Edna Skylar stopped.
“What happened to him?” Myron asked.
“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.”