Promise Me

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.

“Can I fix you some coffee?”

“Where is your daughter, Mrs. Rochester?”

She blinked maybe a dozen times in rapid succession. Myron knew men who blinked like that. They were always the guys who were bullied in school as kids and never got over it. She managed to stammer out the word, “What?”

“Where is Katie?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie.”

More blinking. Myron did not let himself feel sorry for her. “Why… I’m not lying.”

“You know where Katie is. I assume you have a reason for keeping quiet about it. I assume it involves your husband. That isn’t my concern.”

Joan Rochester tried to straighten her back. “I’d like you to leave this house.”

“No.”

“Then I’m going to call my husband.”

“I have phone records,” Myron said.

More blinking. She put up her hand like she was warding off a blow.

“For your mobile. Your husband wouldn’t check that. And even if he did, an incoming call from a pay phone in New York City probably wouldn’t mean much. But I know about a woman named Edna Skylar.”

Confusion replaced the fear. “Who?”

“She’s a doctor at St. Barnabas. She spotted your daughter in Manhattan. More specifically, near Twenty-third Street. You’ve received several phone calls at seven P.M. from a phone booth four blocks away, which is close enough.”

“Those calls weren’t from my daughter.”

“No?”

“They were from a friend.”

“Uh-huh.”

“My friend shops in the city. She likes to call when she finds something interesting. To get my opinion.”

“On a pay phone?”

“Yes.”

“Her name?”

“I’m not going to tell you that. And I insist you leave this very instant.”

Myron shrugged, threw up his hands. “I guess this is a dead end for me then.”

Joan Rochester was blinking again. She was about to start blinking some more.

“But maybe your husband will have more luck.”

All color drained from her face.

“I might as well tell him what I know. You can explain about your friend who likes to shop. He’ll believe you, don’t you think?”

Terror widened her eyes. “You have no idea what he’s like.”

“I think I do. He had two goons try to torture me.”

“That’s because he thought you knew what happened to Katie.”

“And you let him, Mrs. Rochester. You’d have let him torture and maybe kill me, and you knew that I had nothing to do with it.”

She stopped blinking. “You can’t tell my husband. Please.”

“I have no interest in harming your daughter. I’m only interested in finding Aimee Biel.”

“I don’t know anything about that girl.”

“But your daughter might.”

Joan Rochester shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what?”

Joan Rochester walked away, just leaving him there. She crossed the room. When she turned back to him, her eyes were filled with tears. “If he finds out. If he finds her…”

“He won’t.”

She shook her head again.

“I promise,” he said.

His words — yet another seemingly empty promise — echoed in the still room.

“Where is she, Mrs. Rochester? I just need to talk to her.”

Her eyes started moving around the room as if she suspected her breakfront might overhear them. She stepped toward the back door and opened it. She signaled for him to go outside.

“Where is Katie?” Myron asked.

“I don’t know. That’s the truth.”

“Mrs. Rochester, I really don’t have time—”

“The calls.”

“What about them?”

“You said they came from New York?”

“Yes.”

She looked off.

“What?”

“Maybe that’s where she is.”

“You really don’t know?”

“Katie wouldn’t tell me. I didn’t ask either.”

“Why not?”

Joan Rochester’s eyes were perfect circles. “If I don’t know,” she said, finally meeting his eye, “then he can’t make me tell.”

Next door a lawn mower started up, shattering the silence. Myron waited a moment. “But you’ve heard from Katie?”

“Yes.”

“And you know she’s safe.”

“Not from him.”

“But in general, I mean. She wasn’t kidnapped or anything like that.”

She nodded slowly.

“Edna Skylar spotted her with a dark-haired man. Who is he?”

“You’re underestimating Dominick. Please don’t do that. Just let us be. You’re trying to find another girl. Katie has nothing to do with her.”

“They both used the same ATM machine.”

“That’s a coincidence.”

Myron did not bother arguing. “When is Katie calling again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you’re not much use to me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I need to talk to your daughter. If you can’t help me, I’ll have to take the chance that your husband can.”

She just shook her head.

“I know she’s pregnant,” Myron said.

Joan Rochester groaned.

“You don’t understand,” she said again.

“Then tell me.”

“The dark-haired man… His name is Rufus. If Dom finds out, he’ll kill him. It is that simple. And I don’t know what he’ll do to Katie.”

“So what’s their plan? Hide forever?”

“I doubt they have a plan.”

“And Dominick doesn’t know about any of this?”

“He’s not stupid. He thinks Katie probably ran away.”

Myron thought about it. “Then I don’t get something. If he suspects Katie ran away, why did he go to the press?”

Joan Rochester smiled then, but it was the saddest smile Myron had ever seen. “Don’t you see?”

“No.”

“He likes to win. No matter what the cost.”

“I still don’t—”

“He did it to put pressure on them. He wants to find Katie. He doesn’t care about anything else. That’s his strength. He doesn’t mind taking hits. Big hits. Dom doesn’t embarrass. He never feels shame. He’s willing to lose or suffer to make you hurt and suffer more. That’s the kind of man he is.”

They fell quiet. Myron wanted to ask why she stayed married to him, but that wasn’t his business. There were so many cases of abused women in this country. He’d like to help, but Joan Rochester wouldn’t accept it — and he had more pressing matters on his mind. He thought back to the Twins, about not being bothered by their deaths, about Edna Skylar and the way she handled what she thought of as her purer patients.

Joan Rochester had made her choice. Or maybe she was just a little less innocent than the others.

“You should tell the police,” Myron said.

“Tell them what?”

“That your daughter is a runaway.”

She snorted. “You don’t get it, do you? Dom would find out. He has sources in the department. How do you think he found out about you so fast?”

But, Myron realized, he hadn’t learned about Edna Skylar. Yet. So his sources weren’t infallible. Myron wondered if he could use that, but he didn’t see how. He moved closer now. He took Joan Rochester’s hands in his and made her look him in the eye.

“Your daughter will be safe. I guarantee it. But I need to talk to her. That’s all. Just talk. Do you understand?”

She swallowed. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

Myron said nothing.

“If I don’t cooperate, you’ll go to Dom.”

“Yes,” Myron said.

“Katie is supposed to call me tonight at seven,” she said. “I’ll let you talk to her then.”