“Maybe they’d just broken up,” Claire said.

“Could be,” Myron said. “Except she hasn’t been home since then, and the photographs on the mirror are gone. That would imply that they broke up at least a day or two before I picked her up. One more thing.”

Claire waited. Myron showed her the lingerie from Bedroom Rendezvous. “Have you seen this before?”

“No. You found it in here?”

Myron nodded. “Bottom of the drawer. It looks unworn. The tag is still on it.”

Claire went quiet.

“What?”

“Erik was telling the police how Aimee’s been acting strangely lately. I fought him on it, but the truth is, she has. She’s grown very secretive.”

“Do you know what else struck me about this room?”

“What?”

“Forgetting this lingerie—which might be relevant and might be nothing—the opposite of what you just said: There is almost nothing secretive in here. I mean, she’s a high school senior. There should be something, right?”

Claire considered that. “Why do you think that is?”

“It’s like she’s working hard to hide something. We need to check other places where she might have kept personal stuff, someplace that you and Erik wouldn’t think to snoop. Like her school locker maybe.”

“Should we do that now?”

“I think it’d be better to talk to Randy first.”

She frowned. “His father.”

“What about him?”

“His name is Jake. Big Jake, everyone calls him. He’s bigger than you. And the wife is a flirt. Last year Big Jake got into a fight at one of Randy’s football games. Beat this poor guy senseless in front of his kids. He’s a total putz.”

“Total?”

“Total.”

“Whew.” Myron pantomimed wiping the sweat off his brow. “A partial putz, I mind. A total putz—that’s my bag.”

CHAPTER 20

Randy Wolf lived in the new Laurel Road section. The brand-new estates of brushed brick had more square footage than Kennedy Airport. There was a faux wrought-iron gate. The gate was open enough for Myron to walk through. The grounds were over-landscaped, the lawn so green it looked like someone had gone overboard with spray paint. There were three SUVs parked in the driveway. Next to them, gleaming from a fresh waxing and seemingly perfect sun placement, sat a little red Corvette. Myron started humming the matching Prince tune. He couldn’t help it.

The familiar whack of a tennis ball drifted in from the backyard. Myron headed toward the sound. There were four lithe ladies playing tennis. They all wore ponytails and tight tennis whites. Myron was a big fan of women in tennis whites. One of the lithe ladies was about to serve when she noticed him. She had great legs, Myron observed. He checked again. Yep, great.

Ogling tan legs probably wasn’t a clue, but why chance it?

Myron waved and gave the woman serving his best smile. She returned it and signaled to the ladies to excuse her for a moment. She jogged toward him. Her dark ponytail bounced. She stopped very close to him. Her breathing was deep. Sweat made the tennis whites cling. It also made them a little see-through—again Myron was just being observant—but she didn’t seem to care.

“Something I can do for you?”

She had one hand on her hip.

“Hi, my name is Myron Bolitar.”

Commandment Four from the Bolitar Book on Smoothness: Wow the ladies with a dazzling first line.

“Your name,” she said. “It rings a bell.”

Her tongue moved around a lot when she talked.

“Are you Mrs. Wolf?”

“Call me Lorraine.”

Lorraine Wolf had that way of speaking where everything sounded like a double entendre.

“I’m looking for your son, Randy.”

“Wrong reply,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“You were supposed to say that I looked too young to be Randy’s mother.”

“Too obvious,” Myron said. “An intelligent woman like you would have seen right through that.”

“Nice recovery.”

“Thanks.”

The other ladies gathered by the net. They had towels draped around their necks and were drinking something green.

“Why are you looking for Randy?” she asked.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Well, yes, I figured that out. But maybe you could tell me what this is about?”

The back door opened with an audible bang. A large man—Myron was six-four, two-fifteen and this guy had at least two inches and thirty pounds on him—stepped out the door.

Big Jake Wolf, Myron deducted, was in da house.

His black hair was slicked back. He had a mean squint going.

“Wait, isn’t that Steven Seagal?” Myron asked, sotto voce.

Lorraine Wolf smothered a giggle.

Big Jake stomped over. He kept glaring at Myron. Myron waited a few seconds, then he winked and gave Big Jake the Stan Laurel, five-finger wave. Big Jake did not look pleased. He marched to Lorraine’s side, put his arm around her, tugged her tight against his hip.

“Hi, honey,” he said, his eyes still on Myron.

“Well, hi, back!” Myron said.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Then why were you looking at me?”

Big Jake frowned and pulled his wife closer. Lorraine cringed a little, but she let him. Myron had seen this act before. Raging insecurity, he suspected. Jake released his glare long enough to kiss his wife’s cheek before retightening his grip. Then he started glaring again, holding his wife firmly against his side.

Myron wondered if Big Jake was going to pee on her to mark his territory.

“Go back to your game, honey. I’ll handle this.”

“We were just finishing anyway.”

“Then why don’t you ladies go inside and have a drink, hmm?”

He let her go. She looked relieved. The ladies walked down the path. Myron again checked their legs. Just in case. The women smiled at him.

“Hey, what are you looking for?” Big Jake snapped.

“Potential clues,” Myron said.

“What?”

Myron turned back to him. “Never mind.”

“So what do you want here?”

“My name is Myron Bolitar.”

“So?”

“Good comeback.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“You some kind of comedian?”

“I prefer the term ‘comic actor.’ Comedians are always typecast.”