Promise Me (8 page)

Myron wanted to sleep on that one. But sleep would not come.

T
ime to talk to Aimee Biel’s parents.

It was six in the morning. County investigator Loren Muse sat on her floor cross-legged. She wore shorts, and the quasi-shag carpeting made her legs itch. Police files and reports were spread out everywhere. In the center was the timetable she’d made up.

A harsh snoring came from the other room. Loren had lived alone in this same crappy apartment for more than a decade now. They called them “garden” apartments, though the only thing that seemed to grow was a monotonous red brick. They were sturdy structures with the personality of prison cells, way stations for people on the way up or on the way down, or, for a very few, stuck in a sort of personal-life purgatory.

The snoring did not come from a boyfriend. Loren had one—a total loser named Pete—but her mother, the multimarried, once-desirable, now-flabby Carmen Valos Muse Brewster Whatever was between men and thus living with her. Her snoring had the phlegm of a lifelong smoker, mixed with a few too many years of cheap wine and tacky song.

Cracker crumbs dominated the counter. An open jar of peanut butter, the knife sticking out like Excalibur, stood in the middle like a watchtower. Loren studied the phone logs, the credit card charges, the E-ZPass reports. They painted an interesting picture.

Okay, Loren thought, let’s map this out.

• 1:56 A.M.: Aimee Biel uses the 52nd Street Citibank ATM machine—the same one used by Katie Rochester three months ago. Weird.
  
• 2:16 A.M.: Aimee Biel places a call to the Livingston residence of Myron Bolitar. The call lasts only seconds.
  
• 2:17 A.M.: Aimee places a call to a mobile phone registered to Myron Bolitar. The call lasts three minutes.
  

Loren nodded to herself. It seemed logical that Aimee Biel had first tried Bolitar’s home and when he didn’t answer—that would explain the brevity of the first call—she called his mobile.

Back to it:

• 2:21 A.M.: Myron Bolitar calls Aimee Biel. This call lasts one minute.
  

From what they’d been able to dig up, Bolitar often stayed in New York City at the Dakota apartment of a friend named Windsor Horne Lockwood III. Lockwood was known to police; despite a ritzy, Main Line upbringing, he was a suspect in several assaults and, yes, even a couple of homicides. The man had the craziest reputation Loren had ever seen. But again, that did not seem relevant to the case at hand.

The point here was, Bolitar was probably staying at Lockwood’s apartment in Manhattan. He kept his car in a nearby lot. According to the night attendant, Bolitar had taken the car out sometime around 2:30
A
.
M
.

They had no proof yet, but Loren was fairly sure Bolitar had gone to midtown and picked up Aimee Biel. They were working on getting surveillance videos from the nearby businesses. Maybe Bolitar’s car would be on one. But for now, it seemed like a fairly likely conclusion.

More from the time line:

• 3:11 A.M.: There was a credit card charge on Bolitar’s Visa account from an Exxon gas station on Route 4 in Fort Lee, New Jersey, right off the George Washington Bridge.
  
• 3:55 A.M.: the E-ZPass on Bolitar’s car showed him
  heading south on the Garden State Parkway, crossing the Bergen County tolls.
  
• 4:08 A.M.: the E-ZPass hit the Essex County tolls, showing that Bolitar was still traveling south.
  

That was it on the tolls. He could have gotten off at Exit 145, which would lead him to his residence in Livingston. Loren drew the route out. It made no sense. You wouldn’t go up over the George Washington Bridge and then down the parkway. And even if you did, it wouldn’t take forty minutes to get to the Bergen toll. It would take at most, that time of night, twenty minutes.

So where had Bolitar gone?

She went back to her time line. There was a gap of more than three hours, but at 7:18
A
.
M
., Myron Bolitar placed a call to Aimee Biel’s cell phone. No answer. He tries twice more that morning. No answer. Yesterday he called the Biels’ home number. That was the only call that lasted more than a few seconds. Loren wondered if he talked to the parents.

She picked up her phone and dialed Lance Banner.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Did you tell Aimee’s parents about Bolitar?”

“Not yet.”

“I think,” Loren said, “that now might be the time.”

Myron had a new morning routine. The first thing he did was grab the newspaper and check for war casualties. He looked at the names. All of them. He made sure that Jeremy Downing wasn’t listed. Then he went back and took the time to read every name again slowly. He read the rank and hometown and age. That was all they put. But Myron imagined that every dead kid listed was another Jeremy, was like that terrific nineteen-year-old kid who lives down your street, because, simple as it sounded, they were. For just a few minutes Myron imagined what that death meant, that this young, hopeful, dream-filled life was gone forever, what the parents must be thinking.

He hoped that our leaders did something similar. But he doubted it.

Myron’s cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID. It read
SWEET CHEEKS
. That was Win’s unlisted number. Myron clicked it on and said hello.

Without preamble, Win said, “Your flight arrives at one p.m.”

“You work for the airlines now?”

“Work for the airlines,” Win repeated. “Good one.”

“So what’s up?”

“Work for the airlines,” Win said again. “Wait, just let me savor that line for a moment. Work for the airlines. Hilarious.”

“You done?”

“Hold on, let me get a pen so I can write that one down. Work. For. The. Airlines.”

Win.

“You done now?”

“Let me try again: Your flight arrives at one p.m. I will meet you at the airport. I have two tickets to the Knicks game. We will sit courtside, probably next to Paris Hilton or Kevin Bacon. Personally, I’m pulling for Kevin.”

“You don’t like the Knicks,” Myron said.

“True.”

“In fact, you don’t like going to basketball games. So why . . . ?” Myron saw it. “Damn.”

Silence.

“Since when do you read the Styles Section, Win?”

“One o’clock. Newark Airport. See you then.”

Click.

Myron hung up the phone and couldn’t help but smile. That Win. What a guy.

He headed into the kitchen. His father was up and making breakfast. He said nothing about Jessica’s upcoming nuptials. Mom, however, jumped from her chair, rushed over to him, gave him a look that suggested a terminal illness, asked if he was all right. He assured her that he was fine.

“I haven’t seen Jessica in seven years,” he said. “It’s no big deal.”

His parents both nodded in a way that suggested that they were humoring him.

A few hours later he took off for the airport. He had tossed and turned, but in the end he really was all right with it. Seven years. They had been over for seven years. And while Jessica had been the one with the upper hand throughout most of their time together, Myron had been the one who’d finally put an end to it.

Jessica was the past. He took out his cell phone and called Ali—the present.

“I’m at Miami airport,” he said.

“How was your trip?”

Hearing Ali’s voice filled him with warmth. “It was good.”

“But?”

“But nothing. I want to see you.”

“How about around two? The kids will be out, I promise.”

“What have you got in mind?” he asked.

“The technical term would be—hold on, let me check my thesaurus—‘a nooner.’ ”

“Ali Wilder, you little vixen.”

“That I am.”

“I can’t make it at two. Win is taking me to see the Knicks.”

“How about immediately following the game?” she asked.

“Man, I hate it when you play hard to get.”

“I’ll take that as yes.”

“Very much so.”

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You sound a little funny.”

“I’m trying to sound very funny.”

“Then don’t try so hard.”

There was an awkward moment. He wanted to tell her that he loved her. But it was too soon. Or maybe, with what he’d learned about Jessica, the timing was wrong. You don’t want to say something like that for the first time for the wrong reason.

So instead he said, “They’re boarding my flight.”

“See you soon, handsome.”

“Wait, if I get there in the evening, will it still be a ‘nooner’? Wouldn’t it be an ‘evening-er’?”

“That would take too long to say. I don’t want to waste any time.”

“And on that note . . .”

“Stay safe, handsome.”

Erik Biel sat alone on the couch while his wife, Claire, chose a chair. Loren noticed that. One would think that a couple in a situation like this would sit next to each other, draw comfort from each other. The body language here suggested that both wanted to be as far away from the other as possible. It could mean a rift in the relationship. Or it could mean that this experience was so raw that even tenderness—especially tenderness—would sting like hell.

Claire Biel had served them tea. Loren really hadn’t wanted any, but she learned that most people relaxed if you allow them to be in control of something, of anything, if you allow them to do something mundane or domestic. So she had accepted. Lance Banner, who remained standing behind her, had declined.

Lance was letting her take the lead. He knew them. That might help for some questioning, but she’d get the ball rolling. Loren took a sip of the tea. She let the silence work them a little—let them be the first to speak. Some might view it as cruel. It wasn’t, if it helped find Aimee. If Aimee were found okay, it would be quickly forgotten. If she weren’t, the discomfort from silence would be nothing compared to what they would then endure.

“Here,” Erik Biel said, “we made a list of her close friends and their phone numbers. We’ve already called all of them. And her boyfriend, Randy Wolf. We spoke to him too.”

Loren took her time looking over the names.

“Have there been any developments?” Erik asked.

Erik Biel was, Loren thought, the poster boy for uptight. The mother, Claire, well, you could see the missing kid etched into her face. She hadn’t slept. She was a mess. But Erik, with his starched dress shirt and tie and recently shaved face, somehow looked more harried. He
was trying so hard to keep it together that you just knew that there would be no slow fray here. When it came apart, it would be ugly and maybe permanent.

Loren handed the paper to Lance Banner. She turned and sat up straight. She kept her eyes on Erik’s face as she dropped the bomb: “Do either of you know a man named Myron Bolitar?”

Erik frowned. Loren moved her gaze toward the mother. Claire Biel looked as if Loren had asked if she could lick their toilet.

“He’s a family friend,” Claire Biel said. “I’ve known him since junior high.”

“Did he know your daughter?”

“Of course. But what does—”

“What sort of relationship did they have?”

“Relationship?”

“Yes. Your daughter and Myron Bolitar. What sort of relationship did they have?”

For the first time since they’d entered the house, Claire slowly turned and looked to her husband for guidance. Erik too turned toward his wife. They both wore the faces of someone who’d been smacked in the gut by a two-by-four.

Erik finally spoke. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Biel. I’m asking you a question. How well did your daughter know Myron Bolitar?”

Claire: “Myron is a family friend.”

Erik: “He wrote Aimee a recommendation letter for her college application.”

Claire nodded with vigor. “Right. Like that.”

“Like what?”

They didn’t respond.

Loren kept her voice even. “Do they ever see each other?”

“See each other?”

“Yes. Or talk on the phone. Or maybe e-mail.” Then Loren added: “Without you two present.”

Loren wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Erik Biel’s spine got even straighter. “What the hell are you saying?”

Okay, Loren thought. They didn’t know. This was no act. It was time to shift gears, check their honesty. “When was the last time either of you spoke to Mr. Bolitar?”

“Yesterday,” Claire said.

“What time?”

“I’m not sure. Early afternoon, I think.”

“Did you call him or did he call you?”

“He called here,” Claire said.

Loren glanced at Lance Banner. Score one for the mom. That matched up with the phone records.

“What did he want?”

“To congratulate us.”

“What about?”

“Aimee got accepted to Duke.”

“Anything else?”

“He asked if he could speak to her.”

“To Aimee?”

“Yes. He wanted to congratulate her.”

“What did you say?”

“That she wasn’t home. And then I thanked him for writing the recommendation.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he’d call her back.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

Loren let that sit.

Claire Biel said, “You can’t think Myron has anything to do with this.”

Loren just stared at her, letting the silence soak in, giving her a chance to keep talking. She didn’t disappoint.

“You have to know him,” Claire went on. “He’s a good man. I’d trust him with my life.”

Loren nodded and then looked at Erik. “And you, Mr. Biel?”

His eyes were out of focus.

Claire said, “Erik?”

“I saw Myron yesterday,” he said.

Loren sat up. “Where?”

“At the middle school gym.” His voice was a dull ache. “There’s pickup basketball there on Sundays.”

“What time would this have been?”

“Seven thirty. Maybe eight.”

“In the morning?”

“Yes.”

Loren glanced back at Lance. He nodded slowly. He’d caught it too. Bolitar couldn’t have gotten home much before five, six in the morning. A few hours later, he goes off to play basketball with the missing girl’s father?

“Do you play with Mr. Bolitar every Sunday?”

“No. I mean, he used to play a bit. But he hadn’t been there in months.”

“Did you talk to him?”