“Okay, that’s enough,” Claire Biel said. “We have a right to know why you’re asking all these questions.”

Loren looked up at her. “You’re a lawyer, aren’t you, Mrs. Biel?”

“I am.”

“So help me out here: Where in the law does it say I have to tell you anything?”

Claire opened her mouth, closed it. Unduly harsh, Loren thought, but playing good cop/bad cop—it’s not just for the perps. Witnesses too. She didn’t like it, but it was damn effective.

Loren looked back at Lance. Lance picked up his cue. He coughed into his fist. “We have some information linking Aimee with Myron Bolitar.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of information?”

“The night before last, at two A.M., Aimee called him. First at home. Then on his cell phone. We know Mr. Bolitar then picked up his car from a garage in the city.” Lance continued to explain the time line. Claire’s face drained of color. Erik’s hands tightened into fists.

When Lance finished, when they were still too dazed to ask follow-up questions, Loren leaned forward. “Is there any way that there may have been more between Myron and Aimee than family friends?”

“Absolutely not,” Claire said.

Erik closed his eyes. “Claire . . .”

“What?” she snapped. “You can’t possibly believe that Myron would get involved—”

“She called him right before . . .” He shrugged. “Why would Aimee call him? Why wouldn’t he say something about that when I saw him at the gym?”

“I don’t know, but the idea”—she stopped, snapped her fingers—“wait, Myron’s dating a friend of mine, as a matter of fact. Ali Wilder. An adult woman, thank you very much. A lovely widow with two kids of her own. The idea that Myron could possibly . . .”

Erik squeezed his eyes shut.

Loren said, “Mr. Biel?”

His voice was soft. “Aimee hasn’t been herself lately.”

“How so?”

Erik’s eyes were still shut. “We both dismissed it as normal teenage stuff. But the last few months, she’s been secretive.”

“That is normal, Erik,” Claire said.

“It’s gotten worse.”

Claire shook her head. “You still think of her as your little girl. That’s all it is.”

“You know it’s more than that, Claire.”

“No, Erik, I don’t.”

He closed his eyes again.

“What is it, Mr. Biel?” Loren asked.

“Two weeks ago I tried to access her computer.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to read her e-mail.”

His wife glared at him, but he didn’t see it—or maybe he didn’t care. Loren pushed ahead.

“So what happened?”

“She changed her password. I couldn’t get on.”

“Because she wanted privacy,” Claire said. “You think that’s unusual? I had a diary when I was a kid. I kept it locked with a key and still hid it. So what?”

Erik went on. “I called our Internet provider. I’m the bill payer with the master account. So they gave me the new password. Then I went online to check her e-mails.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “They were gone. All of them. She’d deleted every one of them.”

“She knew you’d snoop,” Claire said. Her tone was a blend of anger and defensiveness. “She was just guarding against it.”

Erik spun toward her. “Do you really believe that, Claire?”

“Do you really believe that she’s having an affair with Myron?”

Erik did not reply.

Claire spun back toward Loren and Lance. “Have you asked Myron about the calls?”

“Not yet.”

“So what are we waiting for?” Claire started for her purse. “Let’s go now. He’ll straighten this out.”

“He’s not in Livingston,” Loren said. “In fact, he flew down to Miami, not long after he played ball with your husband.”

Claire was about to ask something else, but she stopped. For the first time, Loren could see the doubt crawl into her face. Loren decided to use that. She rose.

“We’ll be in touch,” Loren said.

CHAPTER 15

Myron sat on the plane and thought about his old love, Jessica. Shouldn’t he be happy for her?

She had always been fiery to the point of a pain the ass. His mother and Esperanza hadn’t liked her. His father, like a great TV anchor, played it neutral. Win yawned. In Win’s eyes, women were either doable or they weren’t. Jessica was most definitely doable, but after that . . . so what?

The women thought that Myron was blinded by Jessica’s beauty. She could write like a dream. She was two steps beyond passionate. But they were different. Myron wanted to live like his parents. Jessica sneered at that idyllic nonsense. It was a constant tension that both kept them apart and drew them to each other.

Now Jessica was marrying some Wall Street dude named Stone. Big Stone, Myron thought. Rolling Stone. The Stoner. Smokin’ Stone. The Stone Man.

Myron hated him.

What had become of Jessica?

Seven years, Myron. It changes a person.

But that much?

The plane landed. He checked his phone while the plane taxied toward the terminal. There was a text message from Win:

YOUR PLANE JUST LANDED. PLEASE FILL IN YOUR OWN WITTICISM ABOUT MY WORKING FOR THE AIRLINES. I’M WAITING BY THE LOWER LEVEL CURB.

The plane slowed as it approached the gate. The pilot asked everybody to stay in their seats with their belts fastened. Almost everybody ignored that request. You could hear the belts clack open. Why? What did people gain from that extra second? Was it that we just liked to defy rules?

He debated calling Aimee’s cell phone again. That might be overkill. How many calls could he make, after all? The promise had also been pretty clear. He would drive her anywhere. He would not ask questions. He would not tell her parents. It should hardly surprise him that after such a venture, Aimee would not want to talk to him for a few days.

He got off the plane and was starting toward the exit when he heard someone call out, “Myron Bolitar?”

He turned. There were two of them, a man and a woman. The woman had been the one who called his name. She was small, not much over five feet. Myron was six-four. He towered over her. She did not seem intimidated. The man with her sported a military cut. He also looked vaguely familiar.