“So you’re here,” Myron said, “and Claire is working out. Where’s Aimee?”

“She slept at a friend’s last night.”

“Oh?”

“Teenagers,” he said, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

“Trouble?”

“You have no idea.”

“Oh?”

Again with the Oh.

Erik said nothing.

“What kind?” Myron asked.

“Kind?”

Myron wanted to say Oh again, but he feared going to the well once too often. “Trouble. What kind of trouble?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Is she sullen?” Myron said, again trying to sound nonchalant. “Does she not listen? Does she stay up late, blow off school, spend too much time on the Internet, what?”

“All of the above,” Erik said, but now his words came out even slower, even more measured. “Why do you ask?”

Back up, Myron thought. “Just making conversation.”

Erik frowned. “Making conversation usually consists of bemoaning the local teams.”

“It’s nothing,” Myron said. “It’s just . . .”

“Just what?”

“The party at my house.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t know, seeing Aimee like that, I just started thinking about how tough those teenage years are.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed. On the court someone had called a foul and someone was protesting the call. “I didn’t touch you!” a guy with a mustache and elbow pads shouted. Then the name-calling began—something else you never outgrow on a basketball court.

Erik’s eyes were still on the court. “Did Aimee say anything to you?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“Like anything. I remember you were in the basement with her and Erin Wilder.”

“Right.”

“What did you guys talk about?”

“Nothing. They were just goofing on me about how dated the room was.”

Now he looked at Myron. Myron wanted to look away, but he held on. “Aimee can be,” Erik said, “rebellious.”

“Like her mother.”

“Claire?” He blinked. “Rebellious?”

Oh man, he should learn to shut his mouth.

“In what way?”

Myron went for the politician response: “It depends on what you mean by rebellious, I guess.”

But Erik didn’t let it slide. “What did you mean by it?”

“Nothing. It’s a good thing. Claire had edge.”

“Edge?”

Shut up, Myron. “You know what I mean. Edge. Good edge. When you first saw Claire—that very first second—what attracted you to her?”

“Many things,” he said. “But edge was not one of them. I had known a lot of girls, Myron. There are those you want to marry and those you just want, well, you know.”

Myron nodded.

“Claire was the one you wanted to marry. That was the first thing I thought when I saw her. And yes, I know how it sounds. But you were her friend. You know what I mean.”

Myron tried to look noncommittal.

“I loved her so much.”

Loved, Myron thought, keeping quiet this time. He’d said loved, not love.

As if reading his mind, Erik added, “I still do. Maybe more than ever.”

Myron waited for the “but.”

Erik smiled. “You heard the good news, I assume?”

“About?”

“Aimee. In fact, we owe you a great big thank-you.”

“Why’s that?”

“She got accepted to Duke.”

“Hey, that’s great.”

“We just heard two days ago.”

“Congratulations.”

“Your recommendation letter,” he said. “I think it pushed her over the line.”

Myron said, “Nah,” though there was probably more truth in Erik’s statement than Erik knew. Myron had not only written that letter, but he also had called one of his old teammates, who now worked in admissions.

“No, really,” Erik went on. “There’s so much competition to get into the top schools. Your recommendation carried a lot of weight, I’m sure. So thank you.”

“She’s a good kid. It was my pleasure.”

The game ended. Erik rose. “Ready?”

“I think I’m done for today,” Myron said.

“Hurting, eh?”

“A little.”

“We’re getting older, Myron.”

“I know.”

“There are more aches and pains now.”

Myron nodded.

“Seems to me you have a choice when things hurt,” Erik said. “You can sit out—or you can try to play through the pain.”

Erik jogged away, leaving Myron to wonder if he’d still been talking about basketball.

CHAPTER 9

Back in the car, Myron’s cell phone rang again. He checked the caller ID. Again nothing.

“Hello?”

“You’re a bastard, Myron.”

“Yeah, I got that the first time. Do you have any new material or are we going to follow up with that original line about me paying for what I’ve done?”

Click.

Myron shrugged it off. Back in the days when he used to play superhero, he had been a rather well-connected fellow. It was time to see if that still held. He checked his cell phone’s directory. The number for Gail Berruti, his old contact from the telephone company, was still there. People think it’s unrealistic how private eyes in TV can get phone records with a snap. The truth is, it was beyond easy. Every decent private eye has a source in the phone company. Think about how many people work for Ma Bell. Think how many of them wouldn’t mind making an extra buck or two. The going rate had been five hundred dollars per billing statement, but Myron imagined the price had gone up in the past six years.

Berruti wasn’t in—she was probably off for the weekend—but he left a message.

“This is a voice from your past,” Myron began.

He asked Berruti to get back to him with the trace on the phone number. He tried Aimee’s cell phone again. It went to her voice mail. When he got home, he headed to the computer and Googled the number. Nothing came up. He took a quick shower and then checked his e-mail. Jeremy, his sorta-son, had written him an e-mail from overseas:

Hey, Myron—

We’re only allowed to say that we’re in the Persian Gulf area. I’m doing well. Mom sounds crazy. Give her a call if you can. She still doesn’t understand. Dad doesn’t either, but at least he pretends he does. Thanks for the package.