Three Harlan Coben Novels (11 page)

D
ominick Rochester, the father of Katie, sat at the head of the dining room table. His three boys were there too. His wife, Joan, was in the kitchen. That left two empty chairs—hers and Katie’s. He chewed his meat and stared at the chair, as if willing Katie to appear.

Joan came out of the kitchen. She had a platter of sliced roast beef. He gestured toward his near-empty plate, but she was already on it. Dominick Rochester’s wife stayed home and took care of the house. None of that working-woman crap. Dominick wouldn’t have it.

He grunted a thank-you. Joan returned to her seat. The boys were all chowing down in silence. Joan smoothed her skirt and picked up her fork. Dominick watched her. She used to be so damned beautiful. Now she was glassy-eyed and meek. She hunched over in a permanent cower. She drank too much during the day, although she thought he didn’t know. No matter. She was still the mother of his children and kept in line. So he let it slide.

The phone rang. Joan Rochester leaped to her feet, but Dominick signaled her to sit with a wave of his hand. He wiped his face as though it were a windshield and rose from his seat. Dominick was a thick man. Not fat. Thick. Thick neck, thick shoulders, thick chest, thick arms and thighs.

The last name Rochester—he hated that. His father had changed it because he wanted to sound less ethnic. But his old man was a weakling and a loser. Dominick thought about changing it back, but that would look weak too. Like maybe he worried too much about what other people would think. In Dominick’s world, you never showed weakness. They had walked all over his father. Made him shut down
his barbershop. Poked fun at him. His father thought he could rise above it. Dominick knew better.

You bust heads or you get your head busted. You don’t ask questions. You don’t reason with them—at least, not at first. At first, you bust heads. You bust heads and take licks until they respect you. Then you reason with them. You show them you’re willing to take a hit. You let them see you’re not afraid of blood, not even your own. You want to win, you smile right through your blood. That gets their attention.

The phone rang again. He checked the caller ID. The number was blocked, but most people who called here didn’t like people to know their business. He was still chewing when he lifted the receiver.

The voice on the other end said, “I have something for you.”

It was his contact at the county prosecutor’s office. He swallowed the meat. “Go ahead.”

“There’s another missing girl.”

That got his attention.

“She’s from Livingston too. Same age, same class.”

“Name?”

“Aimee Biel.”

The name didn’t mean anything to him, but he really didn’t know Katie’s friends very well. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Any of you know a girl named Aimee Biel?”

No one said anything.

“Hey, I asked a question here. She’d be Katie’s year.”

The boys shook their heads. Joan didn’t move. His eyes met hers. She shook her head slowly.

“There’s more,” his contact said.

“Like what?”

“They found a link to your daughter.”

“What kind of link?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just been eavesdropping. But I think it has something to do with where they both went missing. Do you know a guy named Myron Bolitar?”

“The old basketball star?”

“Yeah.”

Rochester had seen him a few times. He also knew that Bolitar had had run-ins with some of Rochester’s nastier colleagues.

“What about him?”

“He’s involved.”

“How?”

“He picked up the missing girl in midtown Manhattan. That’s the last time she was seen. She used the same ATM as your Katie.”

He felt a jolt. “He what?”

Dominick’s contact explained a bit more, about how this Bolitar guy had driven Aimee Biel back over to Jersey, how a gas station attendant saw them arguing, and how she just disappeared.

“The police talk to him?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t think very much. He lawyered up.”

“He . . .” Dominick felt a red swirl build in his head. “Son of a bitch. Did they arrest him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Not enough yet.”

“So, what, they just let him walk?”

“Yeah.”

Dominick Rochester didn’t say anything. He got very quiet. His family noticed. They all went very still, afraid to move. When he finally spoke again, his voice was so calm, his family held their breaths.

“Anything else?”

“That’s it for now.”

“Keep digging.”

Dominick hung up the phone. He turned toward the table. His whole family was watching him.

Joan said, “Dom?”

“It was nothing.”

He felt no need to explain. This didn’t involve them. It was his job to handle stuff like this. The father was the soldier, the one who kept vigil so that his family could sleep untroubled.

He headed to the garage. Once inside, he closed his eyes and tried to smother the rage. It wouldn’t happen.

Katie . . .

He eyed the metal baseball bat. He remembered reading about Bolitar’s injured knee. If he thought that hurt, if he thought a mere knee injury was pain . . .

He made some calls, did a little background. In the past, Bolitar had gotten in trouble with the Ache brothers, who ran New York. Bolitar was supposedly a tough guy, good with his fists, who hung out with a psycho named Windsor Something.

Taking on Bolitar would not be easy.

But it wouldn’t be all that difficult either. Not if Dominick got the best.

His cell phone was a throwaway, the kind you can buy in cash with a false name and toss away after you use up your minutes. No way to trace it back to him. He grabbed a fresh one off the shelf. For a moment he just held it and debated his next move. His breathing was labored.

Dominick had busted his share of heads in his day, but if he dialed this number, if he did indeed call the Twins, he was crossing a line he’d never gone near before.

He thought about his daughter’s smile. He thought about how she had to wear braces when she was twelve and how she wore her hair and the way she used to look at him, a long time ago, when she was a little girl and he was the most powerful man in the world.

Dominick pressed the digits. After this call, he would have to get rid of the phone. That was one of the Twins’ rules, and when it came to those two, it didn’t matter who you were, didn’t matter how tough or how hard you’d scraped to buy this fancy house in Livingston, you don’t mess around with the Twins.

The phone was answered on the second ring. No hello. No greeting at all. Just silence.

Dominick said, “I’m going to need both of you.”

“When?”

Dominick picked up the metal bat. He liked the weight of it. He
thought about this Bolitar guy, this guy who drove off with a missing girl and then lawyered up, who was free now and probably watching TV or enjoying a nice meal.

No way you let that slide. Even if you gotta bring in the Twins.

“Now,” Dominick Rochester said. “I need you both now.”

W
hen Myron arrived back at his house in Livingston, Win was already there.

Win was sprawled out in a chaise lounge on the front lawn. His legs were crossed. He wore khakis sans socks, a blue shirt, a Lilly Pulitzer tie of dizzying green. Some people could wear anything and make it work. Win was one of those people.

He had his face tilted to the sun, eyes closed. He did not open them as Myron approached.

“Do you still want to go to the Knicks game?” Win asked.

“I think I’ll pass.”

“You mind if I take someone else then?”

“No.”

“I met a girl at Scores last night.”

“She’s a stripper?”

“Please.” Win held up a finger. “She’s an erotic dancer.”

“Career woman. Nice.”

“Her name is Bambi, I think. Or maybe Tawny.”

“Is that her real name?”

“Nothing about her is real,” Win said. “By the way, the police were here.”

“Searching the place?”

“Yes.”

“They take my computer?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.”

“Fret not. I arrived before them and backed up your personal files. Then I erased the hard drive.”

“You,” Myron said. “You’re good.”

“The best,” Win said.

“Where did you back it up?”

“USB hard drive on my key chain,” he said, dangling it, his eyes still closed. “Kindly move to the right a little. You’re blocking my sun.”

“Has Hester’s investigator learned anything new?”

“There was an ATM charge on young Ms. Biel’s card,” Win said.

“Aimee took out cash?’

“No, a library book. Yes, cash. Apparently, Aimee Biel picked up a thousand dollars at an ATM machine a few minutes before she called you.”

“Anything else?”

“Like?”

“They’re linking this to another disappearance. A girl named Katie Rochester.”

“Two girls disappearing from the same area. Of course they’re going to link them.”

Myron frowned. “I think there’s something else.”

Win opened one eye. “Trouble.”

“What?”

Win said nothing, just kept staring. Myron turned and followed his gaze and felt his stomach drop.

It was Erik and Claire.

For a moment no one moved.

Win said, “You’re blocking my sun again.”

Myron saw Erik’s face. There was rage there. Myron started toward them, but something made him stop. Claire put her hand on her husband’s arm. She whispered something in his ear. Erik closed his eyes. She stepped toward Myron, her head high. Erik stayed back.

Claire walked toward Myron’s door. He slid toward her.

Myron said, “You know I didn’t—”

“Inside.” Claire kept walking toward his front door. “I want you to tell me everything when we’re inside.”

Essex County prosecutor Ed Steinberg, Loren’s boss, was waiting for her when she got back to the office.

“Well?”

She filled him in. Steinberg was a big man, soft in the middle, but he had that wanna-squeeze-him, teddy-bear thing going on. Of course he was married. It had been so long since Loren had met a desirable man who wasn’t.

When she finished, Steinberg said, “I did a little more checking up on Bolitar. Did you know he and his friend Win used to do some work with the feds?”

“There were rumors,” she said.

“I spoke to Joan Thurston.” Thurston was the U.S. Attorney for the State of New Jersey. “A lot of it is hush-hush, I guess, but in sum, everyone thinks Win is several fries short of a Happy Meal—but that Bolitar is pretty straight.”

“That’s the vibe I got too,” Loren said.

“You believe his story?”

“Overall, yeah, I guess I do. It’s just too crazy. Plus, as he sort of pointed out himself, would a guy with his experience be dumb enough to leave so many clues behind?”

“You think he’s being framed?”

Loren made a face. “That doesn’t jibe much either. Aimee Biel called him herself. She’d have to be in on it, I guess.”

Steinberg folded his hands on his desk. His sleeves were rolled up. His forearms were big and covered with enough hair to count as fur. “Then odds are, what, she’s a runaway?”

“Odds are,” Loren said.

“And the fact that she used the same ATM as Katie Rochester?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

“Maybe they know each other.”

“Not according to either set of parents.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Steinberg said. “Parents don’t know
bupkus
about their kids. Trust me here, I had teenage daughters. The moms and dads who claim they know everything about their kids usually know the least.” He shifted in his chair. “Nothing found in the search of Bolitar’s home or car?”

“They’re still going through it,” Loren said. “But what can they find? We know she was in the house and in the car.”

“The locals handled the search?”

She nodded.

“Then let’s let the locals handle the rest of it. We really don’t even have a case yet anyway—the girl is of age, right?”

“Right.”

“Good, then it’s settled. Give it to the locals. I want you concentrating on these homicides in East Orange.”

Steinberg told her more about the case. She listened and tried to focus. This was a biggie, no doubt about it. A double murder. Maybe a major hit man back in the area. It was the kind of case she loved. It would take up all her time. She knew that. And she knew the odds. Aimee Biel had withdrawn cash before she called Myron. That meant that she had probably not been abducted, that she was probably just fine—and that either way, Loren Muse really shouldn’t be involved anymore.

They say worrying and grief makes you age, but with Claire Biel it was almost the opposite. Her skin was drawn tight around her cheekbones—so tight the blood seemed to stop flowing. There were no lines on her face. She was pale and almost skeletal.

Myron flashed back to an ordinary memory. Study hall, senior year. They would sit and talk and he would make her laugh. Claire was normally quiet, often subdued. She spoke with a soft voice. But when he got her going, when he worked in all her favorite routines from stupid movies, Claire would laugh so hard she’d start to cry. Myron wouldn’t stop. He loved her laugh. He loved to see the pure joy when she let go like that.

Claire stared at him. Every once in a while you try to trace your life back to a time like that, when everything was so good. You try to go back and figure out how it started and the path you’d taken and how you ended up here, if there was a moment you could go back to and somehow alter and
poof,
you wouldn’t be here, you’d be someplace better.

“Tell me,” Claire said.

He did. He started with the party at his house, overhearing Aimee and Erin in the basement, the promise, the late-night phone call. He went through it all. He told her about the stop at the gas station. He even told her about Aimee talking about how things weren’t great with her parents.

Claire’s posture stayed rigid. She said nothing. There was a quake near her lips. Every once in a while she would close her eyes. There would be a slight wince, as if she spotted a coming blow but was unwilling to defend herself from it.

Neither spoke when he finished. Claire did not ask any follow-up questions. She just stood there and looked very frail. Myron took a step toward her, but he could see right away it was the wrong move.

“You know I’d never hurt her,” he said.

She did not reply.

“Claire?”

“Do you remember that time we met up at Little Park by the circle?”

Myron waited a beat. “We met up there a lot, Claire.”

“At the playground. Aimee was three years old. The Good Humor truck came along. You bought her a Toasted Almond Fudge.”

“Which she hated.”

Claire smiled. “You remember?”

“I do.”

“Do you remember what I was like that day?”

He thought about it. “I don’t know what you’re trying to get at.”

“Aimee didn’t know her limits. She would try everything. She wanted to go on that high slide. There was a big ladder. She was too young for it. Or at least that’s what I thought. She was my first child. I was so afraid all the time. But I couldn’t stop her. So I let her climb the ladder, but I would stay right behind her, remember? You made a crack about it.”

He nodded.

“Before she was born, I swore I’d never be one of those overprotective parents. Swore it. But Aimee is climbing up this ladder and I’m right behind her, my hands poised behind her butt. Just in case. Just in
case she slipped because wherever you are, even someplace as innocent as a playground, all a parent imagines is the worst. I kept picturing her tiny foot missing a step. I kept seeing her fingers slipping off those rails and her little body tipping back and then she’d land on her head wrong and her neck would be at a bad angle . . .”

Her voice faded away.

“So I stayed behind her. And I was ready for anything.”

Claire stopped and stared at him.

“I’d never hurt her,” Myron said.

“I know,” she said softly.

He should have felt relief at that. He didn’t. There was something in her tone, something that kept him on the hook.

“You wouldn’t harm her, I know that.” Her eyes flared up. “But you’re not blameless either.”

He had no idea what to say to that.

“Why aren’t you married?” she asked.

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re one of the nicest, sweetest men I know. You love kids. You’re straight. So why aren’t you married yet?”

Myron held back. Claire was in shock, he told himself. Her daughter was missing. She was just lashing out.

“I think it’s because you bring destruction, Myron. Wherever you go, people get hurt. I think that’s why you’ve never been married.”

“You think—what?—that I’m cursed?”

“No, nothing like that. But my little girl is gone.” Her voice was slow now, one weighted word at a time. “You were the last to see her. You promised that you would protect her.”

He just stood there.

“You could have told me,” she said.

“I promised—”

“Don’t,” she said, holding up her hand. “That’s no excuse. Aimee wouldn’t have ever known. You could have pulled me aside and said, ‘Look, I told Aimee that she could call me if she had a problem.’ I’d have understood that. I’d have even liked it, because then I would have still been there for her, like with the ladder. I would have been able to
protect her because that’s what a parent does. A parent, Myron, not a family friend.”

He wanted to defend himself, but the arguments wouldn’t come.

“But you didn’t do that,” she went on, her words raining down on him. “Instead you promised that you wouldn’t tell her parents. Then you drove her somewhere and dropped her off, but you didn’t watch out for her like I would have. Do you understand that? You didn’t take care of my baby. And now she’s gone.”

He said nothing.

“What are you going to do about that?” she asked.

“What?”

“I asked you what you’re going to do about it.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah, you do.” Suddenly Claire’s eyes seemed focused and clear. “The police are going to do one of two things. I can see it already. They’re backing away. Aimee took money out of an ATM machine before she called you. So they’re either going to dismiss her as a runaway or they’re going to think you were involved. Or both. You helped her run maybe. You’re her boyfriend. Either way, she’s eighteen. They’re not going to look hard. They’re not going to find her. They’ll have other priorities.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find her.”

“I don’t save people. You yourself pointed that out.”

“Then you better start now. My daughter is gone because of you. I hold you accountable.”

Myron shook his head. But she was having none of it.

“You made her promise. Right here in this house. You made her promise. Now you do the same, dammit. Promise me you’ll find my baby. Promise me you’ll bring her home.”

And a moment later—the truly final what-if?—Myron did.