Promise Me (Myron Bolitar 8)
Page 30“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?”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.