The man had a badge out. The woman did not.
“I’m Essex County investigator Loren Muse,” she said. “This is Livingston police detective Lance Banner.”
“Banner,” Myron said automatically. “You Buster’s brother?”
Lance Banner almost smiled. “Yeah.”
“Good guy, Buster. I played hoops with him.”
“I remember.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Good, thanks.”
Myron did not know what was going on, but he’d had experience with law enforcement. Out of habit more than anything else, he reached for his cell phone and pressed the button. It was his speed dial. It would reach Win. Win would hit the mute button and listen in. This was an old trick of theirs, one Myron hadn’t employed in years, and yet there he was, with police officers, falling into the old routines.
From his past run-ins with the law, Myron had learned a few basic truisms that could be summed up thusly: Just because you haven’t done anything wrong doesn’t mean you’re not in trouble. Best to play it with that knowledge.
“We’d like you to come with us,” Loren Muse said.
“May I ask what this is about?”
“We won’t take much of your time.”
“I got Knicks tickets.”
“We’ll try not to interfere with your plans.”
“Courtside.” He looked at Lance Banner. “Celebrity row.”
“Are you refusing to come with us?”
“Are you arresting me?”
“No.”
“Then before I agree to go with you, I’d like you to tell me what it’s about.”
Loren Muse did not hesitate this time. “It’s about Aimee Biel.”
Whack. He should have seen it coming, but he didn’t. Myron staggered back a step. “Is she all right?”
“Why don’t you come with us?”
“I asked you—”
“I heard you, Mr. Bolitar.” She turned away from him now and started heading down toward the exit. “Why don’t you come with us so we can discuss this further?”
Lance Banner drove. Loren Muse rode shotgun. Myron sat in the backseat.
“Is she okay?” Myron asked.
They would not reply. He was being played, Myron knew that, but he didn’t much care. He wanted to know about Aimee. The rest was irrelevant.
“Talk to me, for crying out loud.”
Nothing.
“I saw her Saturday night. You know that already, right?”
They did not respond. He knew why. The ride was mercifully short. That explained their silence. They wanted his admissions on record. It was probably taking all of their willpower not to say anything, but soon they would have him in an interrogation room and put it all on tape.
They drove into the garage and led him to an elevator. They got off on the eighth floor. They were in Newark, the county courthouse. Myron had been here before. They brought him into an interrogation room. There was no mirror and thus no one-way glass. That meant a camera was doing the surveillance.
“Am I under arrest?” he asked.
Loren Muse tilted her head. “What makes you say that?”
“Don’t play these games with me, Muse.”
“Please have a seat.”
“Have you done any checking on me yet? Call Jake Courter, the sheriff in Reston. He’ll vouch for me. There are others.”
“We’ll get to that in a moment.”
“What happened to Aimee Biel?”
“You mind if we film this?” Loren Muse asked.
“No.”
“Do you mind signing a waiver?”
It was a Fifth Amendment waiver. Myron knew better than to sign it—he was a lawyer, for Chrissake—but he pushed past that. His heart hammered in his chest. Something had happened to Aimee Biel. They must think he either knew something or was involved. The faster this moved along and they eliminated him, the better for Aimee.
“Okay,” Myron said. “Now what happened to Aimee?”
Loren Muse spread her hands. “Who said anything happened to her?”
“You did, Muse. When you braced me at the airport. You said, ‘It’s about Aimee Biel.’ And because, while I don’t like to brag, I have amazing powers of deductions, I deduced that two police officers didn’t stop me and say it was about Aimee Biel because she sometimes pops her gum in class. No, I deduced that something must have happened to her. Please don’t shun me because I have this gift.”
“You finished?”
He was. He got nervous, he started talking.
Loren Muse took out a pen. There was already a notebook on her desk. Lance Banner stood and remained silent. “When was the last time you saw Aimee Biel?”
He knew better than to ask what happened again. Muse was going to play it her way.
“Saturday night.”
“What time?”
“I guess between two and three a.m.”
“So this would have been Sunday morning rather than Saturday night?”
Myron bit back the sarcastic rejoinder. “Yes.”
“I see. Where did you last see her?”
“In Ridgewood, New Jersey.”
She wrote that down on a legal pad. “Address?”
“I don’t know.”
Her pen stopped. “You don’t know?”
“That’s right. It was late. She gave me directions. I just followed them.”
“I see.” She sat back and dropped the pen. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
The door behind them flew open. All heads spun to the door. Hester Crimstein stomped in as though the very room had whispered an insult and she wanted to call it out. For a moment no one moved or said anything.
Hester waited a beat, spread her arms, put her right foot forward, and shouted, “Ta-da!”
Loren Muse raised an eyebrow. “Hester Crimstein?”
“We know each other, sweetie?”
“I recognize you from TV.”
“I’ll be happy to sign autographs later. Right now I want the camera off and I want you two”—Hester pointed at Lance Banner and Loren Muse—“out of here, so I can chat with my client.”
Loren stood. They were eye-to-eye, both about the same height. Hester had the frizzy hair. Loren tried to stare her down. Myron almost laughed. Some would call famed criminal attorney Hester Crimstein as mean as a snake, but most would consider that slanderous to the snake.
“Wait,” Hester said to Loren. “Wait for it. . . .”
“I’m Essex County investigator Loren Muse,” she said. “This is Livingston police detective Lance Banner.”
“Banner,” Myron said automatically. “You Buster’s brother?”
Lance Banner almost smiled. “Yeah.”
“Good guy, Buster. I played hoops with him.”
“I remember.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Good, thanks.”
Myron did not know what was going on, but he’d had experience with law enforcement. Out of habit more than anything else, he reached for his cell phone and pressed the button. It was his speed dial. It would reach Win. Win would hit the mute button and listen in. This was an old trick of theirs, one Myron hadn’t employed in years, and yet there he was, with police officers, falling into the old routines.
From his past run-ins with the law, Myron had learned a few basic truisms that could be summed up thusly: Just because you haven’t done anything wrong doesn’t mean you’re not in trouble. Best to play it with that knowledge.
“We’d like you to come with us,” Loren Muse said.
“May I ask what this is about?”
“We won’t take much of your time.”
“I got Knicks tickets.”
“We’ll try not to interfere with your plans.”
“Courtside.” He looked at Lance Banner. “Celebrity row.”
“Are you refusing to come with us?”
“Are you arresting me?”
“No.”
“Then before I agree to go with you, I’d like you to tell me what it’s about.”
Loren Muse did not hesitate this time. “It’s about Aimee Biel.”
Whack. He should have seen it coming, but he didn’t. Myron staggered back a step. “Is she all right?”
“Why don’t you come with us?”
“I asked you—”
“I heard you, Mr. Bolitar.” She turned away from him now and started heading down toward the exit. “Why don’t you come with us so we can discuss this further?”
Lance Banner drove. Loren Muse rode shotgun. Myron sat in the backseat.
“Is she okay?” Myron asked.
They would not reply. He was being played, Myron knew that, but he didn’t much care. He wanted to know about Aimee. The rest was irrelevant.
“Talk to me, for crying out loud.”
Nothing.
“I saw her Saturday night. You know that already, right?”
They did not respond. He knew why. The ride was mercifully short. That explained their silence. They wanted his admissions on record. It was probably taking all of their willpower not to say anything, but soon they would have him in an interrogation room and put it all on tape.
They drove into the garage and led him to an elevator. They got off on the eighth floor. They were in Newark, the county courthouse. Myron had been here before. They brought him into an interrogation room. There was no mirror and thus no one-way glass. That meant a camera was doing the surveillance.
“Am I under arrest?” he asked.
Loren Muse tilted her head. “What makes you say that?”
“Don’t play these games with me, Muse.”
“Please have a seat.”
“Have you done any checking on me yet? Call Jake Courter, the sheriff in Reston. He’ll vouch for me. There are others.”
“We’ll get to that in a moment.”
“What happened to Aimee Biel?”
“You mind if we film this?” Loren Muse asked.
“No.”
“Do you mind signing a waiver?”
It was a Fifth Amendment waiver. Myron knew better than to sign it—he was a lawyer, for Chrissake—but he pushed past that. His heart hammered in his chest. Something had happened to Aimee Biel. They must think he either knew something or was involved. The faster this moved along and they eliminated him, the better for Aimee.
“Okay,” Myron said. “Now what happened to Aimee?”
Loren Muse spread her hands. “Who said anything happened to her?”
“You did, Muse. When you braced me at the airport. You said, ‘It’s about Aimee Biel.’ And because, while I don’t like to brag, I have amazing powers of deductions, I deduced that two police officers didn’t stop me and say it was about Aimee Biel because she sometimes pops her gum in class. No, I deduced that something must have happened to her. Please don’t shun me because I have this gift.”
“You finished?”
He was. He got nervous, he started talking.
Loren Muse took out a pen. There was already a notebook on her desk. Lance Banner stood and remained silent. “When was the last time you saw Aimee Biel?”
He knew better than to ask what happened again. Muse was going to play it her way.
“Saturday night.”
“What time?”
“I guess between two and three a.m.”
“So this would have been Sunday morning rather than Saturday night?”
Myron bit back the sarcastic rejoinder. “Yes.”
“I see. Where did you last see her?”
“In Ridgewood, New Jersey.”
She wrote that down on a legal pad. “Address?”
“I don’t know.”
Her pen stopped. “You don’t know?”
“That’s right. It was late. She gave me directions. I just followed them.”
“I see.” She sat back and dropped the pen. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
The door behind them flew open. All heads spun to the door. Hester Crimstein stomped in as though the very room had whispered an insult and she wanted to call it out. For a moment no one moved or said anything.
Hester waited a beat, spread her arms, put her right foot forward, and shouted, “Ta-da!”
Loren Muse raised an eyebrow. “Hester Crimstein?”
“We know each other, sweetie?”
“I recognize you from TV.”
“I’ll be happy to sign autographs later. Right now I want the camera off and I want you two”—Hester pointed at Lance Banner and Loren Muse—“out of here, so I can chat with my client.”
Loren stood. They were eye-to-eye, both about the same height. Hester had the frizzy hair. Loren tried to stare her down. Myron almost laughed. Some would call famed criminal attorney Hester Crimstein as mean as a snake, but most would consider that slanderous to the snake.
“Wait,” Hester said to Loren. “Wait for it. . . .”
