“Was it Harry Davis?”
Lance Banner didn’t nod, but he might as well have.
“So what happened?”
“The teacher called us. I had two guys go in. Hildebrand and Peterson. They, uh, fit your description. Randy Wolf claimed that he was framed.”
Myron frowned. “And your guys bought that?”
“No. But the case was weak. The constitutionality of the search was questionable. The amounts were small. And Randy Wolf. He was a good kid. No past record or anything.”
“You didn’t want to get him in trouble,” Myron said.
“None of us did.”
“Tell me, Lance. If he’d been a black kid from Newark caught selling at Livingston High, would you have felt the same way?”
“Don’t start that hypothetical crap with me. We had a weak case to begin with and then, the next day, Harry Davis tells my officers he won’t testify. Just like that. He backs out. So now it’s over. My officers had no choice.”
“My, how convenient,” Myron said. “Tell me: Did the football team have a good season?”
“It was a nothing of a case. The kid had a bright future. He’s going to Dartmouth.”
“I keep hearing that,” Myron said. “But I’m beginning to wonder if it’ll happen.”
Then a voice shouted, “Bolitar!”
Myron turned. Dominick Rochester stood at the end of the corridor. His hands were cuffed. His face was red. Two officers were on either side of him. Myron started toward him. Lance Banner jogged behind, calling out a soft warning.
“Myron . . . ?”
“I won’t do anything, Lance. I just want to talk to him.”
Myron stopped two feet in front of him. Dominick Rochester’s black eyes burned. “Where is my daughter?”
“Proud of yourself, Dominick?”
“You,” Rochester said. “You know something about Katie.”
“Did your wife tell you that?”
“No.” He grinned. It was one of the most frightening sights Myron had ever seen. “Just the opposite, in fact.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dominick leaned in closer and whispered. “No matter what I did to her, no matter how much she suffered, my dearest wife wouldn’t talk. See, that’s why I’m sure you know something. Not because she talked—but because no matter how much hell I put her through, she wouldn’t.”
Myron was back in his car when Erin Wilder called him.
“I know where Randy Wolf is.”
“Where?”
“There’s a senior party at Sam Harlow’s house.”
“They’re having a party? Aren’t any of Aimee’s friends concerned?”
“Everyone thinks she ran away,” Erin said. “Some of them saw her online tonight, so they’re even more sure.”
“Wait, if they’re at a party, how did they see her online?”
“They have BlackBerrys. They can IM from their phones.”
Technology, he thought. Keeping people together by allowing them to be apart. Erin gave him the address. Myron knew the area. He hung up and started on his way. The ride did not take long.
There were a bunch of cars parked out on the Harlows’ street. Someone had set up a big tent in the backyard. This was a real party, an invite party, as opposed to a few kids hanging out and sneaking beers. Myron threw the car into park and entered the yard.
There were parents here—chaperones, he guessed. That would make this more difficult. But he didn’t have time to worry about it. The police might be mobilizing, but they weren’t anxious to look at the big picture. Myron was getting it now. It was coming into focus. Randy Wolf, he knew, was one of the keys.
The festivities were nicely partitioned. The parents hung out in the house’s screened-in porch. Myron could see the adults in the dim light. They were laughing and had a keg. The men wore long shorts and loafers and smoked cigars. The women sported bright Lilly Pulitzer skirts and flip-flops.
The seniors gathered at the far end of the tent, as far away from adult supervision as possible. The dance floor was empty. The DJ played a song by the Killers, something about having a girlfriend who looked like a boyfriend that somebody had in February. Myron headed straight for Randy and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Randy shrugged Myron’s hand away. “Get off me.”
“We need to talk.”
“My father said—”
“I know all about what your father said. We’re talking anyway.”
Randy Wolf was surrounded by about six guys. Some were huge. The quarterback and his offensive line, Myron figured.
“This butt-face bothering you, Pharm?”
The one who said that was huge. He grinned at Myron. The guy had spiky blond hair, but what you first noticed, what you couldn’t help but notice, was that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Here they were at a party. There were girls and punch and music and dancing and even parents. And this guy wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Randy didn’t say anything.
Shirtless had barbed-wire tattoos around his bloated biceps. Myron frowned. The tattoos couldn’t have been more wannabe without the word wannabe actually being stenciled in. The guy was slabs and slabs of beef. His chest was so smooth it looked like someone had taken a sander to it. He rippled. His forehead was sloped. His eyes were red, indicating that at least some of the beer had found its way to the underaged. He wore calf-length pants that might have been capris, though Myron didn’t know if guys wore those or not.
“What are you looking at, Butt-face?”
Myron said, “Absolutely—and I mean this sincerely—absolutely nothing.”
There were several gasps from the crowd. One of them said, “Oh man, is this old dude gonna get a beating or what!”
Another said, “Bring it on, Crush!”
Shirtless aka Crush made his best tough-guy face. “Pharm ain’t talking to you, you got me, Butt-face?”
That got a laugh from his friends.
“Butt-face,” Myron repeated. “It’s even funnier the third time you say it.” He took a step toward the kid. Crush didn’t budge. “This isn’t your business.”
“I’m making it my business.”
Myron waited. Then he said, “Don’t you mean, ‘I’m making it my business, Butt-face’?”
There was another gasp. One of the other guys said, “Oh, mister, run and hide. Nobody wises off to Crush like that.”