Promise Me (21 page)

D
r. Edna Skylar met Myron in the lobby of St. Barnabas Medical Center. She had all the props—a white coat, a name tag with the hospital logo, a stethoscope dangling across her neck, a clipboard in her hand. She had that impressive doctor bearing too, complete with the enviable posture, the small smile, the firm-but-not-too-firm handshake.

Myron introduced himself. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Tell me about the missing girl.”

Her voice left no room for arguments. Myron needed her to trust him, so he launched into the story, keeping Aimee’s last name out of it. They both stood in the middle of the lobby. Patients and visitors walked on either side of them, some coming very close.

Myron said, “Maybe we could go somewhere private.”

Edna Skylar smiled, but there was no joy in it. “These people are preoccupied with things much more important to them than us.”

Myron nodded. He saw an old man in a wheelchair with an oxygen mask. He saw a pale woman in an ill-fitted wig checking in with a look both resigned and bewildered, as if she was wondering if she’d ever check out and if it even mattered anymore.

Edna Skylar watched him. “A lot of death in here,” she said.

“How do you do it?” Myron asked.

“You want the standard cliché about being able to detach the personal from the professional?”

“Not really.”

“The truth is, I don’t know. My work is interesting. It never gets old. I see death a lot. That never gets old either. It hasn’t helped me to
accept my own mortality or any of that. Just the opposite. Death is a constant outrage. Life is more valuable than you can ever imagine. I’ve seen that, the real value of life, not the usual platitudes we hear about it. Death is the enemy. I don’t accept it. I fight it.”

“And that never gets tiring?”

“Sure it does. But what else am I going to do? Bake cookies? Work on Wall Street?” She looked around. “Come on, you’re right—it’s distracting out here. Walk with me, but I’m on a tight schedule so keep talking.”

Myron told her the rest of the story of Aimee’s disappearance. He kept it as short as possible—kept his own name out of it—but he made sure to hit upon the fact that both girls used the same ATM. She asked a few questions, mostly small clarifications. They reached her office and sat down.

“Sounds like she ran away,” Edna Skylar said.

“I’m aware of that.”

“Someone leaked you my name, is that correct?”

“More or less.”

“So you have some idea what I saw?”

“Just the basics. What you said convinced the investigators that Katie was a runaway. I’m just wondering if you saw something that makes you think differently.”

“No. And I’ve gone over it a hundred times in my head.”

“You’re aware,” Myron said, “that kidnap victims often identify with their abductors.”

“I know all that. The Stockholm syndrome and all its bizarre offshoots. But it just didn’t seem that way. Katie didn’t look particularly exhausted. The body language was right. There wasn’t panic in her eyes or any kind of cult-like zealousness. Her eyes were clear, in fact. I didn’t see signs of drugs there, though granted I only got a brief look.”

“Where exactly did you first see her?’

“On Eighth Avenue near Twenty-first Street.”

“And she was heading into the subway?”

“Yes.”

“A couple of trains go through that station.”

“She was taking the C train.”

The C train basically ran north-south through Manhattan. That wouldn’t help.

“Tell me about the man she was with.”

“Thirty to thirty-five. Average height. Nice looking. Long, dark hair. Two-day beard.”

“Scars, tattoos, anything like that?”

Edna Skylar shook her head and told him the story, how she’d been walking on the street with her husband, how Katie looked different, older, more sophisticated, different hair, how she wasn’t even positive it was Katie until Katie uttered those final words:
“You can’t tell anybody you saw me.”

“And you said she seemed scared?”

“Yes.”

“But not of the man she was with?”

“That’s right. May I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“I know something about you,” she said. “No, I’m not a basketball fan, but Google works wonders. I use it all the time. With patients too. If I’m seeing someone new, I check them out online.”

“Okay.”

“So my question is, why are you trying to find the girl?”

“I’m a family friend.”

“But why you?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

Edna Skylar gave that a second, seemingly unsure if she should accept his vague response. “How are her parents holding up?”

“Not well.”

“Their daughter is most likely safe. Like Katie.”

“Could be.”

“You should tell them that. Offer them some comfort. Let them know she’ll be okay.”

“I don’t think it’ll do any good.”

She looked off. Something crossed her face.

“Dr. Skylar?”

“One of my children ran away,” Edna Skylar said. “He was seventeen. You know the nature versus nurture question? Well, I was a crappy mother. I know that. But my son was trouble from day one. He got into fights. He shoplifted. He got arrested when he was sixteen for stealing a car. He was heavily into drugs, though I don’t think I knew it at that time. This was in the days before we talked about ADD or put kids on Ritalin or any of that. If that was a serious option, I probably would have done it. I reacted instead by withdrawing and hoping he’d outgrow it. I didn’t get involved in his life. I didn’t give him direction.”

She said it all matter-of-factly.

“Anyway, when he ran away, I didn’t do anything. I almost expected it. A week passed. Two weeks. He didn’t call. I didn’t know where he was. Children are a blessing. But they also rip your heart out in ways you could never imagine.”

Edna Skylar stopped.

“What happened to him?” Myron asked.

“Nothing overly dramatic. He eventually called. He was out on the West Coast, trying to become a big star. He needed money. He stayed out there for two years. Failed at everything he did. Then he came back. He’s still a mess. I try to love him, to care about him, but”—she shrugged—“doctoring comes natural to me. Mothering does not.”

Edna Skylar looked at Myron. He could see that she wasn’t finished, so he waited.

“I wish . . .” Her throat caught. “It’s a horrible cliché, but more than anything, I wish I could start over again. I love my son, I really do, but I don’t know what to do for him. He may be beyond hope. I know how cold that sounds, but when you make professional diagnoses all day, you tend to make them in your personal life too. My point is, I’ve learned that I can’t control those I love. So I control those I don’t.”

“I’m not following,” Myron said.

“My patients,” she explained. “They are strangers, but I care a great deal about them. It’s not because I’m a generous or wonderful person, but because in my mind, they are still innocent. And I judge them. I know that’s wrong. I know that I should treat every patient the same, and in terms of treatment, I think I do. But the fact is, if I Google the
person and see that they spent time in jail or seem like a lowlife, I try to get them to go to another doctor.”

“You prefer the innocents,” Myron said.

“Precisely. Those whom—I know how this will sound—those whom I deem pure. Or at least, purer.”

Myron thought about his own recent reasoning, how the life of the Twins held no value to him, about how many civilians he’d sacrifice to save his own son. Was this reasoning that much different?

“So what I’m trying to say is, I think about this girl’s parents, the ones you said aren’t doing well, and I worry about them. I want to help.”

Before Myron could respond, there was a light rap on the door. It opened, and a head of gray hair popped through. Myron rose. The gray-haired man stepped all the way in and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were with someone.”

“It’s okay, honey,” Edna Skylar said, “but maybe you could come back later?”

“Of course.”

The gray-haired man wore a white coat too. He spotted Myron and smiled. Myron recognized the smile. Edna Skylar wasn’t a basketball fan, but this guy was. Myron stuck out his hand. “Myron Bolitar.”

“Oh, I know who you are. I’m Stanley Rickenback. Better known as Mr. Dr. Edna Skylar.”

They shook hands.

“I saw you play at Duke,” Stanley Rickenback said. “You were something else.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to see if my blushing bride wanted to join me for the lunchtime culinary delight that is our hospital cafeteria.”

“I was just leaving,” Myron said. Then: “You were with your wife when she saw Katie Rochester, weren’t you?”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a police officer?”

“No.”

Edna Skylar was already up. She kissed her husband’s cheek. “Let’s hurry. I have patients in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, I was there,” Stanley Rickenback said to Myron. “Why, what’s your interest?”

“I’m looking into the disappearance of another girl.”

“Wait, another girl ran away?”

“Could be. I’d like to hear your impressions, Dr. Rickenback.”

“Of what?”

“Did Katie Rochester seem like a runaway to you too?”

“Yes.”

“You seem pretty sure,” Myron said.

“She was with a man. She made no move to escape. She asked Edna not to tell anybody and—” Rickenback turned to his wife. “Did you tell him?”

Edna made a face. “Let’s just go.”

“Tell me what?”

“My darling Stanley is getting old and senile,” Edna said. “He imagines things.”

“Ha, ha, very funny. You have your expertise. I have mine.”

“Your expertise?” Myron said.

“It’s nothing,” Edna said.

“It’s not nothing,” Stanley insisted.

“Fine,” Edna said. “Tell him what you think you saw.”

Stanley turned to Myron. “My wife told you about how she studies faces. That was how she recognized the girl. She looks at people and tries to make a diagnosis. Just for fun. I don’t do that. I leave my work at the office.”

“What is your specialty, Dr. Rickenback?”

He smiled. “That’s the thing.”

“What is?”

“I’m an ob-gyn. I didn’t really think about it then. But when we got home, I looked up pictures of Katie Rochester on the Web. You know, the ones released to the media. I wanted to see if it was the same girl we saw in the subway. And that was why I’m fairly certain of what I saw.”

“Which is?”

Stanley suddenly seemed unsure of himself.

“See?” Edna shook her head. “This is such total nonsense.”

“It might be,” Stanley Rickenback agreed.

Myron said, “But?”

“But either Katie Rochester put on some weight,” Stanley Rickenback said, “or maybe, just maybe, she’s pregnant.”

H
arry Davis gave his class a phony-baloney read-this-chapter-now assignment and headed out. His students were surprised. Other teachers played that card all the time, the do-busy-silent-work-so-I-can-catch-a-smoke card. But Mr. D, Teacher of the Year four years running, never did that.

The corridors at Livingston High were ridiculously long. When he was alone in one, like right now, looking down to the end made him dizzy. But that was Harry Davis. He didn’t like it quiet. He liked it lively, when this artery was loaded with noise and kids and backpacks and adolescent angst.

He found the classroom, gave the door a quick knock, and stuck his head in. Drew Van Dyne taught mostly malfeasants. The room reflected that. Half the kids had iPods in their ears. Some sat on top of their desks. Others leaned against the window. A beefy guy was making out with a girl in the back corner, their mouths open and wide. You could see the saliva.

Drew Van Dyne had his feet on the desk, his hands folded on his lap. He turned toward Harry Davis.

“Mr. Van Dyne? May I speak with you a moment?”

Drew Van Dyne gave him the cocky grin. Van Dyne was probably thirty-five, ten years younger than Davis. He’d come in as a music teacher eight years ago. He looked the part, the former rock ’n’ roller who woulda-shoulda made it to the top except the stupid record companies could never understand his true genius. So now he gave guitar lessons and worked in a music store where he scoffed at your pedestrian taste in CDs.

Recent cutbacks in the music department had forced Van Dyne into whatever class was closest to babysitting.

“Why of course, Mr. D.”

The two teachers stepped into the hallway. The doors were thick. When it closed, the corridor was silent again.

Van Dyne still had the cocky grin. “I’m just about to start my lesson, Mr. D. What can I do for you?”

Davis whispered because every sound echoed out here. “Did you hear about Aimee Biel?”

“Who?”

“Aimee Biel. A student here.”

“I don’t think she’s one of mine.”

“She’s missing, Drew.”

Van Dyne said nothing.

“Did you hear me?”

“I just said I don’t know her.”

“Drew—”

“And,” Van Dyne interrupted, “I think we’d be notified if a student had gone missing, don’t you?”

“The police think she’s a runaway.”

“And you don’t?” Van Dyne held on to the grin, maybe even spread it a bit. “The police will want to know why you feel that way, Mr. D. Maybe you should go to them. Tell them all you know.”

“I might just do that.”

“Good.” Van Dyne leaned closer and whispered. “I think the police would definitely want to know when you last saw Aimee, don’t you?”

Van Dyne leaned back and waited for Davis’s reaction.

“You see, Mr. D,” Van Dyne went on, “they’ll need to know everything. They’ll need to know where she went, who she talked to, what they talked about. They’ll probably look into all that, don’t you think? Maybe open up a full investigation into the wonderful works of our Teacher of the Year.”

“How do you . . . ?” Davis felt the quake start in his legs. “You have more to lose than I do.”

“Really?” Drew Van Dyne was so close now that Davis could feel the spittle in his face. “Tell me, Mr. D. What exactly do I have to lose?
My lovely house in scenic Ridgewood? My sterling reputation as a beloved teacher? My perky wife who shares my passion for educating the young? Or maybe my lovely daughters who look up to me so?”

They stood there for a moment, still in each other’s face. Davis couldn’t speak. Somewhere in the distance, another world maybe, he heard a bell ring. Doors flew open. Students poured out. The arteries filled with their laughter and angst. It all grabbed hold of Harry Davis. He closed his eyes and let it, let it sweep him away to someplace far away from Drew Van Dyne, someplace he’d much rather be.

The Livingston Mall was aging and trying hard not to show it, but the improvements came across more like a bad face-lift than true youth.

Bedroom Rendezvous was located on the lower level. To some, the lingerie store was like Victoria’s Secret’s trailer-park cousin, but the truth was, the cousins were really a lot alike. It was all about presentation. The sexy models on the big posters were closer to porno stars, with wagging tongues and suggestive hand placement. The Bedroom Rendezvous slogan, which was centered across the buxom models’ cleavage, read:
WHAT KIND OF WOMAN DO YOU WANT TO TAKE TO BED?

“A hot one,” Myron said out loud. It was again not that different from Victoria’s Secret commercials, the one where Tyra and Frederique are all oiled up and ask, “What is sexy?” Answer: Really hot women. The clothing seems beside the point.

The saleswoman wore a tight tiger print. She had big hair and chewed gum, but there was a confidence there that somehow made it work. Her tag read
SALLY ANN
.

“Looking to make a purchase?” Sally Ann asked.

“I doubt you have anything in my size,” Myron said.

“You’d be surprised. So what’s the deal?” She motioned toward the poster. “You just like staring at the cleavage?”

“Well, yes. But that’s not why I’m here.” Myron pulled out a photograph of Aimee. “Do you recognize this girl?”

“Are you a cop?”

“I might be.”

“Nah.”

“What makes you say that?”

Sally Ann shrugged. “So what are you after?”

“This girl is missing. I’m trying to find her.”

“Let me take a look.”

Myron handed her the photograph. Sally Ann studied it. “She looks familiar.”

“A customer maybe?”

“No. I remember customers.”

Myron reached into a plastic bag and pulled out the white outfit he’d found in Aimee’s drawer. “This look familiar?”

“Sure. It’s from our Naughty-pout line.”

“Did you sell this one?”

“It could be. I’ve sold a few.”

“The tag is still on it. Do you think you could trace down who purchased it?”

Sally Ann frowned and pointed at the picture of Aimee. “You think your missing girl bought it?”

“I found it in her drawer.”

“Yeah, but still.”

“Still what?”

“It’s too slutty and uncomfortable.”

“And, what, she looks classy?”

“No, not that. Women rarely buy this one. Men do. The material is itchy. It rides up the crotch. This is a man’s fantasy, not a woman’s. It’s a bit like porno videos.” Sally Ann cocked her head and worked the gum. “Have you ever watched a porno flick?”

Myron kept his face blank. “Never, ever, never,” he said.

Sally Ann laughed. “Right. Anyway, when a woman picks out the film, it’s totally different. It usually has a story or maybe a title with the word ‘sensuous’ or ‘loving’ in it. It might be raunchy or whatever, but it usually isn’t called something like
Dirty Whore 5
. You know what I mean?”

“Let’s assume I do. And this outfit?”

“It’s the equivalent.”

“Of
Dirty Whore Whatever
?”

“Right. No woman would pick it out.”

“So how do I find out who bought it for her?”

“We don’t keep records or anything like that. I could ask some of the other girls, but . . .” Sally Ann shrugged.

Myron thanked her and headed out. As a young boy, Myron had come here with his dad. They had frequented Herman’s Sporting Goods back then. The store was now out of business. But as he exited Bedroom Rendezvous, he still looked down the corridor, to where Herman’s used to be. And two doors down, he spotted a store with a familiar name.

PLANET MUSIC
.

Myron flashed back to Aimee’s room. Planet Music. The guitars had been from Planet Music. There had been receipts in Aimee’s drawer from there. And here it was, her favorite music shop, located two stores down from Bedroom Rendezvous.

Another coincidence?

In Myron’s youth, the store in this spot had sold pianos and organs. Myron had always wondered about that. Piano-organ stores at malls. You go to the mall to buy clothes, a CD, a toy, maybe a stereo. Who goes to the mall to buy a piano?

Clearly not many people.

The pianos and organs were gone. Planet Music sold CDs and smaller instruments. They had signs for rentals. Trumpets, clarinets, violins—probably did a big business with the schools.

The kid behind the counter was maybe twenty-three, wore a hemp poncho, and looked like a seedier version of the average Starbucks barista. He had a dusty knit hat atop a shaved head. He sported the now seemingly prerequisite soul patch.

Myron gave him the stern eye and slapped the picture down on the counter. “You know her?”

The kid hesitated a second too long. Myron jumped in.

“You answer my questions, you don’t get busted.”

“Busted for what?”

“Do you know her?”

He nodded. “That’s Aimee.”

“She shops here?”

“Sure, all the time,” he said, his eyes darting everywhere but on
Myron. “And she understands music too. Most people come in here, they ask for boy bands.” He said
boy bands
the way most people say
bestiality
. “But Aimee, she rocks.”

“How well do you know her?”

“Not very. I mean, she doesn’t come here for me.”

The poncho kid stopped then.

“Who does she come here for?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I don’t want to make you empty your pockets.”

He raised his hands. “Hey, I’m totally clean.”

“Then I’ll plant something on you.”

“What the . . . You serious?”

“Cancer serious.” Myron worked the stern eye again. He wasn’t great at the stern eye. The strain was giving him a headache. “Who does she come here to see?”

“My assistant manager.”

“He have a name?”

“Drew. Drew Van Dyne.”

“Is he here?”

“No. He comes in this afternoon.”

“You got an address for him? A phone number?”

“Hey,” the kid said, suddenly wise. “Let me see your badge.”

“Bye now.”

Myron headed out of the store. He found Sally Ann again.

She clacked the gum. “Back so soon?”

“Couldn’t stay away,” Myron said. “Do you know a guy who works at Planet Music named Drew Van Dyne?”

“Oh,” she said, nodding as though it all made sense now. “Oh yes.”