“Right. No woman would pick it out.”
“So how do I find out who bought it for her?”
“We don’t keep records or anything like that. I could ask some of the other girls, but . . .” Sally Ann shrugged.
Myron thanked her and headed out. As a young boy, Myron had come here with his dad. They had frequented Herman’s Sporting Goods back then. The store was now out of business. But as he exited Bedroom Rendezvous, he still looked down the corridor, to where Herman’s used to be. And two doors down, he spotted a store with a familiar name.
PLANET MUSIC.
Myron flashed back to Aimee’s room. Planet Music. The guitars had been from Planet Music. There had been receipts in Aimee’s drawer from there. And here it was, her favorite music shop, located two stores down from Bedroom Rendezvous.
Another coincidence?
In Myron’s youth, the store in this spot had sold pianos and organs. Myron had always wondered about that. Piano-organ stores at malls. You go to the mall to buy clothes, a CD, a toy, maybe a stereo. Who goes to the mall to buy a piano?
Clearly not many people.
The pianos and organs were gone. Planet Music sold CDs and smaller instruments. They had signs for rentals. Trumpets, clarinets, violins—probably did a big business with the schools.
The kid behind the counter was maybe twenty-three, wore a hemp poncho, and looked like a seedier version of the average Starbucks barista. He had a dusty knit hat atop a shaved head. He sported the now seemingly prerequisite soul patch.
Myron gave him the stern eye and slapped the picture down on the counter. “You know her?”
The kid hesitated a second too long. Myron jumped in.
“You answer my questions, you don’t get busted.”
“Busted for what?”
“Do you know her?”
He nodded. “That’s Aimee.”
“She shops here?”
“Sure, all the time,” he said, his eyes darting everywhere but on Myron. “And she understands music too. Most people come in here, they ask for boy bands.” He said boy bands the way most people say bestiality. “But Aimee, she rocks.”
“How well do you know her?”
“Not very. I mean, she doesn’t come here for me.”
The poncho kid stopped then.
“Who does she come here for?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I don’t want to make you empty your pockets.”
He raised his hands. “Hey, I’m totally clean.”
“Then I’ll plant something on you.”
“What the . . . You serious?”
“Cancer serious.” Myron worked the stern eye again. He wasn’t great at the stern eye. The strain was giving him a headache. “Who does she come here to see?”
“My assistant manager.”
“He have a name?”
“Drew. Drew Van Dyne.”
“Is he here?”
“No. He comes in this afternoon.”
“You got an address for him? A phone number?”
“Hey,” the kid said, suddenly wise. “Let me see your badge.”
“Bye now.”
Myron headed out of the store. He found Sally Ann again.
She clacked the gum. “Back so soon?”
“Couldn’t stay away,” Myron said. “Do you know a guy who works at Planet Music named Drew Van Dyne?”
“Oh,” she said, nodding as though it all made sense now. “Oh yes.”
CHAPTER 34
Claire jumped at the sound of the phone.
She had not slept since Aimee had gone missing. In the past two days Claire had imbibed enough coffee, and thus the caffeine, to be wired for sound. She kept going back to the Rochesters’ visit, the father’s anger, the mother’s meekness. The mother. Joan Rochester. Something was definitely up with that woman.
Claire spent the morning going through Aimee’s room while wondering about how to get Joan Rochester to talk. A mother-to-mother approach, maybe. Aimee’s room held no new surprises. Claire started going through old boxes, stuff she’d saved from what seemed like two weeks ago. The pencil holder Aimee made Erik in preschool. Her first-grade report card—all As, plus Mrs. Rohrbach’s comment that Aimee was a gifted student, fun to have in class, and had a bright future. She stared at the words bright future, letting them mock her.
The phone jangled a nerve. She dove for it, hoping once again that it was Aimee, that this was all some silly misunderstanding, that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for where she was.
“Hello?”
“She’s fine.”
The voice was robotic. Neither male nor female. Like an edgier version of the one who tells you that your call is valued and to hold for the next available representative.
“Who is this?”
“She’s fine. Just let it be. You have my word.”
“Who is this? Let me speak to Aimee.”
But the only response was a dial tone.
Joan Rochester said, “Dominick isn’t home right now.”
“I know,” Myron said. “I want to talk to you.”
“Me?” As if the very idea of someone wanting to talk to her was a shock on par with a Mars landing. “But why?”
“Please, Mrs. Rochester, it’s very important.”
“I think we should wait for Dominick.”
Myron pushed past her. “I don’t.”
The house was neat and orderly. It was all straight lines and right angles. No curves, no surprising splashes of color, everything standing upright, as if the very room didn’t want to draw attention to itself.
“Can I fix you some coffee?”
“Where is your daughter, Mrs. Rochester?”
She blinked maybe a dozen times in rapid succession. Myron knew men who blinked like that. They were always the guys who were bullied in school as kids and never got over it. She managed to stammer out the word, “What?”
“Where is Katie?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“That’s a lie.”
More blinking. Myron did not let himself feel sorry for her. “Why . . . I’m not lying.”
“You know where Katie is. I assume you have a reason for keeping quiet about it. I assume it involves your husband. That isn’t my concern.”
Joan Rochester tried to straighten her back. “I’d like you to leave this house.”
“No.”
“Then I’m going to call my husband.”
“I have phone records,” Myron said.