Three Harlan Coben Novels

by Harlan Coben

  “Nothing overly dramatic. He eventually called. He was out on the West Coast, trying to become a big star. He needed money. He stayed out there for two years. Failed at everything he did. Then he came back. He’s still a mess. I try to love him, to care about him, but”—she shrugged—“doctoring comes natural to me. Mothering does not.”

  Edna Skylar looked at Myron. He could see that she wasn’t finished, so he waited.

  “I wish . . .” Her throat caught. “It’s a horrible cliché, but more than anything, I wish I could start over again. I love my son, I really do, but I don’t know what to do for him. He may be beyond hope. I know how cold that sounds, but when you make professional diagnoses all day, you tend to make them in your personal life too. My point is, I’ve learned that I can’t control those I love. So I control those I don’t.”

  “I’m not following,” Myron said.

  “My patients,” she explained. “They are strangers, but I care a great deal about them. It’s not because I’m a generous or wonderful person, but because in my mind, they are still innocent. And I judge them. I know that’s wrong. I know that I should treat every patient the same, and in terms of treatment, I think I do. But the fact is, if I Google the person and see that they spent time in jail or seem like a lowlife, I try to get them to go to another doctor.”

  “You prefer the innocents,” Myron said.

  “Precisely. Those whom—I know how this will sound—those whom I deem pure. Or at least, purer.”

  Myron thought about his own recent reasoning, how the life of the Twins held no value to him, about how many civilians he’d sacrifice to save his own son. Was this reasoning that much different?

  “So what I’m trying to say is, I think about this girl’s parents, the ones you said aren’t doing well, and I worry about them. I want to help.”

  Before Myron could respond, there was a light rap on the door. It opened, and a head of gray hair popped through. Myron rose. The gray-haired man stepped all the way in and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were with someone.”

  “It’s okay, honey,” Edna Skylar said, “but maybe you could come back later?”

  “Of course.”

  The gray-haired man wore a white coat too. He spotted Myron and smiled. Myron recognized the smile. Edna Skylar wasn’t a basketball fan, but this guy was. Myron stuck out his hand. “Myron Bolitar.”

  “Oh, I know who you are. I’m Stanley Rickenback. Better known as Mr. Dr. Edna Skylar.”

  They shook hands.

  “I saw you play at Duke,” Stanley Rickenback said. “You were something else.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to see if my blushing bride wanted to join me for the lunchtime culinary delight that is our hospital cafeteria.”

  “I was just leaving,” Myron said. Then: “You were with your wife when she saw Katie Rochester, weren’t you?”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a police officer?”

  “No.”

  Edna Skylar was already up. She kissed her husband’s cheek. “Let’s hurry. I have patients in twenty minutes.”

  “Yes, I was there,” Stanley Rickenback said to Myron. “Why, what’s your interest?”

  “I’m looking into the disappearance of another girl.”

  “Wait, another girl ran away?”

  “Could be. I’d like to hear your impressions, Dr. Rickenback.”

  “Of what?”

  “Did Katie Rochester seem like a runaway to you too?”

  “Yes.”

  “You seem pretty sure,” Myron said.

  “She was with a man. She made no move to escape. She asked Edna not to tell anybody and—” Rickenback turned to his wife. “Did you tell him?”

  Edna made a face. “Let’s just go.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “My darling Stanley is getting old and senile,” Edna said. “He imagines things.”

  “Ha, ha, very funny. You have your expertise. I have mine.”

  “Your expertise?” Myron said.

  “It’s nothing,” Edna said.

  “It’s not nothing,” Stanley insisted.

  “Fine,” Edna said. “Tell him what you think you saw.”

  Stanley turned to Myron. “My wife told you about how she studies faces. That was how she recognized the girl. She looks at people and tries to make a diagnosis. Just for fun. I don’t do that. I leave my work at the office.”

  “What is your specialty, Dr. Rickenback?”

  He smiled. “That’s the thing.”

  “What is?”

  “I’m an ob-gyn. I didn’t really think about it then. But when we got home, I looked up pictures of Katie Rochester on the Web. You know, the ones released to the media. I wanted to see if it was the same girl we saw in the subway. And that was why I’m fairly certain of what I saw.”

  “Which is?”

  Stanley suddenly seemed unsure of himself.

  “See?” Edna shook her head. “This is such total nonsense.”

  “It might be,” Stanley Rickenback agreed.

  Myron said, “But?”

  “But either Katie Rochester put on some weight,” Stanley Rickenback said, “or maybe, just maybe, she’s pregnant.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Harry Davis gave his class a phony-baloney read-this-chapter-now assignment and headed out. His students were surprised. Other teachers played that card all the time, the do-busy-silent-work-so-I-can-catch-a-smoke card. But Mr. D, Teacher of the Year four years running, never did that.

  The corridors at Livingston High were ridiculously long. When he was alone in one, like right now, looking down to the end made him dizzy. But that was Harry Davis. He didn’t like it quiet. He liked it lively, when this artery was loaded with noise and kids and backpacks and adolescent angst.

  He found the classroom, gave the door a quick knock, and stuck his head in. Drew Van Dyne taught mostly malfeasants. The room reflected that. Half the kids had iPods in their ears. Some sat on top of their desks. Others leaned against the window. A beefy guy was making out with a girl in the back corner, their mouths open and wide. You could see the saliva.

  Drew Van Dyne had his feet on the desk, his hands folded on his lap. He turned toward Harry Davis.

  “Mr. Van Dyne? May I speak with you a moment?”

  Drew Van Dyne gave him the cocky grin. Van Dyne was probably thirty-five, ten years younger than Davis. He’d come in as a music teacher eight years ago. He looked the part, the former rock ’n’ roller who woulda-shoulda made it to the top except the stupid record companies could never understand his true genius. So now he gave guitar lessons and worked in a music store where he scoffed at your pedestrian taste in CDs.

  Recent cutbacks in the music department had forced Van Dyne into whatever class was closest to babysitting.

  “Why of course, Mr. D.”

  The two teachers stepped into the hallway. The doors were thick. When it closed, the corridor was silent again.

  Van Dyne still had the cocky grin. “I’m just about to start my lesson, Mr. D. What can I do for you?”

  Davis whispered because every sound echoed out here. “Did you hear about Aimee Biel?”

  “Who?”

  “Aimee Biel. A student here.”

  “I don’t think she’s one of mine.”

  “She’s missing, Drew.”

  Van Dyne said nothing.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “I just said I don’t know her.”

  “Drew—”

  “And,” Van Dyne interrupted, “I think we’d be notified if a student had gone missing, don’t you?”

  “The police think she’s a runaway.”

  “And you don’t?” Van Dyne held on to the grin, maybe even spread it a bit. “The police will want to know why you feel that way, Mr. D. Maybe you should go to them. Tell them all you know.”

  “I might just do
that.”

  “Good.” Van Dyne leaned closer and whispered. “I think the police would definitely want to know when you last saw Aimee, don’t you?”

  Van Dyne leaned back and waited for Davis’s reaction.

  “You see, Mr. D,” Van Dyne went on, “they’ll need to know everything. They’ll need to know where she went, who she talked to, what they talked about. They’ll probably look into all that, don’t you think? Maybe open up a full investigation into the wonderful works of our Teacher of the Year.”

  “How do you . . . ?” Davis felt the quake start in his legs. “You have more to lose than I do.”

  “Really?” Drew Van Dyne was so close now that Davis could feel the spittle in his face. “Tell me, Mr. D. What exactly do I have to lose? My lovely house in scenic Ridgewood? My sterling reputation as a beloved teacher? My perky wife who shares my passion for educating the young? Or maybe my lovely daughters who look up to me so?”

  They stood there for a moment, still in each other’s face. Davis couldn’t speak. Somewhere in the distance, another world maybe, he heard a bell ring. Doors flew open. Students poured out. The arteries filled with their laughter and angst. It all grabbed hold of Harry Davis. He closed his eyes and let it, let it sweep him away to someplace far away from Drew Van Dyne, someplace he’d much rather be.

  The Livingston Mall was aging and trying hard not to show it, but the improvements came across more like a bad face-lift than true youth.

  Bedroom Rendezvous was located on the lower level. To some, the lingerie store was like Victoria’s Secret’s trailer-park cousin, but the truth was, the cousins were really a lot alike. It was all about presentation. The sexy models on the big posters were closer to porno stars, with wagging tongues and suggestive hand placement. The Bedroom Rendezvous slogan, which was centered across the buxom models’ cleavage, read: WHAT KIND OF WOMAN DO YOU WANT TO TAKE TO BED?

  “A hot one,” Myron said out loud. It was again not that different from Victoria’s Secret commercials, the one where Tyra and Frederique are all oiled up and ask, “What is sexy?” Answer: Really hot women. The clothing seems beside the point.

  The saleswoman wore a tight tiger print. She had big hair and chewed gum, but there was a confidence there that somehow made it work. Her tag read SALLY ANN.

  “Looking to make a purchase?” Sally Ann asked.

  “I doubt you have anything in my size,” Myron said.

  “You’d be surprised. So what’s the deal?” She motioned toward the poster. “You just like staring at the cleavage?”

  “Well, yes. But that’s not why I’m here.” Myron pulled out a photograph of Aimee. “Do you recognize this girl?”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “I might be.”

  “Nah.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Sally Ann shrugged. “So what are you after?”

  “This girl is missing. I’m trying to find her.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  Myron handed her the photograph. Sally Ann studied it. “She looks familiar.”

  “A customer maybe?”

  “No. I remember customers.”

  Myron reached into a plastic bag and pulled out the white outfit he’d found in Aimee’s drawer. “This look familiar?”

  “Sure. It’s from our Naughty-pout line.”

  “Did you sell this one?”

  “It could be. I’ve sold a few.”

  “The tag is still on it. Do you think you could trace down who purchased it?”

  Sally Ann frowned and pointed at the picture of Aimee. “You think your missing girl bought it?”

  “I found it in her drawer.”

  “Yeah, but still.”

  “Still what?”

  “It’s too slutty and uncomfortable.”

  “And, what, she looks classy?”

  “No, not that. Women rarely buy this one. Men do. The material is itchy. It rides up the crotch. This is a man’s fantasy, not a woman’s. It’s a bit like porno videos.” Sally Ann cocked her head and worked the gum. “Have you ever watched a porno flick?”

  Myron kept his face blank. “Never, ever, never,” he said.

  Sally Ann laughed. “Right. Anyway, when a woman picks out the film, it’s totally different. It usually has a story or maybe a title with the word ‘sensuous’ or ‘loving’ in it. It might be raunchy or whatever, but it usually isn’t called something like Dirty Whore 5. You know what I mean?”

  “Let’s assume I do. And this outfit?”

  “It’s the equivalent.”

  “Of Dirty Whore Whatever?”

  “Right. No woman would pick it out.”

  “So how do I find out who bought it for her?”

  “We don’t keep records or anything like that. I could ask some of the other girls, but . . .” Sally Ann shrugged.

  Myron thanked her and headed out. As a young boy, Myron had come here with his dad. They had frequented Herman’s Sporting Goods back then. The store was now out of business. But as he exited Bedroom Rendezvous, he still looked down the corridor, to where Herman’s used to be. And two doors down, he spotted a store with a familiar name.

  PLANET MUSIC.

  Myron flashed back to Aimee’s room. Planet Music. The guitars had been from Planet Music. There had been receipts in Aimee’s drawer from there. And here it was, her favorite music shop, located two stores down from Bedroom Rendezvous.

  Another coincidence?

  In Myron’s youth, the store in this spot had sold pianos and organs. Myron had always wondered about that. Piano-organ stores at malls. You go to the mall to buy clothes, a CD, a toy, maybe a stereo. Who goes to the mall to buy a piano?

  Clearly not many people.

  The pianos and organs were gone. Planet Music sold CDs and smaller instruments. They had signs for rentals. Trumpets, clarinets, violins—probably did a big business with the schools.

  The kid behind the counter was maybe twenty-three, wore a hemp poncho, and looked like a seedier version of the average Starbucks barista. He had a dusty knit hat atop a shaved head. He sported the now seemingly prerequisite soul patch.

  Myron gave him the stern eye and slapped the picture down on the counter. “You know her?”

  The kid hesitated a second too long. Myron jumped in.

  “You answer my questions, you don’t get busted.”

  “Busted for what?”

  “Do you know her?”

  He nodded. “That’s Aimee.”

  “She shops here?”

  “Sure, all the time,” he said, his eyes darting everywhere but on Myron. “And she understands music too. Most people come in here, they ask for boy bands.” He said boy bands the way most people say bestiality. “But Aimee, she rocks.”

  “How well do you know her?”

  “Not very. I mean, she doesn’t come here for me.”

  The poncho kid stopped then.

  “Who does she come here for?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because I don’t want to make you empty your pockets.”

  He raised his hands. “Hey, I’m totally clean.”

  “Then I’ll plant something on you.”

  “What the . . . You serious?”

  “Cancer serious.” Myron worked the stern eye again. He wasn’t great at the stern eye. The strain was giving him a headache. “Who does she come here to see?”

  “My assistant manager.”

  “He have a name?”

  “Drew. Drew Van Dyne.”

  “Is he here?”

  “No. He comes in this afternoon.”

  “You got an address for him? A phone number?”

  “Hey,” the kid said, suddenly wise. “Let me see your badge.”

  “Bye now.”

  Myron headed out of the store. He found Sally Ann again.

  She clacked the gum. “Back so soon?”

  “Couldn’t stay away,” Myron said. “Do you know a guy who works at Planet Music
named Drew Van Dyne?”

  “Oh,” she said, nodding as though it all made sense now. “Oh yes.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Claire jumped at the sound of the phone.

  She had not slept since Aimee had gone missing. In the past two days Claire had imbibed enough coffee, and thus the caffeine, to be wired for sound. She kept going back to the Rochesters’ visit, the father’s anger, the mother’s meekness. The mother. Joan Rochester. Something was definitely up with that woman.

  Claire spent the morning going through Aimee’s room while wondering about how to get Joan Rochester to talk. A mother-to-mother approach, maybe. Aimee’s room held no new surprises. Claire started going through old boxes, stuff she’d saved from what seemed like two weeks ago. The pencil holder Aimee made Erik in preschool. Her first-grade report card—all As, plus Mrs. Rohrbach’s comment that Aimee was a gifted student, fun to have in class, and had a bright future. She stared at the words bright future, letting them mock her.

  The phone jangled a nerve. She dove for it, hoping once again that it was Aimee, that this was all some silly misunderstanding, that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for where she was.

  “Hello?”

  “She’s fine.”

  The voice was robotic. Neither male nor female. Like an edgier version of the one who tells you that your call is valued and to hold for the next available representative.

  “Who is this?”

  “She’s fine. Just let it be. You have my word.”

  “Who is this? Let me speak to Aimee.”

  But the only response was a dial tone.

  Joan Rochester said, “Dominick isn’t home right now.”

  “I know,” Myron said. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Me?” As if the very idea of someone wanting to talk to her was a shock on par with a Mars landing. “But why?”

  “Please, Mrs. Rochester, it’s very important.”

  “I think we should wait for Dominick.”

  Myron pushed past her. “I don’t.”

  The house was neat and orderly. It was all straight lines and right angles. No curves, no surprising splashes of color, everything standing upright, as if the very room didn’t want to draw attention to itself.