“Not Roger, no. He’s not like that.”

“Right, he’d only call me and make threats.”

“He didn’t mean anything. He was just lashing out.”

“I need to talk to Roger.”

“What? No, I forbid it.”

“Fine, I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them about the threatening calls.”

Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

He would. Maybe he should. But not yet. “I want to talk to him.”

“He’ll be here after school.”

“Then I’ll be back at three. If he’s not here, I’m going to the police.”

CHAPTER 32

Dr. Edna Skylar met Myron in the lobby of St. Barnabas Medical Center. She had all the props—a white coat, a name tag with the hospital logo, a stethoscope dangling across her neck, a clipboard in her hand. She had that impressive doctor bearing too, complete with the enviable posture, the small smile, the firm-but-not-too-firm handshake.

Myron introduced himself. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “Tell me about the missing girl.”

Her voice left no room for arguments. Myron needed her to trust him, so he launched into the story, keeping Aimee’s last name out of it. They both stood in the middle of the lobby. Patients and visitors walked on either side of them, some coming very close.

Myron said, “Maybe we could go somewhere private.”

Edna Skylar smiled, but there was no joy in it. “These people are preoccupied with things much more important to them than us.”

Myron nodded. He saw an old man in a wheelchair with an oxygen mask. He saw a pale woman in an ill-fitted wig checking in with a look both resigned and bewildered, as if she was wondering if she’d ever check out and if it even mattered anymore.

Edna Skylar watched him. “A lot of death in here,” she said.

“How do you do it?” Myron asked.

“You want the standard cliché about being able to detach the personal from the professional?”

“Not really.”

“The truth is, I don’t know. My work is interesting. It never gets old. I see death a lot. That never gets old either. It hasn’t helped me to accept my own mortality or any of that. Just the opposite. Death is a constant outrage. Life is more valuable than you can ever imagine. I’ve seen that, the real value of life, not the usual platitudes we hear about it. Death is the enemy. I don’t accept it. I fight it.”

“And that never gets tiring?”

“Sure it does. But what else am I going to do? Bake cookies? Work on Wall Street?” She looked around. “Come on, you’re right—it’s distracting out here. Walk with me, but I’m on a tight schedule so keep talking.”

Myron told her the rest of the story of Aimee’s disappearance. He kept it as short as possible—kept his own name out of it—but he made sure to hit upon the fact that both girls used the same ATM. She asked a few questions, mostly small clarifications. They reached her office and sat down.

“Sounds like she ran away,” Edna Skylar said.

“I’m aware of that.”

“Someone leaked you my name, is that correct?”

“More or less.”

“So you have some idea what I saw?”

“Just the basics. What you said convinced the investigators that Katie was a runaway. I’m just wondering if you saw something that makes you think differently.”

“No. And I’ve gone over it a hundred times in my head.”

“You’re aware,” Myron said, “that kidnap victims often identify with their abductors.”

“I know all that. The Stockholm syndrome and all its bizarre offshoots. But it just didn’t seem that way. Katie didn’t look particularly exhausted. The body language was right. There wasn’t panic in her eyes or any kind of cult-like zealousness. Her eyes were clear, in fact. I didn’t see signs of drugs there, though granted I only got a brief look.”

“Where exactly did you first see her?’

“On Eighth Avenue near Twenty-first Street.”

“And she was heading into the subway?”

“Yes.”

“A couple of trains go through that station.”

“She was taking the C train.”

The C train basically ran north-south through Manhattan. That wouldn’t help.

“Tell me about the man she was with.”

“Thirty to thirty-five. Average height. Nice looking. Long, dark hair. Two-day beard.”

“Scars, tattoos, anything like that?”

Edna Skylar shook her head and told him the story, how she’d been walking on the street with her husband, how Katie looked different, older, more sophisticated, different hair, how she wasn’t even positive it was Katie until Katie uttered those final words: “You can’t tell anybody you saw me.”

“And you said she seemed scared?”

“Yes.”

“But not of the man she was with?”

“That’s right. May I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“I know something about you,” she said. “No, I’m not a basketball fan, but Google works wonders. I use it all the time. With patients too. If I’m seeing someone new, I check them out online.”

“Okay.”

“So my question is, why are you trying to find the girl?”

“I’m a family friend.”

“But why you?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

Edna Skylar gave that a second, seemingly unsure if she should accept his vague response. “How are her parents holding up?”

“Not well.”

“Their daughter is most likely safe. Like Katie.”

“Could be.”

“You should tell them that. Offer them some comfort. Let them know she’ll be okay.”

“I don’t think it’ll do any good.”

She looked off. Something crossed her face.

“Dr. Skylar?”

“One of my children ran away,” Edna Skylar said. “He was seventeen. You know the nature versus nurture question? Well, I was a crappy mother. I know that. But my son was trouble from day one. He got into fights. He shoplifted. He got arrested when he was sixteen for stealing a car. He was heavily into drugs, though I don’t think I knew it at that time. This was in the days before we talked about ADD or put kids on Ritalin or any of that. If that was a serious option, I probably would have done it. I reacted instead by withdrawing and hoping he’d outgrow it. I didn’t get involved in his life. I didn’t give him direction.”