The iPod ear buds were jammed deep into the canals. He was listening to Alejandro Escovedo’s “Gravity,” enjoying the sound, trying to put together how Escovedo had written the song. That was what Van Dyne liked to do. He’d tear a song down in the best way possible. He’d come up with a theory about the origin, how the idea had come, the first bit of inspiration. Was that first seed a guitar riff, the chorus, a specific stanza or lyric? Had the writer been heartbroken or sad or filled with joy — and why specifically had he been feeling that way? And where, after that first step, did he go with the song? Van Dyne could see the songwriter at the piano or strumming the guitar, taking notes, altering it, tweaking it, whatever.
Bliss, man. Pure, simple bliss. Figuring out a song. Even if. Even if there was always a small voice, deep in the background, saying, “It should have been you, Drew.”
You forget about the wife who looks at you like you’re a dog turd and now wants a divorce. You forget about your father, who abandoned you when you were still a kid. You forget about your mother, who tries now to make up for the fact that she didn’t give a rat’s ass for too many years. You forget the mind-numbing, regular-Joe teaching job you hate. You forget that the job is no longer something you’re doing while waiting for your big break. You forget that your big break, when you’re honest with yourself, will never come. You forget that you’re thirty-six years old and that no matter how hard you try to kill it, your damn dream will not die — no, that would be too easy. Instead the dream stays and taunts and lets you know that it will never, ever, come true.
You escape into the music.
What the hell should he do now?
That was what Drew Van Dyne was thinking as he walked past the Bedroom Rendezvous. He saw one of the salesgirls whisper to another. Maybe they were talking about him, but he didn’t much care. He entered Planet Music, a place he both loved and loathed. He loved being surrounded by music. He loathed being reminded that none of it was his.
Jordy Deck, a younger, less talented version of himself, was behind the counter. Van Dyne could see from the young kid’s face that something was wrong.
“What?”
“A big dude,” the kid said. “He came in here looking for you.”
“What was his name?”
The kid shrugged.
“What did he want?”
“He was asking about Aimee.”
A lump of fear hardened in his chest. “What did you tell him?”
“That she comes in here a lot, but I think he already knew that. No big deal.”
Drew Van Dyne stepped closer. “Describe this guy.”
He did. Van Dyne thought about the warning call he’d received earlier today. It sounded like Myron Bolitar.
“Oh, one other thing,” the kid said.
“What?”
“When he left, I think he went to Bedroom Rendezvous.”
Claire and Myron decided to let Myron talk to Mr. Davis alone.
“Aimee Biel was one of my most gifted students,” Harry Davis said.
Davis was pale and shaking and didn’t have the same confident stride Myron had seen just that morning.
“Was?” Myron said.
“Pardon me?”
“You said ‘was.’ ‘Was one of my most gifted students.’ ”
His eyes went wide. “She isn’t in my class anymore.”
“I see.”
“That’s all I meant.”
“Right,” Myron said, trying to keep him on the defensive. “When exactly was she your student?”
“Last year.”
“Great.” Enough with the prelims. Straight for the knockout punch: “So if Aimee wasn’t your student anymore, what was she doing at your house Saturday night?”
Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead like plastic gophers in one of those arcade games. “What makes you think she was?”
“I dropped her off there.”
“That’s not possible.”
Myron sighed and crossed his legs. “There are two ways to play this, Mr. D. I can get the principal in here or you can tell me what you know.”
Silence.
“Why were you talking to Randy Wolf this morning?”
“He’s also a student of mine.”
“Is or was?”
“Is. I teach sophomores, juniors, and seniors.”
“I understand that the students here have voted you Teacher of the Year the past four years.”
He said nothing.
Myron said, “I went here.”
“Yes, I know.” There was a small smile on his lips. “It would be hard to miss the lingering presence of the legendary Myron Bolitar.”
“My point is, I know what an accomplishment winning Teacher of the Year is. To be that popular with your students.”
Davis liked the compliment. “Did you have a favorite teacher?” he asked.
“Mrs. Friedman. Modern European History.”
“She was here when I started.” He smiled. “I really liked her.”
“That’s sweet, Mr. D, really, but there’s a girl missing.”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Yeah, you do.”
Harry Davis looked down.
“Mr. D?”
He didn’t look up.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s all coming apart now. All of it. You know that, I think. Your life was one thing before we had this chat. It’s another thing now. I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but I won’t let go until I find out everything. No matter how bad it is. No matter how many people are hurt.”
“I don’t know anything,” he said. “Aimee has never been to my house.”
If asked right then, Myron would have said that he wasn’t all that mad. In hindsight, that was the problem: a lack of warning. He had been talking in a measured voice. The threat had been there, sure, but it wasn’t even worth checking. If he had felt it coming, he would have been able to prepare himself. But the fury just flooded in, snapping him into action.
Myron moved fast. He grabbed Davis from behind the neck, squeezed the pressure points near the base of the shoulders, and pulled him toward the window. Davis let out a little cry as Myron pushed his face hard against the one-way glass.
“Look out there, Mr. D.”
In the waiting area Claire sat upright. Her eyes were closed. She thought that no one was watching. Tears ran down her cheeks.
Myron pushed harder.
“Ow!”
“You see that, Mr. D?”
“Let go of me!”
Damn. The fury spread, diffused. Reason bled back in. As with Jake Wolf, Myron scolded his loss of temper
