Three Harlan Coben Novels (22 page)

C
laire jumped at the sound of the phone.

She had not slept since Aimee had gone missing. In the past two days Claire had imbibed enough coffee, and thus the caffeine, to be wired for sound. She kept going back to the Rochesters’ visit, the father’s anger, the mother’s meekness. The mother. Joan Rochester. Something was definitely up with that woman.

Claire spent the morning going through Aimee’s room while wondering about how to get Joan Rochester to talk. A mother-to-mother approach, maybe. Aimee’s room held no new surprises. Claire started going through old boxes, stuff she’d saved from what seemed like two weeks ago. The pencil holder Aimee made Erik in preschool. Her first-grade report card—all As, plus Mrs. Rohrbach’s comment that Aimee was a gifted student, fun to have in class, and had a bright future. She stared at the words
bright future,
letting them mock her.

The phone jangled a nerve. She dove for it, hoping once again that it was Aimee, that this was all some silly misunderstanding, that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for where she was.

“Hello?”

“She’s fine.”

The voice was robotic. Neither male nor female. Like an edgier version of the one who tells you that your call is valued and to hold for the next available representative.

“Who is this?”

“She’s fine. Just let it be. You have my word.”

“Who is this? Let me speak to Aimee.”

But the only response was a dial tone.

Joan Rochester said, “Dominick isn’t home right now.”

“I know,” Myron said. “I want to talk to you.”

“Me?” As if the very idea of someone wanting to talk to her was a shock on par with a Mars landing. “But why?”

“Please, Mrs. Rochester, it’s very important.”

“I think we should wait for Dominick.”

Myron pushed past her. “I don’t.”

The house was neat and orderly. It was all straight lines and right angles. No curves, no surprising splashes of color, everything standing upright, as if the very room didn’t want to draw attention to itself.

“Can I fix you some coffee?”

“Where is your daughter, Mrs. Rochester?”

She blinked maybe a dozen times in rapid succession. Myron knew men who blinked like that. They were always the guys who were bullied in school as kids and never got over it. She managed to stammer out the word, “What?”

“Where is Katie?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie.”

More blinking. Myron did not let himself feel sorry for her. “Why . . . I’m not lying.”

“You know where Katie is. I assume you have a reason for keeping quiet about it. I assume it involves your husband. That isn’t my concern.”

Joan Rochester tried to straighten her back. “I’d like you to leave this house.”

“No.”

“Then I’m going to call my husband.”

“I have phone records,” Myron said.

More blinking. She put up her hand like she was warding off a blow.

“For your mobile. Your husband wouldn’t check that. And even if he did, an incoming call from a pay phone in New York City probably wouldn’t mean much. But I know about a woman named Edna Skylar.”

Confusion replaced the fear. “Who?”

“She’s a doctor at St. Barnabas. She spotted your daughter in Manhattan. More specifically, near Twenty-third Street. You’ve received several phone calls at seven
P
.
M
. from a phone booth four blocks away, which is close enough.”

“Those calls weren’t from my daughter.”

“No?”

“They were from a friend.”

“Uh-huh.”

“My friend shops in the city. She likes to call when she finds something interesting. To get my opinion.”

“On a pay phone?”

“Yes.”

“Her name?”

“I’m not going to tell you that. And I insist you leave this very instant.”

Myron shrugged, threw up his hands. “I guess this is a dead end for me then.”

Joan Rochester was blinking again. She was about to start blinking some more.

“But maybe your husband will have more luck.”

All color drained from her face.

“I might as well tell him what I know. You can explain about your friend who likes to shop. He’ll believe you, don’t you think?”

Terror widened her eyes. “You have no idea what he’s like.”

“I think I do. He had two goons try to torture me.”

“That’s because he thought you knew what happened to Katie.”

“And you let him, Mrs. Rochester. You’d have let him torture and maybe kill me, and you knew that I had nothing to do with it.”

She stopped blinking. “You can’t tell my husband. Please.”

“I have no interest in harming your daughter. I’m only interested in finding Aimee Biel.”

“I don’t know anything about that girl.”

“But your daughter might.”

Joan Rochester shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what?”

Joan Rochester walked away, just leaving him there. She crossed the room. When she turned back to him, her eyes were filled with tears. “If he finds out. If he finds her . . .”

“He won’t.”

She shook her head again.

“I promise,” he said.

His words—yet another seemingly empty promise—echoed in the still room.

“Where is she, Mrs. Rochester? I just need to talk to her.”

Her eyes started moving around the room as if she suspected her breakfront might overhear them. She stepped toward the back door and opened it. She signaled for him to go outside.

“Where is Katie?” Myron asked.

“I don’t know. That’s the truth.”

“Mrs. Rochester, I really don’t have time—”

“The calls.”

“What about them?”

“You said they came from New York?”

“Yes.”

She looked off.

“What?”

“Maybe that’s where she is.”

“You really don’t know?”

“Katie wouldn’t tell me. I didn’t ask either.”

“Why not?”

Joan Rochester’s eyes were perfect circles. “If I don’t know,” she said, finally meeting his eye, “then he can’t make me tell.”

Next door a lawn mower started up, shattering the silence. Myron waited a moment. “But you’ve heard from Katie?”

“Yes.”

“And you know she’s safe.”

“Not from him.”

“But in general, I mean. She wasn’t kidnapped or anything like that.”

She nodded slowly.

“Edna Skylar spotted her with a dark-haired man. Who is he?”

“You’re underestimating Dominick. Please don’t do that. Just let us be. You’re trying to find another girl. Katie has nothing to do with her.”

“They both used the same ATM machine.”

“That’s a coincidence.”

Myron did not bother arguing. “When is Katie calling again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you’re not much use to me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I need to talk to your daughter. If you can’t help me, I’ll have to take the chance that your husband can.”

She just shook her head.

“I know she’s pregnant,” Myron said.

Joan Rochester groaned.

“You don’t understand,” she said again.

“Then tell me.”

“The dark-haired man . . . His name is Rufus. If Dom finds out, he’ll kill him. It is that simple. And I don’t know what he’ll do to Katie.”

“So what’s their plan? Hide forever?”

“I doubt they have a plan.”

“And Dominick doesn’t know about any of this?”

“He’s not stupid. He thinks Katie probably ran away.”

Myron thought about it. “Then I don’t get something. If he suspects Katie ran away, why did he go to the press?”

Joan Rochester smiled then, but it was the saddest smile Myron had ever seen. “Don’t you see?”

“No.”

“He likes to win. No matter what the cost.”

“I still don’t—”

“He did it to put pressure on them. He wants to find Katie. He doesn’t care about anything else. That’s his strength. He doesn’t mind taking hits. Big hits. Dom doesn’t embarrass. He never feels shame. He’s willing to lose or suffer to make you hurt and suffer more. That’s the kind of man he is.”

They fell quiet. Myron wanted to ask why she stayed married to him, but that wasn’t his business. There were so many cases of abused women in this country. He’d like to help, but Joan Rochester wouldn’t
accept it—and he had more pressing matters on his mind. He thought back to the Twins, about not being bothered by their deaths, about Edna Skylar and the way she handled what she thought of as her purer patients.

Joan Rochester had made her choice. Or maybe she was just a little less innocent than the others.

“You should tell the police,” Myron said.

“Tell them what?”

“That your daughter is a runaway.”

She snorted. “You don’t get it, do you? Dom would find out. He has sources in the department. How do you think he found out about you so fast?”

But, Myron realized, he hadn’t learned about Edna Skylar. Yet. So his sources weren’t infallible. Myron wondered if he could use that, but he didn’t see how. He moved closer now. He took Joan Rochester’s hands in his and made her look him in the eye.

“Your daughter will be safe. I guarantee it. But I need to talk to her. That’s all. Just talk. Do you understand?”

She swallowed. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

Myron said nothing.

“If I don’t cooperate, you’ll go to Dom.”

“Yes,” Myron said.

“Katie is supposed to call me tonight at seven,” she said. “I’ll let you talk to her then.”

W
in called Myron on the cell phone.

“Drew Van Dyne, your assistant Planet Music manager, is also a teacher at Livingston High.”

“Well, well,” Myron said.

“Indeed.”

Myron was on his way to pick up Claire. She had told him about the “she’s fine” phone call. Myron had immediately reached out for Berruti, who was, as the voice mail informed him, “away from her desk.” He told her what he needed in the message.

Now Myron and Claire were going to Livingston High to check out Aimee’s locker. Myron also hoped to catch up with her ex, Randy Wolf. And Harry “Mr. D” Davis. And now, most of all, Drew “Music Teacher–Lingerie Buyer” Van Dyne.

“You have anything else on him?”

“Van Dyne is married, no kids. He’s had two DUIs in the past four years and one drug arrest. He has a juvie record but it’s sealed. That’s all I have so far.”

“So what is he doing buying lingerie for a student like Aimee Biel?”

“Pretty obvious, I would say.”

“I just talked to Mrs. Rochester. Katie got pregnant and ran away with her boyfriend.”

“A not-uncommon story.”

“No. But what—do we think Aimee did the same?”

“Ran away with her boyfriend? Not likely. No one has reported Van Dyne missing.”

“He doesn’t have to go missing. Katie’s boyfriend is probably afraid
of Dominick Rochester. That’s why he’s with her. But if no one knew about Aimee and Van Dyne . . .”

“Mr. Van Dyne would have little to fear.”

“Exactly.”

“So pray tell, why would Aimee run away?”

“Because she’s pregnant.”

“Bah,” Win said.

“Bah what?”

“What precisely would Aimee Biel be afraid of?” Win asked. “Erik is hardly a Dominick Rochester type.”

Win had a point. “Maybe Aimee didn’t run away. Maybe she got pregnant and wanted to have it. Maybe she told her boyfriend, Drew Van Dyne . . .”

“Who,” Win picked up the thread, “as a schoolteacher, would be ruined if word got out.”

“Yes.”

It made awful sense. “There’s still one big hole,” Myron said.

“That being?”

“Both girls used the same ATM machine. Look, the rest doesn’t even rise to the level of coincidence. Two girls getting pregnant in a school with almost a thousand girls? It is statistically insignificant. Even if you add two girls running away because of it, okay, the odds that there is a connection rise, but it’s still more than plausible that they aren’t related, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would,” Win agreed.

“But then you add in both using the same ATM machine. How do we explain that?”

Win said, “Your little statistical diagnosis goes through the roof.”

“So we’re missing something.”

“We’re missing everything. At this stage, this whole matter is too flimsy to label supposition.”

Another point for Win. They might be theorizing too early, but they were getting close. There were other factors too, like Roger Chang’s threatening “bastard” phone calls. That might be connected, might not be. He also didn’t know how Harry Davis fit in. Maybe he was a liaison between Van Dyne and Aimee, but that seemed a stretch. And what
should Myron make of Claire’s “she’s fine” phone call? Myron wondered about the timing and the motive—to comfort or terrorize; and either way, why?—but so far, nothing had come to him.

“Okay,” Myron said to Win, “are we all set for tonight?”

“We are indeed.”

“I’ll talk to you later then.”

Win hung up as Myron pulled into Claire and Erik’s driveway. Claire was out the front door before Myron came to a complete stop.

“You okay?” he asked.

Claire didn’t bother answering the obvious. “Did you hear from your phone contact?”

“Not yet. Do you know a teacher at Livingston High named Drew Van Dyne?”

“No.”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“You remember the lingerie I found in her room? I think he might have bought it for her.”

Her face reddened. “A teacher?”

“He worked at that music store at the mall.”

“Planet Music.”

“Yes.”

Claire shook her head. “I don’t understand any of this.”

Myron put a hand on her arm. “You have to stay with me, Claire, okay? I need you to be calm and focus.”

“Don’t patronize me, Myron.”

“I don’t mean to, but look, if you go off half-cocked when we get to the school—”

“We’ll lose him. I know that. What else is going on?”

“You were dead-on about Joan Rochester.” Myron filled her in. Claire sat there and stared at the window. She nodded every once in a while, but the nod didn’t seem to be connected to anything he said.

“So you think Aimee might be pregnant?”

Her voice was indeed calm now, too matter-of-fact. She was trying to disengage. That might be a good thing.

“Yes.”

Claire put her hand to her lip and started plucking. Like in high school. This was all so weird, driving this route they’d gone on a thousand times in their youth, Claire plucking her lip like the algebra final was coming up. “Okay, let’s try to look at this rationally for a moment,” she said.

“Right.”

“Aimee broke up with her high school boyfriend. She didn’t tell us. She was very secretive. She was erasing e-mails. She wasn’t herself. She had lingerie in her drawer that was probably bought by a teacher who worked in a music store she used to frequent.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

“I have another thought,” Claire said.

“Go on.”

“If Aimee was pregnant—God, I can’t believe I’m talking like this—she would have gone to a clinic of some sort.”

“Could be. Maybe she’d just buy a home pregnancy test though.”

“No.” Claire’s voice was firm. “Not in the end. We talked about stuff like this. One of her friends got a false positive on one of those once. Aimee would get it checked. She’d probably find a doctor too.”

“Okay.”

“And around here, the only clinic is at St. Barnabas. I mean, that’s the one everyone uses. So she might have gone there. We should call and see if someone could check the records. I’m the mother. That should count for something, right?”

“I don’t know what the laws on that stuff are now.”

“They keep changing.”

“Wait.” Myron picked up his mobile phone. He dialed the hospital’s switchboard. He asked for Dr. Stanley Rickenback. Myron gave his name to the secretary. He pulled onto the circle in front of the high school and parked. Rickenback picked up the phone, sounding somewhat excited by the call. Myron explained what he wanted. The excitement vanished.

“I can’t do that,” Rickenback said.

“I have her mother right here.”

“You just told me she’s eighteen years old. It’s against the rules.”

“Listen, you were right about Katie Rochester. She was pregnant. We’re trying to find out if Aimee was too.”

“I understand that, but I can’t help you. Her medical records are confidential. With all the new HIPAA rules, the computer system keeps track of everything, even who opens a patient’s file and when. Even if I didn’t think it was unethical, it would be too big a personal risk, I’m sorry.”

He hung up. Myron stared out the window. Then he called the switchboard back.

“Dr. Edna Skylar, please.”

Two minutes later, Edna said, “Myron?”

“You can access patient files from your computer, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

“All the patients in the hospital?”

“What are you asking?”

“Remember our talk about innocents?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to help an innocent, Dr. Skylar.” Then, thinking about it, he said, “In this case, maybe two innocents.”

“Two?”

“An eighteen-year-old girl named Aimee Biel,” Myron said, “and if we’re correct, the baby she’s carrying.”

“My God. Are you telling me Stanley was right?”

“Please, Dr. Skylar.”

“It’s unethical.”

He just let the silence wear on her. He had made his argument. Adding more would be superfluous. Better to let her think it through on her own.

It didn’t take long. Two minutes later, he heard the computer keys clacking.

“Myron?” Edna Skylar said.

“Yes.”

“Aimee Biel is three months pregnant.”