“That should tell you something,” Big Cyndi said.
“I told her I didn’t have any clothes. She pointed to two suitcases on the floor. ‘I bought you all you’ll need.’ I protested, but I didn’t have much left, and you know Esperanza.”
“Stubborn,” Big Cyndi said.
“To put it mildly. You know where she took me?”
Big Cyndi smiled. “On a cruise. Esperanza told me about it.”
“Right. One of those big new ships with four hundred meals a day. And she made me go to every dumb activity. I even made a wallet. We drank. We danced. We played friggin’ bingo. We slept in the same bed and she held me and we never so much as kissed.”
They sat for another long moment, both smiling again.
“We never asked her for help,” Big Cyndi said. “Esperanza just knows and does the right thing.”
“And now it’s our turn,” Myron said.
“Yes.”
“She’s still hiding something from me.”
Big Cyndi nodded. “I know.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“No,” she said.
Myron leaned back. “We’ll save her anyway,” he said.
At eight o’clock Win called down to Myron’s office.
“Meet me at the apartment in an hour. I have a surprise for you.”
“I’m not much in the mood for surprises, Win.”
Click.
Great. He tried FJ’s office again. No answer. He didn’t much like waiting. FJ was a key in all this, he was sure of it now. But what choice did he have? It was getting late anyway. Better to go home and be surprised by whatever Win had in store and then get some rest.
The subway was still crowded at eight-thirty; the so-called Manhattan rush hour had grown to more like five or six. People worked too hard, Myron decided. He got off and walked to the Dakota. The same doorman was there. He had been given instructions to let Myron in at any time, that indeed Myron was now officially a resident of the Dakota, but the doorman still made a face like there was a bad odor whenever he passed.
Myron took the elevator up, fumbled for his key, and opened the door.
“Win?”
“He’s not here.”
Myron turned. Terese Collins gave him a small smile.
“Surprise,” she said.
He gaped. “You left the island?”
Terese glanced in a nearby mirror, then back at him. “Apparently.”
“But—”
“Not now.”
She stepped toward him and they embraced. He kissed her. They fumbled with buttons and zippers and snaps. Neither one spoke. They made it into the bedroom, and then they made love.
When it was over, they clung to each other, the sheets tangled and binding them close together. Myron rested his cheek against her soft breast, hearing her heartbeat. Her chest was hitching a bit, and he knew that she was quietly crying.
“Tell me,” he said.
“No.” Terese’s hand stroked his hair. “Why did you leave?”
“A friend is in trouble.”
“That sounds so noble.”
Again with that word. “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t do this,” he said.
“You complaining?”
“Hardly,” he said. “Just curious why you changed your mind.”
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t think so.”
She stroked his hair some more. He closed his eyes, not moving, wanting only to enjoy the wonderful suppleness of her skin against his cheek and ride the rise and fall of her chest.
“Your friend in trouble,” she said. “It’s Esperanza Diaz.”
“Win told you?”
“I read it in the papers.”
He kept his eyes closed.
“Tell me about it,” she said.
“We were never great at talking on the island.”
“Yeah, but that was then, this is now.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you look a little worse for wear,” she said. “I think you’ll need the recovery time.”
Myron smiled. “Oysters. The island had oysters.”
“So tell me.”
So he did. Everything. She stroked his hair. She interrupted a lot with follow-up questions, relaxing in the more familiar role of interviewer. It took him almost an hour.
“Some story,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt? I mean, where you got beaten up?”
“Yes. But I’m a tough guy.”
She kissed the top of his head. “No,” she said. “You’re not.”
They sat in comfortable silence.
“I remember the Lucy Mayor disappearance,” Terese said. “At least the second round.”
“The second round?”
“When the Mayors had the money to run the big campaign to find her. Before that there really wasn’t much of a story. An eighteen-year-old runaway. No big deal.”
“You remember anything that might help me?”
“No. I hate covering stories like that. And not just for the obvious reason that lives are being shattered.”
“Then what?”
“There’s just too much denial,” she said.
“Denial?”
“Yes.”
“You mean with the family?”
“No, with the public. People block when it comes to their children. They deny because it’s too painful to accept. They tell themselves it can’t happen to them. God is not that fickle. There has to be a reason. Do you remember the Louise Woodward case a couple of years ago?”
“The nanny who killed the baby in Massachusetts?”
“Reduced to manslaughter by the judge, but yes. The public kept denying, even those who thought she was guilty. The mother shouldn’t have been working, they said. Never mind the fact that the mother worked only part-time and came home at lunch every day to breast-feed the baby. It was her fault. And the father. He should have checked out the nanny’s background better. The parents should have been more careful.”
“I remember,” Myron said.
“In the Mayors’ case it was the same kind of thing. If Lucy Mayor had been raised right, she would have never run away in the first place. That’s what I mean by denial. It’s too painful to think about, so you block and convince yourself it can’t happen to you.”
“Do you think there’s any merit to that argument in this case?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were Lucy Mayor’s parents part of the problem?”