“Yeah, I know I’m awful. I could be talking on the phone at the same time or, hell, breast-feeding Hector, Tom wouldn’t blink. Plus this will give him more time to play golf. Golf and sex, Myron. It’ll pretty much be Tom’s dream honeymoon.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Esperanza?”
“I know it’s been a while since you’ve done something like this,” she said. “And I know I made you promise you wouldn’t again. But maybe… maybe it’s a good thing.”
“How do you figure?”
“Damned if I know. Christ, I got more important things to worry about. Like stretch marks when I wear a bikini. I can’t believe I have stretch marks now. The kid’s fault, you know.”
They hung up a minute later. Myron drove around, feeling conspicuous in his car. If the police decided to keep an eye on him or if Rochester decided another tail might be in order, this car would be inconvenient. He thought about it and called Claire. She answered on the first ring.
“Did you learn something?”
“Not really, but do you mind if I switch cars with you?”
“Of course not. I was about to call you anyway. The Rochesters just left.”
“And?”
“We talked for a while. Trying to find a connection between Aimee and Katie. But something else came up. Something I need to run by you.”
“I’m two minutes from your house.”
“I’ll meet you in the front yard.”
As soon as Myron stepped out of the car, Claire tossed him her car keys. “I think Katie Rochester ran away.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Have you met that father?”
“Yes.”
“Says it all, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe.”
“But more than that, have you met the mother?”
“No.”
“Her name is Joan. She has this wince — like she’s waiting for him to smack her.”
“Did you find a connection between the girls?”
“They both liked to hang out at the mall.”
“That’s it?”
Claire shrugged. She looked like hell. The skin was pulled even tighter now. She looked like she’d lost ten pounds in the last day. Her body teetered as she walked, as though a strong gust would knock her all the way to the ground. “They ate lunch at the same time. They had one class together in the past four years — PE with Mr. Valentine. That’s it.”
Myron shook his head. “You said something else came up?”
“The mother. Joan Rochester.”
“What about her?”
“You might miss it because like I said, she cowers and looks scared all the time.”
“Miss what?”
“She’s scared of him. Her husband.”
“So? I met him. I’m scared of him.”
“Right, okay, but here’s the thing. She’s scared of him, sure, but she’s
Sophomore year of high school. The poor woman died six months later. “Of course.”
“I met with other girls going through the same thing. A support group for cancer families. We had this picnic once, where you could bring other friends too. But it was weird — you knew exactly who was really going through the torment and who was just a friend. You’d meet a fellow sufferer and you’d just know. There was a vibe.”
“And Joan Rochester didn’t have a vibe?”
“She had a vibe, but not the ‘my daughter is missing’ vibe. I tried to get her alone. I asked her to help me make some coffee. But I didn’t get anywhere. I’m telling you, she knows something. The woman is scared, but not like I am.”
Myron thought about that. There were a million explanations, especially the most obvious — people react differently to stress — but he wanted to trust Claire’s intuition on this. The question was, what did it mean? And what could he do about it?
“Let me think this through,” he said at last.
“Did you talk to Mr. Davis?”
“Not yet.”
“How about Randy?”
“I’m on it. That’s why I need your car. The police ran me off the high school campus this morning.”
“Why?”
He didn’t want to get into Randy’s father so he said, “I’m not sure yet. Look, let me get going, okay?”
Claire nodded, closed her eyes.
“She’ll be okay,” Myron said, stepping toward her.
“Please.” Claire held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t waste time handing me platitudes, okay?”
He nodded, slipped into her SUV. He wondered about his next destination. Maybe he’d head back to school. Talk to the principal. Maybe the principal could call Randy or Harry Davis into his office. But then what?
The cell phone sounded. Again the caller ID gave him no information. Caller ID technology was fairly useless. The people you wanted to avoid just blocked the service anyway.
“Hello?”
“Hey, handsome, I just got your message.”
It was Gail Berruti, his contact from the phone company. He had forgotten all about the crank calls referring to him as a “bastard.” It seemed unimportant now, just some sort of childish prank, except that maybe, just maybe, there was a connection. Claire had noted that Myron brought destruction. Maybe someone from his past was out to get him. Maybe somehow Aimee had gotten tangled up in that.
It was the longest of long shots.
“I haven’t heard from you in forever,” Berruti said.
“Yeah, I’ve been busy.”
“Or not busy, I guess. How are you?”
“I’m pretty good. Were you able to trace the number?”
“It’s not a trace, Myron. You said that in your phone message. ‘Trace the number.’ It’s not a trace. I just had to look it up.”
“Whatever.”
“Not whatever. You know better. It’s like on TV. You ever watch a phone trace on TV? They always say to keep the guy on the line so they can trace the call. That’s nonsense, you know. You trace it right away. It’s immediate. It doesn’t take time. Why do they do that?”
“It’s more suspenseful,” Myron said.
“It’s dumb. They do everything ass-backward on TV. I’m watching some cop show the other night, and it takes five minutes to do a DNA test. My husband works in the crime lab at John Jay. They’re lucky if they get a DNA confirmation in a month. Meanwhile the phone stuff — all of which can be done in minutes with the touch of a computer — that takes them forever. And the bad guy always hangs up just before they get the location. Have you ever seen the trace work? Never. Pisses me off, you know?”
Myron tried to get Berruti back on track. “So you looked up the number?”
