickly changed tracks and plucked on the parental-protection heartstrings: "If I had my own phone, I could always stay in touch. You could find me twenty-four-seven. And if there was ever an emergency . . ."
That had closed the sale. Mothers understood this basic truism: Sex and peer pressure may sell, but nothing sells like fear.
The call went to voice mail. Aimee's enthusiastic voice--she had taped her message almost immediately after getting the phone--told Claire to, like, leave a message. The sound of her daughter's voice, familiar as it was, made her ache, though she wasn't sure for what exactly.
When the beep came, Claire said, "Hey, honey, it's Mom. Just give me a call, okay?"
She hung up.
Erik still read his paper. "She didn't answer?"
"Gee, what gave it away? Was it the part where I asked her to give me a call?"
He frowned at the sarcasm. "Her phone probably went dead."
"Probably."
"She always forgets to charge it," he said, with a shake of his head. "Whose house was she sleeping over? Steffi's, right?"
"Stacy."
"Right, whatever. Maybe we should call Stacy."
"Why?"
"I want her home. She has that project due on Thursday."
"It's Sunday. She just got into college."
"So you think she should slack off now?"
Claire handed him the portable. "You call."
"Fine."
She gave him the number. He pressed the digits and put the phone to his ear. In the background, Claire heard her younger daughters giggle. Then one shouted, "I do not!" When the phone was picked up, Erik cleared his throat. "Good afternoon, this is Erik Biel. I'm Aimee Biel's father. I was wondering if she was there right now."
His face didn't change. His voice didn't change. But Claire saw his grip on the phone tighten and she felt something deep in her chest give way.
CHAPTER 12
Myron had two semicontradictory thoughts about Miami. One, the weather was so beautiful he should move down here. Two, sun--there was too much sun down here. Everything was too bright. Even in the airport Myron found himself squinting.
This was not a problem for Myron's parents, the beloved Ellen and Al Bolitar, who wore those oversize sunglasses that looked suspiciously like welder's goggles, though without the style. They both waited for him at the airport. Myron had told them not to, that he would get a taxi, but Dad had insisted. "Don't I always pick you up from the airport? Remember when you came back from Chicago after that big snowstorm?"
"That was eighteen years ago, Dad."
"So? You think I forgot how to go?"
"And that was Newark Airport."
"Eighteen minutes, Myron."
Myron's eyes closed. "I remember."
"Exactly eighteen minutes."
"I remember, Dad."
"That's how long it took me to get from the house to Terminal A at Newark Airport. I used to time it, remember?"
"I do, yes."
So here they were, both of them, at the airport with dark suntans and fresh liver spots. When Myron came down the escalator, Mom ran over and wrapped her arms around her boy as if this were a POW homecoming in 1974. Dad stayed in the background with that satisfied smile. Myron hugged her back. Mom felt smaller. That was how it was down here. Your parents withered and got smaller and darker, like giant shrunken heads.
Mom said, "Let's get your luggage."
"I have it here."
"That's it? Just that one bag?"
"I'm only down for a night."
"Still."
Myron watched her face, checked her hands. When he saw the shake was more pronounced, he felt the thud in his chest.
"What?" she said.
"Nothing."
Mom shook her head. "You've always been the worst liar. Remember that time I walked in on you and Tina Ventura and you said nothing was going on? You think I didn't know?"
Junior year of high school. Ask Mom and Dad what they did yesterday, they won't remember. Ask them about anything from his youth, and it's like they studied replays at night.
He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Got me."
"Don't be such a smart guy. And that reminds me."
They reached Dad. Myron kissed him on the cheek. He always did. You never outgrow that. The skin felt loose. The smell of Old Spice was still there, but it was fainter than usual. There was something else there, some other smell, and Myron thought it was the smell of the old. They started for the car.
"Guess who I ran into?" Mom said.
"Who?"
"Dotte Derrick. Remember her?"
"No."
"Sure you do. She had that thing, that what-you-call-it, in her yard."
"Oh, right. Her. With that thing."
He had no idea what she was talking about, but this was easier.
"So anyway, I saw Dotte the other day and we start talking. She and Bob moved down here four years ago. They have a place in Fort Lauderdale, but Myron, it's really run-down. I mean, it hasn't been kept up at all. Al, what's the name of Dotte's place? Sunshine Vista, something like that, right?"
"Who cares?" Dad said.
"Thanks, Mr. Helpful. Anyway, that's where Dotte lives. And this place is awful. So run-down. Al, isn't Dotte's place run-down?"
"The point, El," Dad said. "Get to the point."
"I'm getting there, I'm getting there. Where was I?"
"Dotte Something," Myron said.
"Derrick. You remember her, right?"
"Very well," Myron said.
"Right, good. Anyway, Dotte still has cousins up north. The Levines. Do you remember them? No reason you should, forget it. Anyway, one of the cousins lives in Kasselton. You know Kasselton, right? You used to play them in high school--"
"I know Kasselton."
"Don't get snappy."
Dad spread his arms to the sky. "The point, El. Get to the point."
"Right, sorry. You're right. When you're right, you're right. So to make a long story short--"
"No, El, you've never made a long story short," Dad said. "Oh, you've made plenty of short stories long. But never, ever, have you made a long story short."
"Can I talk here, Al?"
"Like anyone could stop you. Like a large gun or big army tank--like even that could stop you."
Myron couldn't help but smile. Ladies and gents, meet Ellen and Alan Bolitar or, as Mom liked to say, "We're El Al--you know, like the Israeli airline?"
"So anyway, I was talking to Dotte about this and that. You know, the usual. The Ruskins moved out of town. Gertie Schwartz had gall stones. Antonietta Vitale, such a pretty thing, she married some millionaire from Montclair. That kind of thing. And then Dotte told me--Dotte told me this, by the way, not you--Dotte said you're dating someone."
Myron closed his eyes.
"Is it true?"
He said nothing.
"Dotte said you were dating a widow with six children."
"Two children," Myron said.
Mom stopped and smiled.
"What?"
"Gotcha."
"Huh?"
"If I said two children, you might have just denied it." Mom pointed an aha finger up in the air. "But I knew if I said six, you'd react. So I caught you."
Myron looked at his father. His father shrugged. "She's been watching a lot of Matlock lately."
"Children, Myron? You're dating a woman with children?"
"Mom, I'm going to say this as nicely as I can: Butt out."
"Listen to me, Mr. Funny Guy. When children are involved, you can't just go on your merry way. You need to think about the repercussions on them. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
"Do you understand the meaning of 'butt out'?"
"Fine, do what you want." Now she did the mock surrender. Like mother, like son. "What do I care?"
They continued walking--Myron in the middle, Dad on his right, Mom on his left. That was how they always walked. The pace was slower now. That didn't bother him much. He was more than willing to slow down so they could keep up.
They drove to the condo and parked in the designated spot. Mom purposely took the long path past the swimming pool, so she could introduce Myron to a dizzying array of condo owners. Mom kept saying, "You remember meeting my son?" and Myron faked remembering them back. Some of the women, many in their upper seventies, were too-well built. As Dustin Hoffman had been advised in The Graduate, "Plastics." Just a different kind. Myron had nothing against cosmetic surgery, but past a certain age, discriminatory or not, it creeped him out.
The condo was also too bright. You'd think as you got older you'd want less light, but no. His parents actually kept on the welder sunglasses for the first five minutes. Mom asked if he was hungry. He was smart enough to answer yes. She had already ordered a sloppy joe platter--Mom's cooking would be deemed inhumane at Guantanamo Bay--from a place called Tony's, which was "just like the old Eppes Essen's" at home.
They ate, they talked, Mom kept trying to wipe the small bits of cabbage that got stuck in the corners of Dad's mouth, but her hand shook too badly. Myron met his father's eye. Mom's Parkinson's was getting worse, but they wouldn't talk to Myron about it. They were getting old. Dad had a pacemaker. Mom had Parkinson's. But their first duty was still to shield their son from all that.
"When do you have to leave for your meeting?" Mom asked.
Myron checked his watch. "Now."
They said good-byes, did the hug-n-kiss thing again. When he pulled away, he felt as if he were abandoning them, as if they were going to hold off the enemy on their own while he drove to safety. Having aging parents sucked; but as Esperanza, who lost both parents young, often pointed out, it was better than the alternative.
Once in the elevator, Myron checked his cell phone. Aimee had still not called him back. He tried her number again and was not surprised when it went to voice mail. Enough, he thought. He would just call her house. See what's what.
Aimee's voice came to him: "You promised . . ."
He dialed Erik and Claire's home number. Claire answered. "Hello?"
"Hey, it's Myron."
"Hi."
"What's happening?"
"Not much," Claire said.
"I saw Erik this morning"--man, was it really the same day?--"and he told me about Aimee getting accepted to Duke. So I wanted to offer up my congratulations."
"Yeah, thanks."
"Is she there?"
"No, not right now."
"Can I call her later?"
"Yeah, sure."
Myron changed gears. "Everything okay? You sound a little distracted."
He was about to say more but again Aimee's words--"You promised you wouldn't tell my parents"--floated down to him.
"Fine, I guess," Claire said. "Look, I gotta go. Thanks for writing that recommendation letter."
"No big deal."
"Very big deal. The kids ranked four and seven in her class both applied and didn't get in. You were the difference."
"I doubt it. Aimee's a great candidate."
"Maybe, but thanks anyway."
There was a grumbling noise in the background. Sounded like Erik.
In his mind, there was Aimee's voice again: "Things aren't so great with them right now." Myron was trying to think of something else to say, a follow-up question maybe, when Claire hung up the phone.
Loren Muse had landed a fresh homicide case--double homicide, actually, two men shot outside a nightclub in East Orange. Rumor was that the killings were a hit carried out by John "The Ghost" Asselta, a notorious hitman who'd actually been born and raised in the area. Asselta had been quiet for the past few years. If he was back, they were about to be very busy.
Loren was reviewing the ballistics report when her private line rang. She picked up and said, "Muse."
"Guess who?"
She smiled. "Lance Banner, you old dog. Is that you?"
"It is."
Banner was a police officer in Livingston, New Jersey, the suburb where they'd both grown up.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"You still investigating Katie Rochester's disappearance?"
"Not really," she said.
"Why not?"
"For one thing, there's no evidence of violence. For another, Katie Rochester is over eighteen."
"Just barely."
"In the eyes of the law, eighteen might as well be eighty. So officially we don't even have an investigation going on."
"And unofficially?"
"I met with a doctor named Edna Skylar." She recounted Edna's story, using almost the same words she'd used when she'd told her boss, county prosecutor Ed Steinberg. Steinberg had sat there for a long while before predictably concluding: "We don't have the resources to go after such a maybe."
When she finished, Banner asked, "How did you get the case in the first place?"
"Like I said, there was no case, really. She's of age, no signs of violence, you know the drill. So no one was assigned. Jurisdiction is questionable anyway. But the father, Dominick, he made a lot of noise with the press, you probably saw it, and he knew someone who knows someone, and that led to Steinberg. . . ."
"And that led to you."
"Right. The key word being led. As in past tense."
Lance Banner asked, "Do you have ten minutes to spare?"
"Did you hear about that double homicide in East Orange?"
"I did."
"I'm the lead."
"As in the present tense of led?"
"You got it."
"I figured that," Banner said. "It's why I'm only asking for ten minutes."
"Important?" she asked.
"Let's just say"--he stopped, thinking of the word--"very odd."
"And it involves Katie Rochester's disappearance?"
"Ten minutes max, Loren. That's all I'm
asking for. Heck, I'll take five."
She checked her watch. "When?"
"I'm in the lobby of your building right now," he said. "Can you get us a room?"
"For five minutes? Sheesh, your wife wasn't kidding about your bedroom stamina."
"Dream on, Muse. Hear that ding? I'm stepping into the elevator. Get the room ready."
Livingston police detective Lance Banner had a crew cut. He was big with features and a build that made you think of right angles. Loren had known him since elementary school and she still couldn't get that image out of her head, of what he looked like back then. That's how it is with kids you grew up with. You always see them as second-graders.
Loren watched him hesitate when he entered, unsure how to greet her--a kiss on the cheek or a more professional handshake. She took the lead and pulled him toward her and kissed his cheek. They were in an interrogation room, and they both headed for the interrogator seat. Banner pulled up, raised both hands, sat across from her.
"Maybe you should Mirandize me," he said.
"I'll wait until I have enough for an arrest. So what have you got on Katie Rochester?"
"No time for chitchat, eh?"
She just looked at him.
"Okay, okay, let's get to it then. Do you know a woman named Claire Biel?"
"No."
"She lives in Livingston," Banner said. "She would have been Claire Garman when we were kids."
"Still no."
"She was older than us anyway. Four, five years probably." He shrugged. "I was just checking."
"Uh-huh," Loren said. "Do me a favor, Lance. Pretend I'm your wife and skip the foreplay."
"Fine, here it is. She called me this morning. Claire Biel. Her daughter went out last night and hasn't come home."
"How old is she?"
"She just turned eighteen."
"Any sign of foul play?"
He made a face suggesting an inner debate. Then: "Not yet."
"So?"
"So normally we wait a little. Like you said on the phone--over eighteen, no signs of violence."
"Like with Katie Rochester."
"Right."
"But?"
"I know the parents a little. Claire was in school with my older brother. They live in the neighborhood. They're concerned, of course. But on the face of it, well, you figure the kid is just messing around. She got accepted to college the other day. Made Duke. Her first choice. She goes out partying with her friends. You know what I'm saying."