“Are you a police officer?”
“No.”
Edna Skylar was already up. She kissed her husband’s cheek. “Let’s hurry. I have patients in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, I was there,” Stanley Rickenback said to Myron. “Why, what’s your interest?”
“I’m looking into the disappearance of another girl.”
“Wait, another girl ran away?”
“Could be. I’d like to hear your impressions, Dr. Rickenback.”
“Of what?”
“Did Katie Rochester seem like a runaway to you too?”
“Yes.”
“You seem pretty sure,” Myron said.
“She was with a man. She made no move to escape. She asked Edna not to tell anybody and—” Rickenback turned to his wife. “Did you tell him?”
Edna made a face. “Let’s just go.”
“Tell me what?”
“My darling Stanley is getting old and senile,” Edna said. “He imagines things.”
“Ha, ha, very funny. You have your expertise. I have mine.”
“Your expertise?” Myron said.
“It’s nothing,” Edna said.
“It’s not nothing,” Stanley insisted.
“Fine,” Edna said. “Tell him what you think you saw.”
Stanley turned to Myron. “My wife told you about how she studies faces. That was how she recognized the girl. She looks at people and tries to make a diagnosis. Just for fun. I don’t do that. I leave my work at the office.”
“What is your specialty, Dr. Rickenback?”
He smiled. “That’s the thing.”
“What is?”
“I’m an ob-gyn. I didn’t really think about it then. But when we got home, I looked up pictures of Katie Rochester on the Web. You know, the ones released to the media. I wanted to see if it was the same girl we saw in the subway. And that was why I’m fairly certain of what I saw.”
“Which is?”
Stanley suddenly seemed unsure of himself.
“See?” Edna shook her head. “This is such total nonsense.”
“It might be,” Stanley Rickenback agreed.
Myron said, “But?”
“But either Katie Rochester put on some weight,” Stanley Rickenback said, “or maybe, just maybe, she’s pregnant.”
CHAPTER 33
Harry Davis gave his class a phony-baloney read-this-chapter-now assignment and headed out. His students were surprised. Other teachers played that card all the time, the do-busy-silent-work-so-I-can-catch-a-smoke card. But Mr. D, Teacher of the Year four years running, never did that.
The corridors at Livingston High were ridiculously long. When he was alone in one, like right now, looking down to the end made him dizzy. But that was Harry Davis. He didn’t like it quiet. He liked it lively, when this artery was loaded with noise and kids and backpacks and adolescent angst.
He found the classroom, gave the door a quick knock, and stuck his head in. Drew Van Dyne taught mostly malfeasants. The room reflected that. Half the kids had iPods in their ears. Some sat on top of their desks. Others leaned against the window. A beefy guy was making out with a girl in the back corner, their mouths open and wide. You could see the saliva.
Drew Van Dyne had his feet on the desk, his hands folded on his lap. He turned toward Harry Davis.
“Mr. Van Dyne? May I speak with you a moment?”
Drew Van Dyne gave him the cocky grin. Van Dyne was probably thirty-five, ten years younger than Davis. He’d come in as a music teacher eight years ago. He looked the part, the former rock ’n’ roller who woulda-shoulda made it to the top except the stupid record companies could never understand his true genius. So now he gave guitar lessons and worked in a music store where he scoffed at your pedestrian taste in CDs.
Recent cutbacks in the music department had forced Van Dyne into whatever class was closest to babysitting.
“Why of course, Mr. D.”
The two teachers stepped into the hallway. The doors were thick. When it closed, the corridor was silent again.
Van Dyne still had the cocky grin. “I’m just about to start my lesson, Mr. D. What can I do for you?”
Davis whispered because every sound echoed out here. “Did you hear about Aimee Biel?”
“Who?”
“Aimee Biel. A student here.”
“I don’t think she’s one of mine.”
“She’s missing, Drew.”
Van Dyne said nothing.
“Did you hear me?”
“I just said I don’t know her.”
“Drew—”
“And,” Van Dyne interrupted, “I think we’d be notified if a student had gone missing, don’t you?”
“The police think she’s a runaway.”
“And you don’t?” Van Dyne held on to the grin, maybe even spread it a bit. “The police will want to know why you feel that way, Mr. D. Maybe you should go to them. Tell them all you know.”
“I might just do that.”
“Good.” Van Dyne leaned closer and whispered. “I think the police would definitely want to know when you last saw Aimee, don’t you?”
Van Dyne leaned back and waited for Davis’s reaction.
“You see, Mr. D,” Van Dyne went on, “they’ll need to know everything. They’ll need to know where she went, who she talked to, what they talked about. They’ll probably look into all that, don’t you think? Maybe open up a full investigation into the wonderful works of our Teacher of the Year.”
“How do you…?” Davis felt the quake start in his legs. “You have more to lose than I do.”
“Really?” Drew Van Dyne was so close now that Davis could feel the spittle in his face. “Tell me, Mr. D. What exactly do I have to lose? My lovely house in scenic Ridgewood? My sterling reputation as a beloved teacher? My perky wife who shares my passion for educating the young? Or maybe my lovely daughters who look up to me so?”
They stood there for a moment, still in each other’s face. Davis couldn’t speak. Somewhere in the distance, another world maybe, he heard a bell ring. Doors flew open. Students poured out. The arteries filled with their laughter and angst. It all grabbed hold of Harry Davis. He closed his eyes and let it, let it sweep him away to someplace far away from Drew Van Dyne, someplace he’d much rather be.
The Livingston Mall was aging and trying hard not to show it, but the improvements came across more like a bad face-lift than true youth.
Bedroom Rendezvous was located on the lower level. To some, the lingerie store was like Victoria’s Secret’s trailer-park cousin, but the truth was, the cousins were really a lot alike. It was all about presentation. The sexy
