Promise Me (Myron Bolitar 8)

Myron’s fingers touched down on his chest. “I really like my nipples.”

It was late by the time Win dropped him off. Near his front door, Myron found his cell phone on the ground where he’d dropped it. He checked the caller ID. There were a bunch of missed calls, mostly business related. With Esperanza in Antigua on her honeymoon, he should have stayed in touch. Too late to worry about that now.

Ali had also called him.

A lifetime ago he had told her that he’d come by tonight. They had joked about him stopping by for a late-night “nooner.” Man, was that really today?

He debated waiting until morning, but Ali might be worried. Plus, it would be nice, really nice, to hear the warmth in her voice. He needed that, in this crazy, exhausting, hurting day. He was sore. His leg throbbed.

Ali answered on the first ring. “Myron?”

“Hey, hope I didn’t wake you.”

“The police were here.”

There was no warmth in her voice.

“When?”

“A few hours ago. They wanted to talk to Erin. About some promise the girls made in your basement.”

Myron closed his eyes. “Damn. I never meant to involve her.”

“She backed your story, by the way.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I called Claire. She told me about Aimee. But I don’t understand. Why would you make the girls promise something like that?”

“To call me, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I overheard them talking about driving with someone who was drunk. I just didn’t want that to happen to them.”

“But why you?”

He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

“I mean, you just met Erin that day. That was the first time you ever talked to her.”

“I didn’t plan it, Ali.”

There was a silence. Myron didn’t like it.

“We okay?” he asked.

“I need a little time with this,” she said.

He felt his stomach clench.

“Myron?”

“Sooo,” he said, stretching out the word, “I guess there’s no rain check on that nooner?”

“This isn’t the time for jokes.”

“I know.”

“Aimee is missing. The police came around and questioned my daughter. This might be routine for you, but this isn’t my world. I’m not blaming you, but . . .”

“But?”

“I just . . . I just need time.”

“ ‘Need time,’ ” Myron repeated. “That sounds a whole lot like ‘need space.’ ”

“You’re making a joke again.”

“No, Ali, I’m not.”

CHAPTER 25

There was a reason Aimee Biel wanted to be dropped off on that cul-de-sac.

Myron showered and threw on a pair of sweats. His pants had blood on them. His own. He remembered that old Seinfeld routine about laundry detergent commercials that talk about getting out bloodstains, how if you have bloodstains on your clothes, maybe laundry wasn’t your biggest worry.

The house was silent, except for those customary house noises. When he was a kid, alone at night, those noises would scare him. Now they were just there—neither soothing nor alarming. He could hear the slight echo as he walked across the kitchen floor. The echo only happened when you were alone. He thought about that. He thought about what Claire had said, about him bringing violence and destruction, about him still not being married.

He sat alone at the kitchen table of his empty house. This was not the life he’d planned.

Man plans, God laughs.

He shook his head. Truer words.

Enough wallowing, Myron thought. The “plans” part got his mind back on track. To wit: What had Aimee Biel been planning?

There was a reason she chose that ATM. And there was a reason she chose that cul-de-sac.

It was almost midnight when Myron got back in his car and started north to Ridgewood. He knew the way now. He parked at the end of the cul-de-sac. He turned off the car. The house was dark, just like two nights ago.

Okay, now what?

Myron went through the possibilities. One, Aimee actually went into that house at the end of the cul-de-sac. The woman who’d answered the door before, the slim blonde with the baseball cap, had lied to Loren Muse. Or maybe the woman didn’t know. Maybe Aimee was having a fling with her son or was a friend of her daughter’s, and this woman didn’t know about it.

Doubtful.

Loren Muse was no idiot. She had been at that door a fair amount of time. She would have checked into those angles. If they existed, she would have followed up.

So Myron ruled that out.

That meant that this house had been a diversion.

Myron opened the car door and stepped out. The road was silent. There was a hockey goal at the end of the cul-de-sac. This was probably a neighborhood with kids. There were only eight houses and almost no traffic. The kids probably still played on the street. Myron spotted one of those roll-out basketball hoops in one of the driveways. They probably did that too. The cul-de-sac was a little neighborhood playground.

A car turned down the block, just like when he’d dropped Aimee off.

Myron squinted toward the headlights. It was midnight now. Only eight houses on the street, all with lights out, all tucked in for the evening.

The car pulled up behind his and came to a stop. Myron recognized the silver Benz even before Erik Biel, Aimee’s father, got out. The light was dim, but Myron could still see the rage on his face. It made him look like an annoying little boy.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Erik shouted.

“Same thing as you, I guess.”

Erik came closer. “Claire may buy your story about why you drove Aimee here but . . .”

“But what, Erik?”

He didn’t reply right away. He was still in the tailored shirt and trousers, but the look wasn’t as crisp. “I just want to find her,” he said.

Myron said nothing, letting him talk his way down.

“Claire thinks you can help. She says you’re good at stuff like this.”

“I am.”

“You’re like Claire’s knight in shining armor,” he said with more than a trace of bitterness. “I don’t know why you two didn’t end up together.”

“I do,” Myron said. “Because we don’t love each other that way. In fact, in all the time I’ve known Claire, you’re the only man she ever really loved.”

Erik shifted his feet, pretending the words didn’t matter, not quite pulling it off. “When I made the turn, you were getting out of your car. What were you going to do?”