“Excuse me?”
“Any second now, I’m going to pee in my pants. From fear, I mean. Just wait. . . .”
Myron said, “Hester . . .”
“Shh, you.” Hester shot him a glare and made a tsk-tsk noise. “Signing a waiver and talking without your lawyer. What kind of dope are you?”
“You’re not my lawyer.”
“Shh again, you.”
“I’m representing myself.”
“You know the expression ‘A man who represents himself has a fool for a client’? Change ‘fool’ to ‘total brain-dead numbskull.’ ”
Myron wondered how Hester had gotten there so quickly, but the answer was obvious. Win. As soon as Myron had hit his cell phone, as soon as Win heard the voices of the cops, he would have found Hester and gotten her there.
Hester Crimstein was one of the country’s top defense attorneys. She had her own cable show called Crimstein on Crime. They’d become friends when Hester had helped Esperanza with a murder rap a few years back.
“Hold up.” Hester looked back at Loren and Lance. “Why are you two still here?”
Lance Banner took a big step forward. “He just said you’re not his lawyer.”
“Your name again, handsome?”
“Livingston police detective Lance Banner.”
“Lance,” she said. “Like in what I use to get rid of a boil? Okay, Lance, here’s some advice: The step forward was a nice move, very commanding, but you need to stick out your chest more. Make your voice a little deeper and add a scowl. Like this: ‘Yo, chickie, he just said you’re not his lawyer.’ Try it.”
Myron knew that Hester wouldn’t simply go away. He also knew that he probably didn’t want her to. He wanted to cooperate, of course, get this over with, but he also wanted to know what the hell had happened to Aimee.
“She’s my lawyer,” Myron said. “Please give us a minute.”
Hester gave them a satisfied smirk that you know they both wanted to slap off her face. They turned for the doors. Hester gave them a five-finger toodle-oo wave. When they were both out the door, she closed it and looked up at the camera. “Turn it off now.”
“It probably is,” Myron said.
“Yeah, sure. Cops never play games with that.”
She took out her cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” he asked.
“Do you know why they have you in here?”
“It has something to do with a girl named Aimee Biel,” Myron said.
“That much I know already. But you don’t know what happened to her?”
“No.”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I got my local investigator working on it. She’s the best, knows everybody in this office.” Hester put the phone to her ear. “Yeah, Hester here. What’s up? Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” Hester listened without taking notes. A minute later, she said, “Thanks, Cingle. Keep digging and see what they got.”
Hester hung up. Myron shrugged a well? at her.
“This girl—her last name is Biel.”
“Aimee Biel,” Myron said. “What about her?”
“She’s missing.”
Myron felt the thump again.
“It seems she never came home on Saturday night. She was supposed to sleep at a friend’s house. She never arrived. Nobody knows what happened to her. Apparently there are phone records linking you to the girl. Other stuff too. My investigator is trying to find out what exactly.”
Hester sat down. She looked across the table at him. “So okay, bubbe, tell Aunt Hester everything.”
“No,” Myron said.
“What?”
“Look, you have two choices here. You can stay while I talk to them right now or I can fire you.”
“You should talk to me first.”
“We can’t waste the time. You have to let me tell them everything.”
“Because you’re innocent?”
“Of course I’m innocent.”
“And the police never ever ever arrest the wrong man.”
“I’ll risk it. If Aimee is in trouble, I can’t have them wasting time on me.”
“I disagree.”
“Then you’re fired.”
“Don’t get all Trump on me. I’m advising you, that’s all. You’re the client.”
She rose, opened the door, called them back in. Loren Muse moved past her and sat back down. Lance took his post in the corner. Muse was red-faced, probably upset with herself for not questioning him in the car before Hester’s arrival.
Loren Muse was about to say something, but Myron stopped her by raising his palm.
“Let’s get to it,” Myron said to them. “Aimee Biel is missing. I know that now. You’ve probably pulled our phone logs, so you know she called me around two in the morning. I’m not sure what else you have so far, so let me help you out. She asked for a ride. I picked her up.”
“Where?” Loren asked.
“Midtown Manhattan. Fifty-second and Fifth, I think. I took the Henry Hudson to the GWB. Do you have the credit card charge for the gas station?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know we stopped there. We continued down Route 4 to Route 17 and then to Ridgewood.” Myron saw a change in their posture. He had missed something, but he pressed on. “I dropped her off at a house on the end of a cul-de-sac. Then I drove home.”
“And you don’t remember the address, is that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“Anything else?”
“Like?”
“Like why did Aimee Biel call you in the first place?”
“I’m a friend of the family.”
“You must be a close friend.”
“I am.”
“So why you? I mean, first she called your house in Livingston. Then she went to your cell phone. Why did she call you and not her parents or an aunt or an uncle or even a school friend?” Loren lifted her palms to the sky. “Why you?”
Myron’s voice was soft. “I made her promise.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
He explained about the basement, about hearing the girls talk about driving with a drunk kid, about making them promise—and as he did, he could see their faces change. Even Hester’s. The words, the rationale, rang hollow in his own ears now, and yet he couldn’t put his finger on why. His explanation went on a little too long. He could hear the defensiveness in his voice.
“Any second now, I’m going to pee in my pants. From fear, I mean. Just wait. . . .”
Myron said, “Hester . . .”
“Shh, you.” Hester shot him a glare and made a tsk-tsk noise. “Signing a waiver and talking without your lawyer. What kind of dope are you?”
“You’re not my lawyer.”
“Shh again, you.”
“I’m representing myself.”
“You know the expression ‘A man who represents himself has a fool for a client’? Change ‘fool’ to ‘total brain-dead numbskull.’ ”
Myron wondered how Hester had gotten there so quickly, but the answer was obvious. Win. As soon as Myron had hit his cell phone, as soon as Win heard the voices of the cops, he would have found Hester and gotten her there.
Hester Crimstein was one of the country’s top defense attorneys. She had her own cable show called Crimstein on Crime. They’d become friends when Hester had helped Esperanza with a murder rap a few years back.
“Hold up.” Hester looked back at Loren and Lance. “Why are you two still here?”
Lance Banner took a big step forward. “He just said you’re not his lawyer.”
“Your name again, handsome?”
“Livingston police detective Lance Banner.”
“Lance,” she said. “Like in what I use to get rid of a boil? Okay, Lance, here’s some advice: The step forward was a nice move, very commanding, but you need to stick out your chest more. Make your voice a little deeper and add a scowl. Like this: ‘Yo, chickie, he just said you’re not his lawyer.’ Try it.”
Myron knew that Hester wouldn’t simply go away. He also knew that he probably didn’t want her to. He wanted to cooperate, of course, get this over with, but he also wanted to know what the hell had happened to Aimee.
“She’s my lawyer,” Myron said. “Please give us a minute.”
Hester gave them a satisfied smirk that you know they both wanted to slap off her face. They turned for the doors. Hester gave them a five-finger toodle-oo wave. When they were both out the door, she closed it and looked up at the camera. “Turn it off now.”
“It probably is,” Myron said.
“Yeah, sure. Cops never play games with that.”
She took out her cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” he asked.
“Do you know why they have you in here?”
“It has something to do with a girl named Aimee Biel,” Myron said.
“That much I know already. But you don’t know what happened to her?”
“No.”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I got my local investigator working on it. She’s the best, knows everybody in this office.” Hester put the phone to her ear. “Yeah, Hester here. What’s up? Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” Hester listened without taking notes. A minute later, she said, “Thanks, Cingle. Keep digging and see what they got.”
Hester hung up. Myron shrugged a well? at her.
“This girl—her last name is Biel.”
“Aimee Biel,” Myron said. “What about her?”
“She’s missing.”
Myron felt the thump again.
“It seems she never came home on Saturday night. She was supposed to sleep at a friend’s house. She never arrived. Nobody knows what happened to her. Apparently there are phone records linking you to the girl. Other stuff too. My investigator is trying to find out what exactly.”
Hester sat down. She looked across the table at him. “So okay, bubbe, tell Aunt Hester everything.”
“No,” Myron said.
“What?”
“Look, you have two choices here. You can stay while I talk to them right now or I can fire you.”
“You should talk to me first.”
“We can’t waste the time. You have to let me tell them everything.”
“Because you’re innocent?”
“Of course I’m innocent.”
“And the police never ever ever arrest the wrong man.”
“I’ll risk it. If Aimee is in trouble, I can’t have them wasting time on me.”
“I disagree.”
“Then you’re fired.”
“Don’t get all Trump on me. I’m advising you, that’s all. You’re the client.”
She rose, opened the door, called them back in. Loren Muse moved past her and sat back down. Lance took his post in the corner. Muse was red-faced, probably upset with herself for not questioning him in the car before Hester’s arrival.
Loren Muse was about to say something, but Myron stopped her by raising his palm.
“Let’s get to it,” Myron said to them. “Aimee Biel is missing. I know that now. You’ve probably pulled our phone logs, so you know she called me around two in the morning. I’m not sure what else you have so far, so let me help you out. She asked for a ride. I picked her up.”
“Where?” Loren asked.
“Midtown Manhattan. Fifty-second and Fifth, I think. I took the Henry Hudson to the GWB. Do you have the credit card charge for the gas station?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know we stopped there. We continued down Route 4 to Route 17 and then to Ridgewood.” Myron saw a change in their posture. He had missed something, but he pressed on. “I dropped her off at a house on the end of a cul-de-sac. Then I drove home.”
“And you don’t remember the address, is that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“Anything else?”
“Like?”
“Like why did Aimee Biel call you in the first place?”
“I’m a friend of the family.”
“You must be a close friend.”
“I am.”
“So why you? I mean, first she called your house in Livingston. Then she went to your cell phone. Why did she call you and not her parents or an aunt or an uncle or even a school friend?” Loren lifted her palms to the sky. “Why you?”
Myron’s voice was soft. “I made her promise.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
He explained about the basement, about hearing the girls talk about driving with a drunk kid, about making them promise—and as he did, he could see their faces change. Even Hester’s. The words, the rationale, rang hollow in his own ears now, and yet he couldn’t put his finger on why. His explanation went on a little too long. He could hear the defensiveness in his voice.
