Promise Me
Page 40
“Right, Muse. She asked me a lot about Katie Rochester. I think they have something solid linking me to her.”
“Yes and no. They have something solid linking Katie to Aimee. I’m not sure it links directly to you.”
“That being?”
“Their last ATM charges.”
“What about them?”
“Both girls used the exact same Citibank in Manhattan.”
Myron stopped, tried to absorb that one.
The waiter came over. New guy. Myron didn’t know him. Usually Peter had the waiter bring over a few free appetizers. Not today.
“I’m used to men staring at me,” Cingle said. “But the owner keeps glaring at me like I urinated on the floor.”
“He misses my old girlfriend.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Adorable.”
Cingle met Peter’s eye, wiggled her fingers to show a wedding band, and yelled in Peter’s direction, “He’s safe. I’m already married.”
Peter turned away.
Cingle shrugged, explained about the ATM charge, about Aimee’s face being clear in the security camera. Myron tried to figure it through. Nothing came to him.
“There’s one more thing you might want to know about.”
Myron waited.
“There’s a woman named Edna Skylar. She’s a doctor over at St. Barnabas. The cops are keeping this under heavy wraps because Rochester’s father is a nutjob, but apparently, Dr. Skylar spotted Katie Rochester on the street in Chelsea.”
She told him the story, about how Edna Skylar had followed the girl into the subway, that she was with a man, what Katie said about not telling anyone.
“Did the police look into it?”
“Look into what?”
“Did they try to figure out where Katie was, who the guy was, anything?”
“Why? Katie Rochester is eighteen years old. She gathered money before she ran. She’s got a connected father who was probably abusive in some fashion. The police have other things to worry about. Real crimes. Muse is handling a double homicide in East Orange. Manpower is short. And what Edna Skylar saw confirmed what they already knew.”
“That Katie Rochester ran away.”
“Right.”
Myron sat back. “And the fact that they both used the same ATM?”
“Either a startling coincidence . . .”
Myron shook his head. “No way.”
“I agree. No way. So either that or they both planned to run away. There was a reason they both chose that ATM. I don’t know what. But maybe they planned this together. Katie and Aimee went to the same high school, right?”
“Right, but I haven’t found any other connection between them.”
“Both eighteen, both graduating high school, both from the same town.” Cingle shrugged. “There has to be something.”
She was right. He’d need to speak to the Rochesters, see what they knew. He’d have to be careful. He didn’t want to open that side of things up. He also wanted to talk to the doctor, Edna Skylar, get a good description of the man Katie Rochester was with, see exactly where she was, what subway she was riding, what direction she was heading in.
“Thing is,” Cingle said, “if Katie and Aimee are runaways, there might be a reason they ran.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Myron said.
“They might not want to be found.”
“True.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Find them anyway.”
“And if they want to stay hidden?”
Myron thought about Aimee Biel. He thought about Erik and he thought about Claire. Good people. Reliable, solid. He wondered what could possibly make Aimee run away from them, what could have been so bad that she’d pull something like this.
“Guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it,” he said.
Win sat by himself in the corner of the dimly lit strip club. No one bothered him. They knew better. If he wanted someone near him, he’d let them know.
The song on the jukebox was one of the most putrid songs from the eighties, Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings.” Myron claimed that it was the worst song of the decade. Win countered that “We Built This City on Rock-n-Roll” by Starship was worse. The argument lasted an hour without resolution. So, as they often did in situations like this, they went to Esperanza to end the tie-breaker, but she sided with “Too Shy” by Kajagoogoo.
Win liked to sit in this corner booth and look out and think.
There was a major-league baseball team in town. Several of the players had come to the “gentlemen’s club,” a truly inspired euphemism for strip joint, to unwind. The working girls went crazy. Win watched a stripper of questionably legal age hit on one of the team’s top pitchers.
“How old did you say you were?” the stripper asked.
“Twenty-nine,” the pitcher said.
“Wow.” She shook her head. “You don’t look that old.”
A wistful smile played on Win’s lips. Youth.
Windsor Horne Lockwood III was born to great wealth. He did not pretend otherwise. He did not like multibillionaires who bragged about their business acumen when they’d started out with Daddy’s billions. Genius is almost irrelevant in the pursuit of enormous riches anyway. In fact, it can be a hindrance. If you are smart enough to see the risks, you might try to avoid them. That type of thinking—safe thinking—never led to great wealth.
Win started life in the lush Main Line of Philadelphia. His family had been on the board of the stock exchange since its inception. He had a direct descendant who’d been this country’s first secretary of the treasury. Win was born with not only a silver spoon in his mouth, but an entire silver place setting at his feet.
And he looked the part.
That had been his problem. From his earliest years, with his towhead blond hair and ruddy complexion and delicate features, with his face naturally set in an expression that looked smug, people detested Win on sight. You looked at Windsor Horne Lockwood III and you saw elitism, undeserved wealth, someone who would always look down his porcelain-sculpted nose at you. All your own failures rose up in a wave of resentment and envy—just by gazing upon this seemingly soft, coddled, privileged boy.
It had led to ugly incidents.
At the age of ten Win had gotten separated from his mother at the Philadelphia Zoo. A group of students from an inner-city school had found him in his little blue blazer with the crest on the pocket and beaten the hell out of him. He’d been hospitalized and nearly lost a kidney. The physical pain was bad. The shame of being a scared little boy was far worse.
“Yes and no. They have something solid linking Katie to Aimee. I’m not sure it links directly to you.”
“That being?”
“Their last ATM charges.”
“What about them?”
“Both girls used the exact same Citibank in Manhattan.”
Myron stopped, tried to absorb that one.
The waiter came over. New guy. Myron didn’t know him. Usually Peter had the waiter bring over a few free appetizers. Not today.
“I’m used to men staring at me,” Cingle said. “But the owner keeps glaring at me like I urinated on the floor.”
“He misses my old girlfriend.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Adorable.”
Cingle met Peter’s eye, wiggled her fingers to show a wedding band, and yelled in Peter’s direction, “He’s safe. I’m already married.”
Peter turned away.
Cingle shrugged, explained about the ATM charge, about Aimee’s face being clear in the security camera. Myron tried to figure it through. Nothing came to him.
“There’s one more thing you might want to know about.”
Myron waited.
“There’s a woman named Edna Skylar. She’s a doctor over at St. Barnabas. The cops are keeping this under heavy wraps because Rochester’s father is a nutjob, but apparently, Dr. Skylar spotted Katie Rochester on the street in Chelsea.”
She told him the story, about how Edna Skylar had followed the girl into the subway, that she was with a man, what Katie said about not telling anyone.
“Did the police look into it?”
“Look into what?”
“Did they try to figure out where Katie was, who the guy was, anything?”
“Why? Katie Rochester is eighteen years old. She gathered money before she ran. She’s got a connected father who was probably abusive in some fashion. The police have other things to worry about. Real crimes. Muse is handling a double homicide in East Orange. Manpower is short. And what Edna Skylar saw confirmed what they already knew.”
“That Katie Rochester ran away.”
“Right.”
Myron sat back. “And the fact that they both used the same ATM?”
“Either a startling coincidence . . .”
Myron shook his head. “No way.”
“I agree. No way. So either that or they both planned to run away. There was a reason they both chose that ATM. I don’t know what. But maybe they planned this together. Katie and Aimee went to the same high school, right?”
“Right, but I haven’t found any other connection between them.”
“Both eighteen, both graduating high school, both from the same town.” Cingle shrugged. “There has to be something.”
She was right. He’d need to speak to the Rochesters, see what they knew. He’d have to be careful. He didn’t want to open that side of things up. He also wanted to talk to the doctor, Edna Skylar, get a good description of the man Katie Rochester was with, see exactly where she was, what subway she was riding, what direction she was heading in.
“Thing is,” Cingle said, “if Katie and Aimee are runaways, there might be a reason they ran.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Myron said.
“They might not want to be found.”
“True.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Find them anyway.”
“And if they want to stay hidden?”
Myron thought about Aimee Biel. He thought about Erik and he thought about Claire. Good people. Reliable, solid. He wondered what could possibly make Aimee run away from them, what could have been so bad that she’d pull something like this.
“Guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it,” he said.
Win sat by himself in the corner of the dimly lit strip club. No one bothered him. They knew better. If he wanted someone near him, he’d let them know.
The song on the jukebox was one of the most putrid songs from the eighties, Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings.” Myron claimed that it was the worst song of the decade. Win countered that “We Built This City on Rock-n-Roll” by Starship was worse. The argument lasted an hour without resolution. So, as they often did in situations like this, they went to Esperanza to end the tie-breaker, but she sided with “Too Shy” by Kajagoogoo.
Win liked to sit in this corner booth and look out and think.
There was a major-league baseball team in town. Several of the players had come to the “gentlemen’s club,” a truly inspired euphemism for strip joint, to unwind. The working girls went crazy. Win watched a stripper of questionably legal age hit on one of the team’s top pitchers.
“How old did you say you were?” the stripper asked.
“Twenty-nine,” the pitcher said.
“Wow.” She shook her head. “You don’t look that old.”
A wistful smile played on Win’s lips. Youth.
Windsor Horne Lockwood III was born to great wealth. He did not pretend otherwise. He did not like multibillionaires who bragged about their business acumen when they’d started out with Daddy’s billions. Genius is almost irrelevant in the pursuit of enormous riches anyway. In fact, it can be a hindrance. If you are smart enough to see the risks, you might try to avoid them. That type of thinking—safe thinking—never led to great wealth.
Win started life in the lush Main Line of Philadelphia. His family had been on the board of the stock exchange since its inception. He had a direct descendant who’d been this country’s first secretary of the treasury. Win was born with not only a silver spoon in his mouth, but an entire silver place setting at his feet.
And he looked the part.
That had been his problem. From his earliest years, with his towhead blond hair and ruddy complexion and delicate features, with his face naturally set in an expression that looked smug, people detested Win on sight. You looked at Windsor Horne Lockwood III and you saw elitism, undeserved wealth, someone who would always look down his porcelain-sculpted nose at you. All your own failures rose up in a wave of resentment and envy—just by gazing upon this seemingly soft, coddled, privileged boy.
It had led to ugly incidents.
At the age of ten Win had gotten separated from his mother at the Philadelphia Zoo. A group of students from an inner-city school had found him in his little blue blazer with the crest on the pocket and beaten the hell out of him. He’d been hospitalized and nearly lost a kidney. The physical pain was bad. The shame of being a scared little boy was far worse.
