“When?”
“Three, four months ago. He was done with her.”
“They went to the prom together last week.”
“That was for show.”
“For show?”
He shrugged. “I’m not surprised any of this happened.”
“Why do you say that, Jake?”
“Because Aimee was no good. She was a slut.”
Myron felt his blood tick. “And why do you say that?”
“I know her, okay? I know the whole family. My son has a bright future. He’s going to Dartmouth in the fall, and I want nothing getting in the way of that. So listen to me, Mr. Basketball. Yeah, I know who you are. You think you’re such hot stuff. Big, tough basketball stud who never made it to the pros. Big-time All-American who crapped out in the end. Who couldn’t hack it once the going got tough.”
Big Jake grinned.
“Wait, is this the part where I break down and cry?” Myron asked.
Big Jake put his finger on Myron’s chest. “You just stay the hell away from my son, you understand me? He has nothing to do with that slut’s disappearance.”
Myron’s hand shot forward. He grabbed Jake by the balls, and squeezed. Jake’s eyes flew open. Myron positioned his body so that nobody could see what he was doing. Then he leaned in so he could whisper in Jake’s ear.
“We’re not going to call Aimee that anymore, are we, Jake? Feel free to nod.”
Big Jake nodded. His face was turning purple. Myron closed his eyes, cursed himself, let go. Jake sucked in a deep breath, staggered back, dropped to one knee. Myron felt like a dope, losing control like that.
“Hey, look, I’m just trying to—”
“Get out,” Jake hissed. “Just… just leave me alone.”
And this time, Myron obeyed.
From the front seat of a Buick Skylark, the Twins watched Myron walk down the Wolfs’ driveway.
“There’s our boy.”
“Yep.”
They weren’t really twins. They weren’t even brothers. They didn’t look alike. They did share a birthday, September 24, but Jeb was eight years older than Orville. That was part of how they got the name — having the same birthday. The other was how they met: at a Minnesota Twins baseball game. Some would claim that it was a sadistic turn of fate or ridiculously bad star alignment that brought them together. Others would claim that there was a bond there, two lost souls that recognized a kindred spirit, as if their streak of cruelty and psychosis were some kind of magnet that drew them to each other.
Jeb and Orville met in the bleachers at the Dome in Minneapolis when Jeb, the older Twin, got into a fight with five beer-marinated head cases. Orville stepped in and together they put all five in the hospital. That was eight years ago. Three of the guys were still in comas.
Jeb and Orville stayed together.
These two men, both life-loners, neither married, never in a long-term relationship, became inseparable. They moved around from city to city, town to town, always leaving havoc in their wake. For fun, they would enter bars and pick fights and see how close they could come to killing a man without actually killing him. When they destroyed a drug-dealing motorcycle gang in Montana, their rep was cemented.
Jeb and Orville did not look dangerous. Jeb wore an ascot and smoking jacket. Orville had the Woodstock thing going on — a ponytail, scruffy facial hair, pink-tinted glasses, and a tie-dyed shirt. They sat in the car and watched Myron.
Jeb began singing, as he always did, mixing English songs with his own Spanish interpretation. Right now he was singing the Police’s “Message in a Bottle.”
“I hope that someone gets my, I hope that someone gets my, I hope that someone gets my, mensaje en una botella…”
“I like that one, dude,” Orville said.
“Thank you, mi amigo.”
“Man, you were younger, you should do that American Idol. That Spanish thing. They’d love that. Even that Simon judge who hates everything.”
“I love Simon.”
“Me too. The dude is far out.”
They watched Myron get into his car.
“So, like, what do you think he was doing at this house?” Orville asked.
Singing: “You ask me if our love would grow, yo no se, yo no se.”
“The Beatles, right?”
“Bingo.”
“And yo no se. I don’t know.”
“Right again.”
“Groovy.” Orville checked the car’s clock. “Should we call Rochester and tell him what’s shaking?”
Jeb shrugged. “Might as well.”
Myron Bolitar started driving. They followed. Rochester picked up on the second ring.
“He, like, left that house,” Orville said.
Rochester said, “Keep following him.”
“Your dollars,” Orville said with a shrug. “But I think it’s a waste, man.”
“He may give you a clue where he stashed the girls.”
“If we, like, snatch his ass now, he’ll give us all the clues he knows.”
There was a moment of hesitation. Orville smiled and gave Jeb a thumbs-up sign.
“I’m at his house,” Rochester said. “That’s where I want you to take him.”
“Are you at or in?”
“At or in what?”
“His house.”
“I’m outside. In my car.”
“So you don’t know if he’s got a plasma TV.”
“What? No, I don’t know.”
“If we’re going to be working him awhile, it’d be righteous if he had one. In case it gets to be a drag, you know what I’m saying? The Yankees are playing against Boston. Jeb and me dig watching in HD. That’s why I’m asking.”
There was another moment of hesitation.
“Maybe he has one,” Rochester said.
“That would be groovy. That DLP technology is good too. Anything with high-def, I guess. By the way, do you, like, got a plan or anything?”
“I’m going to wait until he comes back home,” Dominick Rochester said. “I’ll tell him I want to talk to him. We go inside. You go inside.”
“Radical.”
“Where is he going now?”
Orville checked the navigator on the car. “Hey, like, unless I’m mistaken, we’re heading back to Bolitar’s crib right now.”
CHAPTER 21
Myron was two blocks from home when the cell rang. Win asked, “Did I ever tell you about Cingle Shaker?” “No.”
“She’s a private eye. If she were any hotter, your teeth would melt.”
“That’s swell, really.”
“I’ve had her,” Win said.
“Good for you.”
“I went back for seconds. And we still talk.”
“Yikes,” Myron said.
Win still talking to a woman he’d slept with more than once — in human terms, that was like a marriage celebrating its silver anniversary.
“Is there a reason you’re sharing this warm moment with me right now?” Then Myron remembered something. “Wait, a private eye named Cingle. Hester Crimstein called her when I was being interrogated, right?”
“Exactly. Cingle has gathered some new information on the disappearances.”
“You set up a meet?”
“She’s waiting for you at Baumgart’s.”
Baumgart’s, long Myron’s favorite restaurant serving both Chinese and American dishes, had recently opened a branch in Livingston.
“How will I recognize her?”
“Hot enough to make your teeth melt,” Win said. “How many women at Baumgart’s fit that description?”
Win hung up. Five minutes later Myron entered the restaurant. Cingle didn’t disappoint. She was curvy to the max, built like a Marvel comic drawing come to life. Myron walked up to Peter Chin, the owner, to say hello. Peter frowned at him.
“What?”
“She’s not Jessica,” Peter said.