and released his grip. Davis stood back and rubbed the back of his neck. His face was scarlet now.
“You come anywhere near me,” Davis said, “and I’ll sue you. Do you understand?”
Myron shook his head.
“What?”
“You’re done, Mr. D. You just don’t know it yet.”
CHAPTER 38
Drew Van Dyne headed back to Livingston High School.
How the hell had Myron Bolitar connected him to this mess? He was in full panic mode now. He had assumed that Harry Davis, Mr. Friggin’ Dedicated Teacher, wouldn’t say anything. That would have been better, would have left Van Dyne to handle whatever arose. But now, somehow, Bolitar had ended up at Planet Music. He had been asking about Aimee.
Someone had talked.
As he pulled up to the school, he saw Harry Davis burst out the door. Drew Van Dyne was no student of body language, but man, Davis did not look like himself. His fists were clenched, his shoulders slumped, his feet in a fast shuffle mode. Usually he walked with a smile and a wave, sometimes even whistling. Not today.
Van Dyne drove through the lot, pulling the car into Davis’s path. Davis saw him and veered to the right.
“Mr. D?”
“Leave me alone.”
“You and me, we need to have a little chat.”
Van Dyne was out of the car. Davis kept moving.
“You know what will happen if you talk to Bolitar, don’t you?”
“I haven’t talked,” Davis said, teeth clenched.
“Will you?”
“Get in your car, Drew. Leave me the hell alone.”
Drew Van Dyne shook his head. “Remember, Mr. D. You got a lot to lose here.”
“As you keep pointing out.”
“More than any of us.”
“No.” Davis had reached his car. He slid into the front seat and before he closed his door he said, “Aimee has the most to lose, wouldn’t you say?”
That made Van Dyne pause. He tilted his head. “What do you mean by that?”
“Think about it,” Davis said.
He closed the door and drove off. Drew Van Dyne took a deep breath and moved back to his car. Aimee had the most to lose…. It got him thinking. He started up the engine and began to pull out when he noticed the school’s side door open again.
Aimee’s mother came out the very same door that beloved educator Harry Davis had stormed out just minutes ago. And behind her was Myron Bolitar.
The voice on the phone, the one that had warned him earlier:
It didn’t feel under control. It didn’t feel that way at all.
Drew Van Dyne reached for the car radio as though he were underwater and it held oxygen. The CD feature was on, the latest from Cold-play. He drove away, letting Chris Martin’s gentle voice work on him.
The panic would not leave.
This, he knew, was where he usually made the wrong decision. This is where he usually messed up big-time. He knew that. He knew that he should just back up, think it through. But that was how he lived his life. It was like a car wreck in slow motion. You see what you’re heading for. You know there is going to be an ugly collision. You can’t stop or get out of the way.
You’re powerless.
In the end, Drew Van Dyne made the phone call.
“Hello?”
“We may have a problem,” Van Dyne said.
On other end of the phone, Drew Van Dyne heard Big Jake Wolf sigh.
“Tell me,” Big Jake said.
Myron dropped Claire off before heading to the Livingston Mall. He hoped to find Drew Van Dyne at Planet Music. No luck. The poncho kid wouldn’t talk this time, but Sally Ann said that she’d seen Drew Van Dyne arrive, talk briefly to the poncho kid, and then sprint out. Myron had Van Dyne’s home number. He tried it, but there was no answer.
He called Win. “We need to find this guy.”
“We’re spread a little thin right now.”
“Who can we get to watch Van Dyne’s house?”
Win said, “How about Zorra?”
Zorra was a former Mossad spy, an assassin for the Israelis, and a transvestite who wore stiletto heels — literally. Many transvestites are lovely. Zorra was not one of them.
“I’m not sure she’ll blend into the suburbs, are you?”
“Zorra knows how to blend.”
“Fine, whatever you think.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Chang’s Dry Cleaning. I need to talk to Roger.”
“I’ll call Zorra.”
Business was brisk at Chang’s. Maxine saw Myron enter and gestured with her head for him to come forward. Myron moved ahead of the line and followed her into the back. The smell of chemicals and lint was cloying. It felt like dust particles were clinging to his lungs. He was relieved when she opened the back door.
Roger sat on a crate in the alley. His head was down. Maxine folded her arms and said, “Roger, do you have something to say to Mr. Bolitar?”
Roger was a skinny kid. His arms were reeds with absolutely no definition. He did not look up as she spoke.
“I’m sorry I made those phone calls,” he said.
It was like he was a kid who’d broken a neighbor’s window with an errant baseball and his mother had dragged him across the street to apologize. Myron did not need this. He turned to Maxine. “I want to talk to him alone.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Then I go to the police.”
First Joan Rochester, now Maxine Chang — Myron was getting damn good at threatening terrified mothers. Maybe he’d start slapping them around too, really feel like a big man.
But Myron did not blink. Maxine Chang did. “I will be right inside.”
“Thank you.”
The alley reeked, as all alleys do, of past garbage and dried urine. Myron waited for Roger to look up at him. Roger didn’t.
“You didn’t just call me,” Myron said. “You called Aimee Biel, right?”
He nodded, still not looking up.
“Why?”
“I was calling her back.”
Myron made a skeptical face. Since the kid’s head was still down, the effort was a bit of a waste. “Look at me, Roger.”
He slowly raised his eyes.
