"I do."
"But I figure, what's the harm in doing a little checking, right? So I do the easiest thing. Just to satisfy the parents that their girl--her name is Aimee, by the way--that Aimee is okay."
"So what did you do?"
"I ran her credit card number, see if Aimee made any charges or used an ATM."
"And?"
"Sure enough. She took out a thousand dollars, the max, at an ATM machine at two in the morning."
"You get the video from the bank?"
"I did."
Loren knew that this was done in seconds now. You didn't have an old-fashioned tape anymore. The videos are digital and could be e-mailed and downloaded almost instantaneously.
"It was Aimee," he said. "No question about it. She didn't try to hide her face or anything."
"So?"
"So you figure it's a runaway, right?"
"Right."
"A slam dunk," he went on. "She took the money and is doing a little partying, whatever. Blowing off steam at the end of her senior year." Banner looked off.
"Come on, Lance. What's the problem?"
"Katie Rochester."
"Because Katie did the same thing? Used an ATM before disappearing?"
He tilted his head back and forth in a maybe-yes, maybe-no gesture. His eyes were still far away. "It's not just that she did the same thing as Katie," he said. "It's that she did the exact same thing."
"I'm not following."
"The ATM machine Aimee Biel used was located in Manhattan--more specifically"--he slowed his words now--"at a Citibank on Fifty-second Street and Sixth Avenue."
Loren felt the chill begin at the base of her skull and travel south.
Banner said, "That's the same one Katie Rochester used, right?"
She nodded and then she said something truly stupid: "Could be a coincidence."
"Could be," he agreed.
"You got anything else?"
"We're just starting, but we pulled the logs on her cell phone."
"And?"
"She made a phone call right after she took out the money."
"To whom?"
Lance Banner leaned back and crossed his legs. "Do you remember a guy a few years ahead of us--big basketball star named Myron Bolitar?"
CHAPTER 13
Down in Miami, Myron dined with Rex Storton, a new client, at some super-huge restaurant Rex had picked out because a lot of people walked by. The restaurant was one of those chains like Bennigans or TGI Fridays or something equally universal and awful.
Storton was an aging actor, a one-time superstar who was looking for the indie role that would launch him out of Miami's Loni Anderson Dinner Theater and back into the upper echelon of La-La Land. Rex was resplendent in a pink polo with the collar turned up, white pants that a man his age just shouldn't involve himself with, and a shiny gray toupee that looked good when you weren't sitting directly across the table from it.
For years Myron had represented professional athletes only. When one of his basketball players wanted to cross over and do movies, Myron started meeting actors. A new branch of the business took root, and now he handled the Hollywood clients almost exclusively, leaving the sports management stuff to Esperanza.
It was strange. As an athlete himself, one would think that Myron would relate more to those in a similar profession. He didn't. He liked the actors more. Most athletes are singled out right away, at fairly young ages, and elevated to godlike status from the get-go. Athletes are in the lead clique at school. They get invited to all the parties. They nab all the hot girls. Adults fawn. Teachers let them slide.
Actors are different. Many of them had started out at the opposite end of the spectrum. Athletics rule in most towns. Actors were often the kids who couldn't make the team and were looking for another activity. They were often too small--ever meet an actor in real life and notice that they're tiny?--or uncoordinated. So they back into acting. Later, when stardom hits them, they are not used to the treatment. They're surprised by it. They're somewhat more appreciative. In many cases--no, not all--it makes them more humble than their athletic counterparts.
There were other factors, of course. They say that actors take to the stage to fill a void of emptiness only applause can fill. Even if true, it made thespians somewhat more anxious to please. While athletes were used to people doing their bidding and came to believe it was their due in life, actors came to that from a position of insecurity. Athletes need to win. They need to beat you. Actors need only your applause and thus your approval.
It made them easier to work with.
Again this was a complete generalization--Myron was an athlete, after all, and did not consider himself difficult--but like most generalizations, there was something to it.
He told Rex about the indie role as, to quote the pitch, "a geriatric, cross-dressing car thief, but with a heart." Rex nodded. His eyes continuously scanned the room, as if they were at a cocktail party and he was waiting for someone more important to come in. Rex always kept one eye toward the entrance. This was how it was with actors. Myron repped one guy who was world-renowned for detesting the press. He had battled with photographers. He had sued tabloids. He had demanded his privacy. Yet whenever Myron ate dinner with him, the actor always chose a seat in the center of the room, facing the door, and whenever someone would enter, he'd look up, just for a second, just to make sure he was recognized.
His eyes still moving, Rex said, "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Do I have to wear a dress?"
"For some scenes, yes."
"I've done that before."
Myron arched an eyebrow.
"Professionally, I mean. Don't be a wiseass. And it was tastefully done. The dress must be something tasteful."
"So, what, nothing with a plunging neckline?'
"Funny, Myron. You're a scream. Speaking of which, do I have to do a screen test?"
"You do."
"Chrissakes, I've made eighty films."
"I know, Rex."
"He can't look at one of them?"
Myron shrugged. "That's what he said."
"You like the script?"
"I do, Rex."
"How old is this director?'
"Twenty-two."
"Jesus. I was already a has-been by the time he was born."
"They'll pay for a flight to L.A."
"First class?"
"Coach, but I think I can get you a business upgrade."
"Ah, who am I kidding? I'd sit on the wing in only my girdle if the role was right."
"That's the spirit."
A mother and daughter came over and asked Rex for his autograph. He smiled grandly and puffed out his chest. He looked at the obvious mother and said, "Are you two sisters?"
She giggled as she left.
"Another happy customer," Myron said.
"I aim to please."
A buxom blonde came by for an autograph. Rex kissed her a little too hard. After she sashayed away, Rex held up a piece of paper. "Look."
"What is it?"
"Her phone number."
"Terrific."
"What can I say, Myron? I love women."
Myron looked up and to his right.
"What?"
"I'm just wondering," Myron said, "how your prenup will hold up."
"Very funny."
They ate some chicken from a deep fryer. Or maybe it was beef or shrimp. Once in the deep fryer, it all tasted the same. Myron could feel Rex's eyes on him.
"What?" Myron said.
"It's sort of tough to admit this," Rex said, "but I'm only alive when I'm in the spotlight. I've had three wives and four kids. I love them all. I enjoyed my time with them. But the only time I feel really myself is when I'm in the spotlight."
Myron said nothing.
"Does that sound pathetic to you?"
Myron shrugged.
"You know what else?"
"What?"
"In their heart of hearts, I think most people are like that. They crave
fame. They want people to recognize them and stop them on the streets. People say it's a new thing, what with the reality TV crap. But I think it's always been that way."
Myron studied his pitiful food.
"You agree?"
"I don't know, Rex."
"For me, the spotlight has dimmed a touch, you know what I'm saying? It's faded bit by bit. I was lucky. But I've met some one-hit wonders. Man, they're never happy. Not ever again. But me, with the slow fade, I could get used to it. And even now, people still recognize me. It's why I eat out every night. Yeah, that's awful to say, but it's true. And even now, when I'm in my seventies, I still dream about clawing my way back to that brightest of spotlights. You know what I'm saying?"
"I do," Myron said. "It's why I love you."
"Why's that?"
"You're honest about it. Most actors tell me it's just about the work."
Rex made a scoffing noise. "What a load of crap. But it's not their fault, Myron. Fame is a drug. The most potent. You're hooked, but you don't want to admit it." Rex gave him the twinkly smile that used to melt the girls' hearts. "And what about you, Myron?"
"What about me?"
"Like I said, there's this spotlight, right? For me it faded slowly. But for you, top college basketball player in the country, on your way to a big pro career . . ."
Myron waited.
". . . and then, flick"--Rex snapped his fingers--"lights out. When you're only, what, twenty-one, twenty-two?"
"Twenty-two," Myron said.
"So how did you cope? And I love you too, sweetums. So tell me the truth."
Myron crossed his legs. He felt his face flush. "Are you enjoying the new show?"
"What, the dinner theater gig?"
"Yes."
"It's dog crap. It's worse than stripping on Route 17 in Lodi, New Jersey."
"And you know this from personal experience?"
"Stop trying to change the subject. How did you cope?"
Myron sighed. "Most would say I coped amazingly well."
Rex lifted his palm to the sky and curled his fingers as if to say, Come on, come on.
"What exactly do you want to know?"
Rex thought about it. "What did you do first?"
"After the injury?"
"Yes."
"Rehab. Lots of rehab."
"And once you realized that your basketball days were over . . . ?"
"I went back to law school."
"Where?"
"Harvard."
"Very impressive. So you went to law school. Then what?"
"You know what, Rex. I got my JD, opened up a sports agency, grew into a full-service agency that now represents actors and writers too." He shrugged.
"Myron?"
"What?"
"I asked for the truth."
Myron picked up his fork, took a bite, chewed slowly. "The lights didn't just go out, Rex. I had a full-fledged power outage. A lifetime blackout."
"I know that."
"So I needed to push past it."
"And?"
"And that's it."
Rex shook his head and smiled.
"What?"
"Next time," Rex said. He picked up his fork. "You'll tell me next time."
"You're a pain in the ass."
"But you love me, remember?"
By the time they finished dinner and drinks, it was late. Drinking for a second night in a row. Myron Bolitar, lush of the stars. He made sure that Rex was safely back in his residence before heading to his parents' condo. He had a key. He slipped it in quietly so as to not awaken Mom and Dad. He knew that it would do no good.
The TV was on. His father sat in the living room. When Myron entered, Dad faked like he was just waking up. He wasn't. Dad always stayed awake until Myron came home. Didn't matter what time Myron returned. Didn't matter that Myron was now in his fourth decade.
Myron came up behind his father's chair. Dad turned around and gave him the smile, the one he saved only for Myron, the one that told Myron that he was the single greatest creation in this man's eyes and how could you beat that?
"Have fun?"
"Rex is a pretty cool guy," Myron said.
"I used to like his movies." His father nodded a few times too many. "Sit for a second."
"What's up?"
"Just sit, okay?"
He did. Myron folded his hands and put them in his lap. Like he was eight. "Is this about Mom?"
"No."
"Her Parkinson's is getting worse."
"That's how it is with Parkinson's, Myron. It gets worse."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"No."
"I think I should say something, at least."
"Don't. It's better. And what would you say that your mother doesn't already know?"
Now it was Myron's turn to nod a few times too many. "So what do you want to talk about?"
"Nothing. I mean, your mother wants us to have a heart-to-heart."
"What about?"
"Today's New York Times."
"Excuse me?"
"There was something in it. Your mother thinks you'll be upset and that we should talk. But I don't think I'm going to do that. I think what I'm going to do instead is hand you the newspaper and let you read it for yourself and leave you alone for a while. If you want to talk, you come and get me, okay? If not, I'll give you your space."
Myron frowned. "Something in The New York Times?"
"Sunday Styles section." Dad stood and pointed with his chin toward the pile of Sunday papers. "Page sixteen. Good night, Myron."
"Good night, Dad."
His father moved down the hall. No need to tiptoe. Mom could sleep through a Judas Priest concert. Dad was the night watchman, Mom the sleepy princess. Myron stood. He picked up the Sunday Styles section, turned to page sixteen, saw the photo, and felt the stiletto pierce his heart.
The New York Times Sunday Styles was upscale gossip. The most well-read pages were for wedding announcements. And there, on page sixteen, in the top left-hand corner, was a photograph of a man with Ken-doll good looks and teeth that were too perfect to be capped. He had a Republican senator's cleft chin, and his name was Stone Norman. The article said Stone ran and operated the BMV Investment Group, a highly successful financial enterprise specializing in major institutional trades.
Snore.
The engagement announcement said that Stone Norman and his wife-to-be would be married next Saturday at Tavern on the Green in Manhattan. A reverend would preside over the ceremony. Then the newlyweds would begin their lives together in Scarsdale, New York.
More snore. Stone Snore.
But none of that was what had pierced his heart. No, what did that, what really hurt and made the knees buckle, was the woman ol' Stone was marrying, the one smiling with him in that photograph, a smile Myron still knew far too well.
For a moment Myron just stared. He reached out and brushed the bride-to-be's face with his finger. Her biography stated that she was a best-selling writer who'd been nominated for both the PEN/Faulkner and National Book Award. Her name was Jessica Culver, and though it didn't say so in the article, for more than a decade she had been the love of Myron Bolitar's life.
He just sat and stared.
Jessica, the woman he'd been sure was his soul mate, was getting married to someone else.
He had not seen her since they broke up seven years ago. Life had gone on for him. It had, of course, gone on for her. Why should he be surprised?
He put down the paper, then picked it up again. A lifetime ago Myron had asked Jessica to marry him. She had said no. They stayed together on and off for the next decade. But in the end Myron wanted to get married, and Jessica didn't. She pretty much scoffed at the bourgeois idea of it all--the suburbs, the picket fence, the children, the barbecues, the Little League games, the life Myron's parents had led.
Except now Jessica was marrying big Stone Norman and moving to the uber-suburb of Scarsdale, New York.
Myron car
efully folded the paper and put it on the coffee table. He stood with a sigh and headed down the corridor. He flicked off the lights as he went. He passed his parents' bedroom. The reading lamp was still on. His father faked a cough to let Myron know he was there.
"I'm fine," he said out loud.
His father did not respond, and Myron was grateful. The man was like a master on the tightrope, managing the nearly impossible feat of showing he cared without butting in or interfering.
Jessica Culver, the love of his life, the woman he'd always believed was his destined soul mate, was getting married.
Myron wanted to sleep on that one. But sleep would not come.
CHAPTER 14
Time to talk to Aimee Biel's parents.
It was six in the morning. County investigator Loren Muse sat on her floor cross-legged. She wore shorts, and the quasi-shag carpeting made her legs itch. Police files and reports were spread out everywhere. In the center was the timetable she'd made up.
A harsh snoring came from the other room. Loren had lived alone in this same crappy apartment for more than a decade now. They called them "garden" apartments, though the only thing that seemed to grow was a monotonous red brick. They were sturdy structures with the personality of prison cells, way stations for people on the way up or on the way down, or, for a very few, stuck in a sort of personal-life purgatory.
The snoring did not come from a boyfriend. Loren had one--a total loser named Pete--but her mother, the multimarried, once-desirable, now-flabby Carmen Valos Muse Brewster Whatever was between men and thus living with her. Her snoring had the phlegm of a lifelong smoker, mixed with a few too many years of cheap wine and tacky song.
Cracker crumbs dominated the counter. An open jar of peanut butter, the knife sticking out like Excalibur, stood in the middle like a watchtower. Loren studied the phone logs, the credit card charges, the E-ZPass reports. They painted an interesting picture.
Okay, Loren thought, let's map this out.
1:56 A.M.: Aimee Biel uses the 52nd Street Citibank ATM machine--the same one used by Katie Rochester three months ago. Weird.
2:16 A.M.: Aimee Biel places a call to the Livingston residence of Myron Bolitar. The call lasts only seconds.
2:17 A.M.: Aimee places a call to a mobile phone registered to Myron Bolitar. The call lasts three minutes.
Loren nodded to herself. It seemed logical that Aimee Biel had first tried Bolitar's home and when he didn't answer--that would explain the brevity of the first call--she called his mobile.
Back to it:
2:21 A.M.: Myron Bolitar calls Aimee Biel. This call lasts one minute.