“I hope that someone gets my, I hope that someone gets my, I hope that someone gets my, mensaje en una botella . . .”

“I like that one, dude,” Orville said.

“Thank you, mi amigo.”

“Man, you were younger, you should do that American Idol. That Spanish thing. They’d love that. Even that Simon judge who hates everything.”

“I love Simon.”

“Me too. The dude is far out.”

They watched Myron get into his car.

“So, like, what do you think he was doing at this house?” Orville asked.

Singing: “You ask me if our love would grow, yo no se, yo no se.”

“The Beatles, right?”

“Bingo.”

“And yo no se. I don’t know.”

“Right again.”

“Groovy.” Orville checked the car’s clock. “Should we call Rochester and tell him what’s shaking?”

Jeb shrugged. “Might as well.”

Myron Bolitar started driving. They followed. Rochester picked up on the second ring.

“He, like, left that house,” Orville said.

Rochester said, “Keep following him.”

“Your dollars,” Orville said with a shrug. “But I think it’s a waste, man.”

“He may give you a clue where he stashed the girls.”

“If we, like, snatch his ass now, he’ll give us all the clues he knows.”

There was a moment of hesitation. Orville smiled and gave Jeb a thumbs-up sign.

“I’m at his house,” Rochester said. “That’s where I want you to take him.”

“Are you at or in?”

“At or in what?”

“His house.”

“I’m outside. In my car.”

“So you don’t know if he’s got a plasma TV.”

“What? No, I don’t know.”

“If we’re going to be working him awhile, it’d be righteous if he had one. In case it gets to be a drag, you know what I’m saying? The Yankees are playing against Boston. Jeb and me dig watching in HD. That’s why I’m asking.”

There was another moment of hesitation.

“Maybe he has one,” Rochester said.

“That would be groovy. That DLP technology is good too. Anything with high-def, I guess. By the way, do you, like, got a plan or anything?”

“I’m going to wait until he comes back home,” Dominick Rochester said. “I’ll tell him I want to talk to him. We go inside. You go inside.”

“Radical.”

“Where is he going now?”

Orville checked the navigator on the car. “Hey, like, unless I’m mistaken, we’re heading back to Bolitar’s crib right now.”

CHAPTER 21

Myron was two blocks from home when the cell rang. Win asked, “Did I ever tell you about Cingle Shaker?” “No.”

“She’s a private eye. If she were any hotter, your teeth would melt.”

“That’s swell, really.”

“I’ve had her,” Win said.

“Good for you.”

“I went back for seconds. And we still talk.”

“Yikes,” Myron said.

Win still talking to a woman he’d slept with more than once—in human terms, that was like a marriage celebrating its silver anniversary.

“Is there a reason you’re sharing this warm moment with me right now?” Then Myron remembered something. “Wait, a private eye named Cingle. Hester Crimstein called her when I was being interrogated, right?”

“Exactly. Cingle has gathered some new information on the disappearances.”

“You set up a meet?”

“She’s waiting for you at Baumgart’s.”

Baumgart’s, long Myron’s favorite restaurant serving both Chinese and American dishes, had recently opened a branch in Livingston.

“How will I recognize her?”

“Hot enough to make your teeth melt,” Win said. “How many women at Baumgart’s fit that description?”

Win hung up. Five minutes later Myron entered the restaurant. Cingle didn’t disappoint. She was curvy to the max, built like a Marvel comic drawing come to life. Myron walked up to Peter Chin, the owner, to say hello. Peter frowned at him.

“What?”

“She’s not Jessica,” Peter said.

Myron and Jessica used to go to Baumgart’s, albeit the original in Englewood, all the time. Peter had never gotten over the breakup. The unspoken rule was that Myron was not allowed to bring other women here. For seven years he had kept that rule, more for himself than Peter.

“It’s not a date.”

Peter looked at Cingle, looked at Myron, made a face that said Who are you kidding?

“It’s not.” Then: “You realize, of course, I haven’t even seen Jessica in years.”

Peter put a finger in the air. “Years fly by, but the heart stays in the same place.”

“Damn.”

“What?”

“You’ve been reading fortune cookies again, haven’t you?”

“There is much wisdom there.”

“Tell you what. Read Sunday’s New York Times instead. Styles section.”

“I already did.”

“And?”

Again Peter raised his finger. “You can’t ride two horses with one behind.”

“Hey, I told you that one. It’s Yiddish.”

“I know.”

“And it doesn’t apply.”

“Just sit down.” Peter dismissed him with a wave. “And order for yourself. I’m not helping you.”

When Cingle stood to greet him, necks didn’t so much turn in her direction as snap. They exchanged hellos and sat down.

“So you’re Win’s friend,” Cingle said.

“I am.”

She studied him for a moment. “You don’t look psychotic.”

“I like to think of myself as the counterbalance.”

There were no papers in front of her.

“Do you have the police file?” he asked.

“There is none. There isn’t even an official investigation yet.”

“So what have you got?”

“Katie Rochester started taking money out at ATMs. Then she ran away. There is no evidence, other than parental protestations, to suggest anything other than that.”

“The investigator who grabbed me at the airport—” Myron began.

“Loren Muse. She’s good, by the way.”