Claire Biel had served them tea. Loren really hadn’t wanted any, but she learned that most people relaxed if you allow them to be in control of something, of anything, if you allow them to do something mundane or domestic. So she had accepted. Lance Banner, who remained standing behind her, had declined.

Lance was letting her take the lead. He knew them. That might help for some questioning, but she’d get the ball rolling. Loren took a sip of the tea. She let the silence work them a little—let them be the first to speak. Some might view it as cruel. It wasn’t, if it helped find Aimee. If Aimee were found okay, it would be quickly forgotten. If she weren’t, the discomfort from silence would be nothing compared to what they would then endure.

“Here,” Erik Biel said, “we made a list of her close friends and their phone numbers. We’ve already called all of them. And her boyfriend, Randy Wolf. We spoke to him too.”

Loren took her time looking over the names.

“Have there been any developments?” Erik asked.

Erik Biel was, Loren thought, the poster boy for uptight. The mother, Claire, well, you could see the missing kid etched into her face. She hadn’t slept. She was a mess. But Erik, with his starched dress shirt and tie and recently shaved face, somehow looked more harried. He was trying so hard to keep it together that you just knew that there would be no slow fray here. When it came apart, it would be ugly and maybe permanent.

Loren handed the paper to Lance Banner. She turned and sat up straight. She kept her eyes on Erik’s face as she dropped the bomb: “Do either of you know a man named Myron Bolitar?”

Erik frowned. Loren moved her gaze toward the mother. Claire Biel looked as if Loren had asked if she could lick their toilet.

“He’s a family friend,” Claire Biel said. “I’ve known him since junior high.”

“Did he know your daughter?”

“Of course. But what does—”

“What sort of relationship did they have?”

“Relationship?”

“Yes. Your daughter and Myron Bolitar. What sort of relationship did they have?”

For the first time since they’d entered the house, Claire slowly turned and looked to her husband for guidance. Erik too turned toward his wife. They both wore the faces of someone who’d been smacked in the gut by a two-by-four.

Erik finally spoke. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Biel. I’m asking you a question. How well did your daughter know Myron Bolitar?”

Claire: “Myron is a family friend.”

Erik: “He wrote Aimee a recommendation letter for her college application.”

Claire nodded with vigor. “Right. Like that.”

“Like what?”

They didn’t respond.

Loren kept her voice even. “Do they ever see each other?”

“See each other?”

“Yes. Or talk on the phone. Or maybe e-mail.” Then Loren added: “Without you two present.”

Loren wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Erik Biel’s spine got even straighter. “What the hell are you saying?”

Okay, Loren thought. They didn’t know. This was no act. It was time to shift gears, check their honesty. “When was the last time either of you spoke to Mr. Bolitar?”

“Yesterday,” Claire said.

“What time?”

“I’m not sure. Early afternoon, I think.”

“Did you call him or did he call you?”

“He called here,” Claire said.

Loren glanced at Lance Banner. Score one for the mom. That matched up with the phone records.

“What did he want?”

“To congratulate us.”

“What about?”

“Aimee got accepted to Duke.”

“Anything else?”

“He asked if he could speak to her.”

“To Aimee?”

“Yes. He wanted to congratulate her.”

“What did you say?”

“That she wasn’t home. And then I thanked him for writing the recommendation.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he’d call her back.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

Loren let that sit.

Claire Biel said, “You can’t think Myron has anything to do with this.”

Loren just stared at her, letting the silence soak in, giving her a chance to keep talking. She didn’t disappoint.

“You have to know him,” Claire went on. “He’s a good man. I’d trust him with my life.”

Loren nodded and then looked at Erik. “And you, Mr. Biel?”

His eyes were out of focus.

Claire said, “Erik?”

“I saw Myron yesterday,” he said.

Loren sat up. “Where?”

“At the middle school gym.” His voice was a dull ache. “There’s pickup basketball there on Sundays.”

“What time would this have been?”

“Seven thirty. Maybe eight.”

“In the morning?”

“Yes.”

Loren glanced back at Lance. He nodded slowly. He’d caught it too. Bolitar couldn’t have gotten home much before five, six in the morning. A few hours later, he goes off to play basketball with the missing girl’s father?

“Do you play with Mr. Bolitar every Sunday?”

“No. I mean, he used to play a bit. But he hadn’t been there in months.”

“Did you talk to him?”

Erik’s nod was slow.

“Wait a second,” Claire said. “I want to know why you’re asking us so many questions about Myron. What does he have to do with any of this?”

Loren ignored her, keeping her gaze on Erik Biel. “What did you two talk about?”

“Aimee, I guess.”

“What did he say?”

“He tried to be subtle about it.”

Erik explained that Myron Bolitar had approached him and that they started talking about exercising and waking up early and then he segues into asking about Aimee, about where she was, about how troublesome teenagers could often be. “His tone was strange.”

“How so?”

“He wanted to know how she was trouble. I remember he asked if Aimee was sullen, if she spent too much time on the Internet, things like that. I remember thinking it was a little odd.”

“How did he look?”

“Like hell.”

“Tired? Unshaven?”

“Both.”