by Harlan Coben
Myron knew that Hester wouldn’t simply go away. He also knew that he probably didn’t want her to. He wanted to cooperate, of course, get this over with, but he also wanted to know what the hell had happened to Aimee.
“She’s my lawyer,” Myron said. “Please give us a minute.”
Hester gave them a satisfied smirk that you know they both wanted to slap off her face. They turned for the doors. Hester gave them a five-finger toodle-oo wave. When they were both out the door, she closed it and looked up at the camera. “Turn it off now.”
“It probably is,” Myron said.
“Yeah, sure. Cops never play games with that.”
She took out her cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” he asked.
“Do you know why they have you in here?”
“It has something to do with a girl named Aimee Biel,” Myron said.
“That much I know already. But you don’t know what happened to her?”
“No.”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I got my local investigator working on it. She’s the best, knows everybody in this office.” Hester put the phone to her ear. “Yeah, Hester here. What’s up? Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” Hester listened without taking notes. A minute later, she said, “Thanks, Cingle. Keep digging and see what they got.”
Hester hung up. Myron shrugged a well? at her.
“This girl—her last name is Biel.”
“Aimee Biel,” Myron said. “What about her?”
“She’s missing.”
Myron felt the thump again.
“It seems she never came home on Saturday night. She was supposed to sleep at a friend’s house. She never arrived. Nobody knows what happened to her. Apparently there are phone records linking you to the girl. Other stuff too. My investigator is trying to find out what exactly.”
Hester sat down. She looked across the table at him. “So okay, bubbe, tell Aunt Hester everything.”
“No,” Myron said.
“What?”
“Look, you have two choices here. You can stay while I talk to them right now or I can fire you.”
“You should talk to me first.”
“We can’t waste the time. You have to let me tell them everything.”
“Because you’re innocent?”
“Of course I’m innocent.”
“And the police never ever ever arrest the wrong man.”
“I’ll risk it. If Aimee is in trouble, I can’t have them wasting time on me.”
“I disagree.”
“Then you’re fired.”
“Don’t get all Trump on me. I’m advising you, that’s all. You’re the client.”
She rose, opened the door, called them back in. Loren Muse moved past her and sat back down. Lance took his post in the corner. Muse was red-faced, probably upset with herself for not questioning him in the car before Hester’s arrival.
Loren Muse was about to say something, but Myron stopped her by raising his palm.
“Let’s get to it,” Myron said to them. “Aimee Biel is missing. I know that now. You’ve probably pulled our phone logs, so you know she called me around two in the morning. I’m not sure what else you have so far, so let me help you out. She asked for a ride. I picked her up.”
“Where?” Loren asked.
“Midtown Manhattan. Fifty-second and Fifth, I think. I took the Henry Hudson to the GWB. Do you have the credit card charge for the gas station?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know we stopped there. We continued down Route 4 to Route 17 and then to Ridgewood.” Myron saw a change in their posture. He had missed something, but he pressed on. “I dropped her off at a house on the end of a cul-de-sac. Then I drove home.”
“And you don’t remember the address, is that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“Anything else?”
“Like?”
“Like why did Aimee Biel call you in the first place?”
“I’m a friend of the family.”
“You must be a close friend.”
“I am.”
“So why you? I mean, first she called your house in Livingston. Then she went to your cell phone. Why did she call you and not her parents or an aunt or an uncle or even a school friend?” Loren lifted her palms to the sky. “Why you?”
Myron’s voice was soft. “I made her promise.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
He explained about the basement, about hearing the girls talk about driving with a drunk kid, about making them promise—and as he did, he could see their faces change. Even Hester’s. The words, the rationale, rang hollow in his own ears now, and yet he couldn’t put his finger on why. His explanation went on a little too long. He could hear the defensiveness in his voice.
When he was done, Loren asked, “Have you ever made this promise before?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“No other helpless or inebriated girls you volunteered to chauffeur around?”
“Hey!” Hester wouldn’t let that pass. “That’s a total mischaracterization of what he said. And the question was already asked and answered. Move on.”
Loren shifted in her seat. “How about young boys? You ever make any boys promise to call you?”
“No.”
“So just girls?”
“Just these two girls,” Myron said. “It wasn’t like I planned it.”
“I see.” Loren rubbed her chin. “How about Katie Rochester?”
Hester said, “Who’s that?”
Myron ignored that. “What about her?”
“Did you ever make Katie Rochester promise to call you when she was drunk?”
“Again that’s a total mischaracterization of what he said,” Hester jumped in. “He was trying to prevent them from drinking and driving.”
“Right, sure, he’s a hero,” Loren said. “Ever do anything like that with Katie Rochester?”
“I don’t even know Katie Rochester,” Myron said.
“But you’ve heard the name.”
“Yes.”
“In what context?”
“On the news. So what’s the deal, Muse—I’m a suspect in every missing persons case?”
Loren smiled. “Not every.”
Hester leaned toward Myron and whispered in his ear. “I don’t like this, Myron.”
Neither did he.
Loren continued: “So you’ve never met Katie Rochester?”
He couldn’t help his lawyer training. “Not to my knowledge.”
“Not to your knowledge. Then whose knowledge would it be?”
“Objection.”
“You know what I mean,” Myron said.
“How about her father, Dominick Rochester?”
“No.”
“Or her mother, Joan? Ever meet her?”
“No.”
“No,” Loren repeated, “or not to your knowledge?”
“I meet lots of people. I don’t remember them all. But the names ring no bells.”
Loren Muse looked down at the table. “You said you dropped Aimee off in Ridgewood?”
“Yes. At her friend Stacy’s.”
“At her friend’s?” That got Loren’s attention. “You didn’t mention that before.”
“I’m mentioning it now.”
“What’s Stacy’s last name?”
“Aimee didn’t say.”
“I see. Did you meet this Stacy?”
“No.”
“Did you walk Aimee to the front door?”
“No, I stayed in the car.”
Loren Muse faked a puzzled look. “Your promise to protect her didn’t extend from the car to the front door?”
“Aimee asked me to stay in the car.”
“Who opened the door to the house then?”
“Nobody.”
“Aimee just let herself in?”
“She said that Stacy was probably asleep and that she always let
s herself in the back door.”
“I see.” Loren rose. “Let’s go then.”
“Where are you taking him?” Hester asked.
“To Ridgewood. Let’s see if we can find this cul-de-sac.”
Myron stood with her. “Can’t you just find Stacy’s address from Aimee’s parents?”
“We already know Stacy’s address,” Loren said. “The problem is, Stacy doesn’t live in Ridgewood. She lives in Livingston.”
CHAPTER 16
When Myron headed out of the interrogation room, he spotted Claire and Erik Biel in an office down the corridor. Even from the distance and through the reflection in the plate glass window, Myron could see the strain. He stopped.
“What’s the problem?” Loren Muse asked.
He gestured with his chin. “I want to talk to them.”
“And say what exactly?”
He hesitated.
“Do you want to waste time explaining yourself,” Loren Muse asked, “or do you want to help us find Aimee?”
She had a point. What would he say right now anyway? “I didn’t harm your daughter? I just drove her to some house in Ridgewood because I didn’t want her to drive with a drunk kid”? What good would that do?
Hester kissed him good-bye. “Keep your trap shut.”
He looked at her.
“Fine, whatever. Just call me if they arrest you, okay?”
“Okay.”
Myron took the elevator to the garage with Lance Banner and Loren Muse. Banner took one car and started out. Myron looked a question at Loren.
“He’s going ahead to get a local to accompany us.”
“Oh.”
Loren Muse moved over to a squad car, complete with the perp cage in the back. She opened the back door for Myron. He sighed and slid in. She took the driver’s seat. There was a laptop attached to the console. She started typing into it.
“So what now?” Myron asked.
“Can I have your mobile phone?”
“Why?”
“Just give it to me.”
He handed it to her. She scanned through the call log and then dropped it on the front passenger’s seat.
“When exactly did you call Hester Crimstein?” she asked.
“I didn’t.”
“Then how—”
“Long story.”
Win would not want his name mentioned.
“It doesn’t look good,” she said. “Calling a lawyer so quickly.”
“I don’t much care how it looks.”
“No, I guess you don’t.”
“So what’s next?”
“We drive to Ridgewood. We try to figure out where you purportedly dropped off Aimee Biel.”
They started moving.
“I know you from somewhere,” Myron said.
“I grew up in Livingston. When I was a kid, I went to some of your high school basketball games.”
“That’s not it,” he said. He sat up. “Wait, did you handle that Hunter case?”
“I was”—she paused—“involved.”
“That’s it. The Matt Hunter case.”
“You know him?”
“I went to school with his brother Bernie. I was at his funeral.” He sat back. “So what’s next? Are you getting a warrant for my house, my car, what?”
“Both.” She checked her watch. “They’re being served now.”
“You’ll probably find evidence that Aimee was in both. I told you about the party, about being in my basement. And I told you I drove her the night before.”
“All very neat and convenient, yes.”
Myron closed his eyes. “Are you going to take my computer too?”
“Of course.”
“I have a lot of private correspondences on it. Client information.”
“They’ll be careful.”
“No, they won’t. Do me a favor, Muse. Inspect the computer yourself, okay?”
“You trust me? I’m almost flattered.”
“Okay, look, cards on the table,” Myron said. “I know I’m a good suspect.”
“Really? Why? Because you were the last person who saw her? Because you’re a single ex-jock who lives alone in his childhood home and picks up teenage girls at two in the morning?” She shrugged. “Why would you be a suspect?”
“I didn’t do it, Muse.”
She kept her eyes focused on the road.
“What is it?” Myron asked.
“Tell me about the gas station.”
“The . . .” And then he saw it. “Oh.”
“Oh what?”
“What do you have—a surveillance video or the attendant’s testimony?”
She said nothing.
“Aimee got mad at me because she thought I’d tell her parents.”
“Why would she think that?”
“Because I kept asking her questions—where she’d been, who she’d been with, what happened.”
“And you’d promised to take her wherever she wanted, no questions asked.”
“Right.”
“So why were you reneging?”
“I wasn’t reneging.”
“But?”
“She didn’t look right.”
“How’s that?”
“She wasn’t in a part of the city where kids would go to drink at that hour. She didn’t look drunk. I didn’t smell booze on her. She looked more upset than anything else. So I thought I’d try to find out why.”
“And she didn’t like that?”
“Right. So at the gas station, Aimee jumped out of the car. She wouldn’t get back in until I promised I wouldn’t ask any more questions or tell her parents. She said”—Myron frowned, hating to betray this sort of confidence—“she said that there were problems at home.”
“With Mom and Dad?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“That that was normal.”
“Man,” Loren said, “you are good. What other nuggets did you offer? ‘Time heals all wounds’?”
“Give me a break, Muse, will you?”
“You’re still my prime suspect, Myron.”
“No, I’m not.”
She lowered her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not this stupid. Neither am I.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve known about me since last night. So you made some calls. Who did you talk to?”
“You mentioned Jake Courter earlier.”
“You know him?”
Loren Muse nodded.
“And what did Sheriff Courter say about me?”
“That in the tri-state area, you’ve caused more ass discomfort than hemorrhoids.”
“But that I didn’t do it, right?”
She said nothing.
“Come on, Muse. You know I couldn’t be this stupid. Phone records, credit card charges, E-ZPass, an eyewitness at the gas station . . . it’s overkill. Plus you know my story will pan out. The phone records show that Aimee called me first. That fits in with what I’m telling you.”
They drove in silence for a while. The car radio buzzed. Loren picked it up. Lance Banner said, “I got a local with me. We’re good to go.”
“I’m almost there,” she said. Then to Myron: “What exit did you take—Ridgewood Avenue or Linwood?”
“Linwood.”
She repeated it into the microphone. She pointed at the green sign through the windshield. “Linwood Avenue West or East?”
“Whichever one says Ridgewood.”
“That would be west.”
He sat back. She took the ramp. “Do you remember how far away from here?”
“I’m not sure. We drove straight for a while. Then we started making a lot of turns. I don’t remember.”
Loren frowned. “You don’t hit me as the forgetful type, Myron.”
“Then I got you fooled.”
“Where were you before she called?”
“At a wedding.”
“Drink much?”
“More than I should have.”
“Were you drunk when she called?”
“I probably would have passed a Breathalyzer.”
“But you were, shall we say, feeling it?”
“Yes.”
“Ironic, don’t you think?”
“Like an Alanis Morissette song,” he said. “I have a question for you.”
“I’m not really into answering your questions, Myron.”
“You asked me if I knew Katie Rochester. Was that just routine—two missing girls—or do you have a reason to believe that their disappearances are related?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I just need to know—”
“Squat. You need to know squat. Now walk me through it again. Everything. What Aimee said, what you said, the phone calls, the drop-off, everything.”
He did. On the corner of Linwood Avenue, Myron noticed a Ridgewood police car slide in behind them. Lance Banner sat in the passenger seat.
“They coming along for jurisdiction?” Myron asked.
“More like protocol. Do you remember where you drove from here?”
“I think we turned right by that big pool.”
“Okay. I have a map up on the computer. We’ll try to find the cul-de-sacs and see what happens.”
Myron’s hometown of Livingston was nouveau and Jewish-y, former farmland converted into look-alike clusters of split-levels, with one big mall. Ridgewood was old Victorians and WASPy, lusher landscapes, and a true town center with restaurants and shops. The houses in Ridgewood were built in a variety of eras. Trees lined both sides of the streets, age tilting them toward the center to form a protective canopy. There was less sameness here.
Was this street familiar?
Myron frowned. He couldn’t say. Not much sameness during the day, but at night, it all looked woodsy. Loren headed down a cul-de-sac. Myron shook his head. Then another and another. The roads twisted seemingly without reason or plan, like something in an abstract painting.
More dead ends.
“You said before that Aimee didn’t seem drunk,” Loren said.
“That’s right.”
“How did she seem?”
“Distraught.” He sat up. “I was thinking that maybe she’d broken up with her boyfriend. I think his name is Randy. Have you talked to him yet?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I need to explain myself to you?”
“It’s not that, but a girl vanishes, you investigate—”
“There wasn’t an investigation. She’s of age, no signs of violence, missing only a few hours . . .”
