“Don’t. It’s better. And what would you say that your mother doesn’t already know?”
Now it was Myron’s turn to nod a few times too many. “So what do you want to talk about?”
“Nothing. I mean, your mother wants us to have a heart-to-heart.”
“What about?”
“Today’s New York Times.”
“Excuse me?”
“There was something in it. Your mother thinks you’ll be upset and that we should talk. But I don’t think I’m going to do that. I think what I’m going to do instead is hand you the newspaper and let you read it for yourself and leave you alone for a while. If you want to talk, you come and get me, okay? If not, I’ll give you your space.”
Myron frowned. “Something in The New York Times?”
“Sunday Styles section.” Dad stood and pointed with his chin toward the pile of Sunday papers. “Page sixteen. Good night, Myron.”
“Good night, Dad.”
His father moved down the hall. No need to tiptoe. Mom could sleep through a Judas Priest concert. Dad was the night watchman, Mom the sleepy princess. Myron stood. He picked up the Sunday Styles section, turned to page sixteen, saw the photo, and felt the stiletto pierce his heart.
The New York Times Sunday Styles was upscale gossip. The most well-read pages were for wedding announcements. And there, on page sixteen, in the top left-hand corner, was a photograph of a man with Ken-doll good looks and teeth that were too perfect to be capped. He had a Republican senator’s cleft chin, and his name was Stone Norman. The article said Stone ran and operated the BMV Investment Group, a highly successful financial enterprise specializing in major institutional trades.
Snore.
The engagement announcement said that Stone Norman and his wife-to-be would be married next Saturday at Tavern on the Green in Manhattan. A reverend would preside over the ceremony. Then the newlyweds would begin their lives together in Scarsdale, New York.
More snore. Stone Snore.
But none of that was what had pierced his heart. No, what did that, what really hurt and made the knees buckle, was the woman ol’ Stone was marrying, the one smiling with him in that photograph, a smile Myron still knew far too well.
For a moment Myron just stared. He reached out and brushed the bride-to-be’s face with his finger. Her biography stated that she was a best-selling writer who’d been nominated for both the PEN/Faulkner and National Book Award. Her name was Jessica Culver, and though it didn’t say so in the article, for more than a decade she had been the love of Myron Bolitar’s life.
He just sat and stared.
Jessica, the woman he’d been sure was his soul mate, was getting married to someone else.
He had not seen her since they broke up seven years ago. Life had gone on for him. It had, of course, gone on for her. Why should he be surprised?
He put down the paper, then picked it up again. A lifetime ago Myron had asked Jessica to marry him. She had said no. They stayed together on and off for the next decade. But in the end Myron wanted to get married, and Jessica didn’t. She pretty much scoffed at the bourgeois idea of it all—the suburbs, the picket fence, the children, the barbecues, the Little League games, the life Myron’s parents had led.
Except now Jessica was marrying big Stone Norman and moving to the über-suburb of Scarsdale, New York.
Myron carefully folded the paper and put it on the coffee table. He stood with a sigh and headed down the corridor. He flicked off the lights as he went. He passed his parents’ bedroom. The reading lamp was still on. His father faked a cough to let Myron know he was there.
“I’m fine,” he said out loud.
His father did not respond, and Myron was grateful. The man was like a master on the tightrope, managing the nearly impossible feat of showing he cared without butting in or interfering.
Jessica Culver, the love of his life, the woman he’d always believed was his destined soul mate, was getting married.
Myron wanted to sleep on that one. But sleep would not come.
CHAPTER 14
Time to talk to Aimee Biel’s parents.
It was six in the morning. County investigator Loren Muse sat on her floor cross-legged. She wore shorts, and the quasi-shag carpeting made her legs itch. Police files and reports were spread out everywhere. In the center was the timetable she’d made up.
A harsh snoring came from the other room. Loren had lived alone in this same crappy apartment for more than a decade now. They called them “garden” apartments, though the only thing that seemed to grow was a monotonous red brick. They were sturdy structures with the personality of prison cells, way stations for people on the way up or on the way down, or, for a very few, stuck in a sort of personal-life purgatory.
The snoring did not come from a boyfriend. Loren had one—a total loser named Pete—but her mother, the multimarried, once-desirable, now-flabby Carmen Valos Muse Brewster Whatever was between men and thus living with her. Her snoring had the phlegm of a lifelong smoker, mixed with a few too many years of cheap wine and tacky song.
Cracker crumbs dominated the counter. An open jar of peanut butter, the knife sticking out like Excalibur, stood in the middle like a watchtower. Loren studied the phone logs, the credit card charges, the E-ZPass reports. They painted an interesting picture.
Okay, Loren thought, let’s map this out.
1:56 A.M.: Aimee Biel uses the 52nd Street Citibank ATM machine—the same one used by Katie Rochester three months ago. Weird.
2:16 A.M.: Aimee Biel places a call to the Livingston residence of Myron Bolitar. The call lasts only seconds.
2:17 A.M.: Aimee places a call to a mobile phone registered to Myron Bolitar. The call lasts three minutes.
Loren nodded to herself. It seemed logical that Aimee Biel had first tried Bolitar’s home and when he didn’t answer—that would explain the brevity of the first call—she called his mobile.
Back to it:
2:21 A.M.: Myron Bolitar calls Aimee Biel. This call lasts one minute.
From what they’d been able to dig up, Bolitar often stayed in New York City at the Dakota apartment of a friend named Windsor Horne Lockwood III. Lockwood was known to police; despite a ritzy, Main Line upbringing, he was a suspect in several assaults and, yes, even a couple of homicides. The man had the craziest reputation Loren had ever seen. But again, that did not seem relevant to the case at hand.
The point here was, Bolitar was probably staying at Lockwood’s apartment in Manhattan. He kept his car in a nearby lot. According to the night attendant, Bolitar had taken the car out sometime around 2:30 A.M.