“What?” she snapped. “You can’t possibly believe that Myron would get involved—”
“She called him right before…” He shrugged. “Why would Aimee call him? Why wouldn’t he say something about that when I saw him at the gym?”
“I don’t know, but the idea”—she stopped, snapped her fingers—“wait, Myron’s dating a friend of mine, as a matter of fact. Ali Wilder. An adult woman, thank you very much. A lovely widow with two kids of her own. The idea that Myron could possibly…”
Erik squeezed his eyes shut.
Loren said, “Mr. Biel?”
His voice was soft. “Aimee hasn’t been herself lately.”
“How so?”
Erik’s eyes were still shut. “We both dismissed it as normal teenage stuff. But the last few months, she’s been secretive.”
“That is normal, Erik,” Claire said.
“It’s gotten worse.”
Claire shook her head. “You still think of her as your little girl. That’s all it is.”
“You know it’s more than that, Claire.”
“No, Erik, I don’t.”
He closed his eyes again.
“What is it, Mr. Biel?” Loren asked.
“Two weeks ago I tried to access her computer.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to read her e-mail.”
His wife glared at him, but he didn’t see it — or maybe he didn’t care. Loren pushed ahead.
“So what happened?”
“She changed her password. I couldn’t get on.”
“Because she wanted privacy,” Claire said. “You think that’s unusual? I had a diary when I was a kid. I kept it locked with a key and still hid it. So what?”
Erik went on. “I called our Internet provider. I’m the bill payer with the master account. So they gave me the new password. Then I went online to check her e-mails.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “They were gone. All of them. She’d deleted every one of them.”
“She knew you’d snoop,” Claire said. Her tone was a blend of anger and defensiveness. “She was just guarding against it.”
Erik spun toward her. “Do you really believe that, Claire?”
“Do you really believe that she’s having an affair with Myron?”
Erik did not reply.
Claire spun back toward Loren and Lance. “Have you asked Myron about the calls?”
“Not yet.”
“So what are we waiting for?” Claire started for her purse. “Let’s go now. He’ll straighten this out.”
“He’s not in Livingston,” Loren said. “In fact, he flew down to Miami, not long after he played ball with your husband.”
Claire was about to ask something else, but she stopped. For the first time, Loren could see the doubt crawl into her face. Loren decided to use that. She rose.
“We’ll be in touch,” Loren said.
CHAPTER 15
Myron sat on the plane and thought about his old love, Jessica. Shouldn’t he be happy for her?
She had always been fiery to the point of a pain the ass. His mother and Esperanza hadn’t liked her. His father, like a great TV anchor, played it neutral. Win yawned. In Win’s eyes, women were either doable or they weren’t. Jessica was most definitely doable, but after that… so what?
The women thought that Myron was blinded by Jessica’s beauty. She could write like a dream. She was two steps beyond passionate. But they were different. Myron wanted to live like his parents. Jessica sneered at that idyllic nonsense. It was a constant tension that both kept them apart and drew them to each other.
Now Jessica was marrying some Wall Street dude named Stone. Big Stone, Myron thought. Rolling Stone. The Stoner. Smokin’ Stone. The Stone Man.
Myron hated him.
What had become of Jessica?
Seven years, Myron. It changes a person.
But that much?
The plane landed. He checked his phone while the plane taxied toward the terminal. There was a text message from Win:
YOUR PLANE JUST LANDED. PLEASE FILL IN YOUR OWN WITTICISM ABOUT MY WORKING FOR THE AIRLINES. I’M WAITING BY THE LOWER LEVEL CURB.
The plane slowed as it approached the gate. The pilot asked everybody to stay in their seats with their belts fastened. Almost everybody ignored that request. You could hear the belts clack open. Why? What did people gain from that extra second? Was it that we just liked to defy rules?
He debated calling Aimee’s cell phone again. That might be overkill. How many calls could he make, after all? The promise had also been pretty clear. He would drive her anywhere. He would not ask questions. He would not tell her parents. It should hardly surprise him that after such a venture, Aimee would not want to talk to him for a few days.
He got off the plane and was starting toward the exit when he heard someone call out, “Myron Bolitar?”
He turned. There were two of them, a man and a woman. The woman had been the one who called his name. She was small, not much over five feet. Myron was six-four. He towered over her. She did not seem intimidated. The man with her sported a military cut. He also looked vaguely familiar.
The man had a badge out. The woman did not.
“I’m Essex County investigator Loren Muse,” she said. “This is Livingston police detective Lance Banner.”
“Banner,” Myron said automatically. “You Buster’s brother?”
Lance Banner almost smiled. “Yeah.”
“Good guy, Buster. I played hoops with him.”
“I remember.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Good, thanks.”
Myron did not know what was going on, but he’d had experience with law enforcement. Out of habit more than anything else, he reached for his cell phone and pressed the button. It was his speed dial. It would reach Win. Win would hit the mute button and listen in. This was an old trick of theirs, one Myron hadn’t employed in years, and yet there he was, with police officers, falling into the old routines.
From his past run-ins with the law, Myron had learned a few basic truisms that could be summed up thusly: Just because you haven’t done anything wrong doesn’t mean you’re not in trouble. Best to play it with that knowledge.
“We’d like you to come with us,” Loren Muse said.
“May I ask what this is about?”
“We won’t take much of your time.”
“I got Knicks tickets.”
“We’ll try not to interfere with your plans.”
“Courtside.” He looked at Lance Banner. “Celebrity row.”
“Are you refusing to come with us?”
“Are you arresting me?”
“No.”
“Then before I agree to go with you, I’d like you to tell me what it’s about.”
Loren Muse did not hesitate this time. “It’s about Aimee Biel.”
Whack. He should have seen it coming, but he didn’t. Myron staggered back a step. “Is she all right?”
“Why don’t you come with us?”
“I asked you—”
“I heard you, Mr. Bolitar.” She turned away from him now and started heading down toward the exit. “Why don’t you come with us so we can discuss this further?”
Lance Banner drove. Loren Muse rode shotgun. Myron sat in the backseat.
“Is she okay?” Myron asked.
They would not reply. He was being played, Myron knew that, but he didn’t much care. He wanted to know about Aimee. The rest was irrelevant.
“Talk to me, for crying out loud.”
Nothing.
“I saw her Saturday night. You know that already, right?”
They did not respond. He knew why. The ride was mercifully short. That explained their silence. They wanted his admissions on record. It was probably taking all of their willpower not to say anything, but soon they would have him in an interrogation room and put it all on tape.