Promise Me (Myron Bolitar 8)

They both got out of the car and started up the drive. Myron took the lead. Erik let him. He rang Wolf’s doorbell. The sound was trilling and pretentious and droned on too long. Erik stood a few steps back, in the dark. Myron knew that Erik had the gun. He wondered how to play that. Erik had already shot one man tonight. He didn’t seem disinclined to doing it again.

Lorraine Wolf’s voice came over a speaker. “Who is it?”

“It’s Myron Bolitar, Mrs. Wolf.”

“It’s very late. What do you want?”

Myron remembered the short white tennis dress and double-entendre tone. There was no double entendre now. The voice was drum-tight.

“I need to talk to your husband.”

“He’s not here.”

“Mrs. Wolf, could you please open the door?”

“I’d like you to leave.”

Myron wondered how to play this. “I spoke to Randy tonight.”

Silence.

“He was at a party. We talked about Aimee. Then I talked to Harry Davis. I know everything, Mrs. Wolf.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You either open this door or I go to the police.”

More silence. Myron turned and looked at Erik. He was still at ease. Myron didn’t like that.

“Mrs. Wolf?”

“My husband will be back in an hour. Come back then.”

Erik Biel took that one. “I don’t think so.”

He took out the gun, put it against the lock, and fired. The door flew open. Erik rushed in, gun drawn. So did Myron.

Lorraine Wolf screamed.

Erik and Myron veered toward the sound. When they arrived in the family room, they both pulled up.

Lorraine Wolf was alone.

For a moment, no one moved. Myron just studied the situation. Lorraine Wolf stood in the center of the room. She wore rubber gloves. That was the first thing he noticed. Bright yellow rubber gloves. Then he looked at those hands more closely. In one of them, her right hand, she held a sponge. In the other—the left, obviously—she carried a yellow bucket that matched the gloves.

There was a wet spot on the carpet where she had just been cleaning.

Erik and Myron both took a step forward. Now they could see that there was water in the bucket. The water had an awful pink tinge.

Erik said, “Oh no . . .”

Myron turned to grab him, but he was too late. Something behind Erik’s eyes exploded. He let out a howl and leapt toward the woman. Lorraine Wolf screamed. The bucket dropped to the carpet. The pink liquid poured out.

Erik tackled her. They both went over the back of the couch. Myron was right behind, not sure how to play it. If he made too aggressive a move, Erik might just pull the trigger. But if he did nothing . . .

Erik had Lorraine Wolf now. He pressed the gun against her temple. She cried out, gripping his hand with her own. Erik did not move.

“What did you do to my daughter?”

“Nothing!”

Myron said, “Erik, don’t.”

But Erik wasn’t listening. Myron raised his own gun. He pointed it at Erik. Erik saw it, but it was obvious he didn’t care.

“If you kill her . . .” Myron began.

“What?” Erik shouted. “What do we lose, Myron? Look at this place. Aimee is already dead.”

Lorraine Wolf shouted, “No!”

“Where is she then, Lorraine?” Myron asked.

She pressed her lips shut.

“Lorraine, where is Aimee?”

“I don’t know.”

Erik raised the gun. He was going to hit her with the butt end.

“Erik, don’t.”

He hesitated. Lorraine looked up, meeting Erik’s eye. She was scared, but Myron could see that she was bracing herself, ready to take the blow.

“Don’t,” Myron said again. He took a step closer.

“She knows something.”

“And we’ll find out what, okay?”

Erik looked at him. “What would you do? If it was somebody you love?”

Myron inched closer. “I do love Aimee.”

“Not like a father.”

“No, not like that. But I’ve been there. I’ve pushed too hard. It doesn’t work.”

“It worked with Harry Davis.”

“I know, but—”

“She’s a woman. That’s the only difference. I shot him in the foot and you asked him questions and let him bleed. Now we’re face-to-face with someone who is cleaning up blood and all of a sudden you’re squeamish?”

Even in this haze, even in this craziness, Myron could actually see his point. It was the guy-gal thing again. If Aimee was a boy. If Harry Davis had been a pretty, flirty woman.

Erik put the gun back against her temple. “Where is my daughter?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Whose blood are you cleaning up?”

Erik aimed the gun at her foot. But the control was gone. Myron could see that. Tears started streaming down Erik’s face. His hand shook.

“If you shoot her,” Myron said, “it contaminates the evidence. The blood will be mixed up. They’ll never put together what happened here. The only one who will go to jail is you.”

The argument didn’t make full sense, but it was enough to slow Erik down. His entire face collapsed now. He was crying. But he held on to the gun. He kept it pointed at her foot.

“Just take a breath,” Myron said.

Erik shook his head. “No!”

The air was still. Everything had stopped. Erik looked down at Lorraine Wolf. She looked up without a flinch. Myron could see Erik’s finger on the trigger.

No choice now.

Myron had to make a move.

And then Myron’s cell phone chirped.

It made everyone stop. Erik took his finger off the trigger and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Check it,” he said.

Myron took a quick glance at the caller ID. It was Win. He hit the answer button and put it to his ear.

“What?”

“Drew Van Dyne’s car just pulled into his driveway,” Win said.

CHAPTER 50

County homicide inspector Loren Muse was working on her new case, the one involving the two murders in East Orange, when her line rang. It was late, but Muse wasn’t surprised. She often worked late. Her colleagues knew that.

“Muse.”

The voice was muffled but sounded female. “I have some information for you.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s about that missing girl.”

“Which missing girl?”

“Aimee Biel.”