They started talking then, just catching up on the years. Myron told her about Jeremy, about his serving overseas. Jessica told him about her books, her family, her time working out on the West Coast. She didn’t talk about Stoner. He didn’t talk about Ali.
Morning came. They were still in the kitchen. They’d been talking for hours, but it didn’t feel like it. It just felt good. At seven a.m., the phone rang. Myron picked it up.
Win said, “Our favorite schoolteacher is heading to work.”
CHAPTER 28
Myron and Jessica hugged good-bye. The hug lasted a long time. Myron could smell Jessica’s hair. He didn’t remember the name of her shampoo, but it had lilacs and wildflowers and was the same one she’d used when they’d been together.
Myron called Claire. “I have a quick question,” he said to her.
“Erik said he saw you last night.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s been on the computer all night.”
“Good. Look, do you know a teacher named Harry Davis?”
“Sure. Aimee had him for English last year. He’s also a guidance counselor now, I think.”
“Did she like him?”
“Very much.” Then: “Why? Does he have something to do with this?”
“I know you want to help, Claire. And I know Erik wants to help. But you have to trust me on this, okay?”
“I do trust you.”
“Erik told you about the cut-through we found?”
“Yes.”
“Harry Davis lives on the other side of it.”
“Oh my God.”
“Aimee is not in his house or anything. We already checked.”
“What do you mean, you checked? How did you check?”
“Please, Claire, just listen to me. I’m working on this, but I need to do it without interference. You have to keep Erik off my back, okay? Tell him I said to search all the surrounding streets online. Tell him to drive around that area, but not on that cul-de-sac. Or better yet, have him call Dominick Rochester—that’s Katie’s father—”
“He called us.”
“Dominick Rochester?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last night. He said he met with you.”
Met, Myron thought. Nice euphemism.
“We’re getting together this morning—the Rochesters and us. We’re going to see if we can find a connection between Katie and Aimee.”
“Good. That’ll help. Listen, I have to go.”
“You’ll call?”
“As soon as I know something.”
Myron heard her sob.
“Claire?”
“It’s been two days, Myron.”
“I know. I’m on it. You might want to try to pressure the police more too. Now that we’ve crossed the forty-eight-hour mark.”
“Okay.”
He wanted to say something like Be strong, but it sounded so stupid in his head that he let it go. He said good-bye and hung up. Then he called Win.
“Articulate,” Win said.
“I can’t believe you still answer the phone that way. ‘Articulate.’ ”
Silence.
“Is Harry Davis still heading to the high school?”
“He is.”
“On my way.”
Livingston High School, his alma mater. Myron started up the car. The total ride would be maybe two miles, but whoever was tailing him either wasn’t very good at it or didn’t care. Or maybe, after the debacle with the Twins, Myron was being more wary. Either way, a gray Chevy, maybe a Caprice, had been on him since he made the first turn.
He called Win and got the customary “Articulate.”
“I’m being followed,” Myron said.
“Rochester again?”
“Could be.”
“Make and license plate?”
Myron gave it to him.
Win said, “We’re still on Route 280, so stall a little. Take them down past Mount Pleasant Avenue. I’ll get in behind them, meet you back at the circle.”
Myron did as Win suggested. He turned into Harrison School for the U-turn. The Chevy following him kept going straight. Myron started back down the other way on Livingston Avenue. By the time he hit the next traffic light, the gray Chevy was back on his tail.
Myron hit the big circle in front of the high school, parked, and got out of his car. There were no stores here, but this was the nerve center of Livingston—a plethora of identical brick. There was the police station, the courthouse, the town library, and there, the large crown jewel, Livingston High School.
The early morning joggers and walkers were on the circle. Most were on the elderly side and moved slowly. But not all. A group of four hotties, all hard-bodied and maybe twenty-ish, were jogging in his direction.
Myron smiled at them and arched an eyebrow. “Hello, ladies,” he said as they passed.
Two of them snickered. The other two looked at him as though he’d just announced that he had a poopie in his pants.
Win sidled up next to him. “Did you give them the full-wattage smile?”
“I’d say a good eighty, ninety watts.”
Win studied the young women before making a declaration: “Lesbians,” he said.
“Must be.”
“A lot of that going around, isn’t there?”
Myron did the math in his head. He probably had fifteen to twenty years on them. When it comes to young girls, you just never want to feel it.
“The car following you,” Win said, keeping his eyes on the young joggers, “is an unmarked police vehicle with two uniforms inside. They’re parked in the library lot watching us through a telephoto lens.”
“You mean they’re taking our picture right now?”
“Probably,” Win said.
“How’s my hair?”
Win made an eh gesture with his hand.
Myron thought about what it meant. “They probably still see me as a suspect.”
“I would,” Win said. He had what looked like a Palm Pilot in his hand. It was tracking the car’s GPS. “Our favorite teacher should be arriving now.”
The teachers’ lot was on the west side of the school. Myron and Win walked over. They figured that it would be better to confront him here, outside, before class started.
As they headed over, Myron said, “Guess who stopped by my house at three a.m.?”
“Wink Martindale?”
“No.”
“I love that guy.”
“Who doesn’t? Jessica.”
Morning came. They were still in the kitchen. They’d been talking for hours, but it didn’t feel like it. It just felt good. At seven a.m., the phone rang. Myron picked it up.
Win said, “Our favorite schoolteacher is heading to work.”
CHAPTER 28
Myron and Jessica hugged good-bye. The hug lasted a long time. Myron could smell Jessica’s hair. He didn’t remember the name of her shampoo, but it had lilacs and wildflowers and was the same one she’d used when they’d been together.
Myron called Claire. “I have a quick question,” he said to her.
“Erik said he saw you last night.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s been on the computer all night.”
“Good. Look, do you know a teacher named Harry Davis?”
“Sure. Aimee had him for English last year. He’s also a guidance counselor now, I think.”
“Did she like him?”
“Very much.” Then: “Why? Does he have something to do with this?”
“I know you want to help, Claire. And I know Erik wants to help. But you have to trust me on this, okay?”
“I do trust you.”
“Erik told you about the cut-through we found?”
“Yes.”
“Harry Davis lives on the other side of it.”
“Oh my God.”
“Aimee is not in his house or anything. We already checked.”
“What do you mean, you checked? How did you check?”
“Please, Claire, just listen to me. I’m working on this, but I need to do it without interference. You have to keep Erik off my back, okay? Tell him I said to search all the surrounding streets online. Tell him to drive around that area, but not on that cul-de-sac. Or better yet, have him call Dominick Rochester—that’s Katie’s father—”
“He called us.”
“Dominick Rochester?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Last night. He said he met with you.”
Met, Myron thought. Nice euphemism.
“We’re getting together this morning—the Rochesters and us. We’re going to see if we can find a connection between Katie and Aimee.”
“Good. That’ll help. Listen, I have to go.”
“You’ll call?”
“As soon as I know something.”
Myron heard her sob.
“Claire?”
“It’s been two days, Myron.”
“I know. I’m on it. You might want to try to pressure the police more too. Now that we’ve crossed the forty-eight-hour mark.”
“Okay.”
He wanted to say something like Be strong, but it sounded so stupid in his head that he let it go. He said good-bye and hung up. Then he called Win.
“Articulate,” Win said.
“I can’t believe you still answer the phone that way. ‘Articulate.’ ”
Silence.
“Is Harry Davis still heading to the high school?”
“He is.”
“On my way.”
Livingston High School, his alma mater. Myron started up the car. The total ride would be maybe two miles, but whoever was tailing him either wasn’t very good at it or didn’t care. Or maybe, after the debacle with the Twins, Myron was being more wary. Either way, a gray Chevy, maybe a Caprice, had been on him since he made the first turn.
He called Win and got the customary “Articulate.”
“I’m being followed,” Myron said.
“Rochester again?”
“Could be.”
“Make and license plate?”
Myron gave it to him.
Win said, “We’re still on Route 280, so stall a little. Take them down past Mount Pleasant Avenue. I’ll get in behind them, meet you back at the circle.”
Myron did as Win suggested. He turned into Harrison School for the U-turn. The Chevy following him kept going straight. Myron started back down the other way on Livingston Avenue. By the time he hit the next traffic light, the gray Chevy was back on his tail.
Myron hit the big circle in front of the high school, parked, and got out of his car. There were no stores here, but this was the nerve center of Livingston—a plethora of identical brick. There was the police station, the courthouse, the town library, and there, the large crown jewel, Livingston High School.
The early morning joggers and walkers were on the circle. Most were on the elderly side and moved slowly. But not all. A group of four hotties, all hard-bodied and maybe twenty-ish, were jogging in his direction.
Myron smiled at them and arched an eyebrow. “Hello, ladies,” he said as they passed.
Two of them snickered. The other two looked at him as though he’d just announced that he had a poopie in his pants.
Win sidled up next to him. “Did you give them the full-wattage smile?”
“I’d say a good eighty, ninety watts.”
Win studied the young women before making a declaration: “Lesbians,” he said.
“Must be.”
“A lot of that going around, isn’t there?”
Myron did the math in his head. He probably had fifteen to twenty years on them. When it comes to young girls, you just never want to feel it.
“The car following you,” Win said, keeping his eyes on the young joggers, “is an unmarked police vehicle with two uniforms inside. They’re parked in the library lot watching us through a telephoto lens.”
“You mean they’re taking our picture right now?”
“Probably,” Win said.
“How’s my hair?”
Win made an eh gesture with his hand.
Myron thought about what it meant. “They probably still see me as a suspect.”
“I would,” Win said. He had what looked like a Palm Pilot in his hand. It was tracking the car’s GPS. “Our favorite teacher should be arriving now.”
The teachers’ lot was on the west side of the school. Myron and Win walked over. They figured that it would be better to confront him here, outside, before class started.
As they headed over, Myron said, “Guess who stopped by my house at three a.m.?”
“Wink Martindale?”
“No.”
“I love that guy.”
“Who doesn’t? Jessica.”
