Drew Van Dyne had his feet on the desk, his hands folded on his lap. He turned toward Harry Davis.

“Mr. Van Dyne? May I speak with you a moment?”

Drew Van Dyne gave him the cocky grin. Van Dyne was probably thirty-five, ten years younger than Davis. He’d come in as a music teacher eight years ago. He looked the part, the former rock ’n’ roller who woulda-shoulda made it to the top except the stupid record companies could never understand his true genius. So now he gave guitar lessons and worked in a music store where he scoffed at your pedestrian taste in CDs.

Recent cutbacks in the music department had forced Van Dyne into whatever class was closest to babysitting.

“Why of course, Mr. D.”

The two teachers stepped into the hallway. The doors were thick. When it closed, the corridor was silent again.

Van Dyne still had the cocky grin. “I’m just about to start my lesson, Mr. D. What can I do for you?”

Davis whispered because every sound echoed out here. “Did you hear about Aimee Biel?”

“Who?”

“Aimee Biel. A student here.”

“I don’t think she’s one of mine.”

“She’s missing, Drew.”

Van Dyne said nothing.

“Did you hear me?”

“I just said I don’t know her.”

“Drew—”

“And,” Van Dyne interrupted, “I think we’d be notified if a student had gone missing, don’t you?”

“The police think she’s a runaway.”

“And you don’t?” Van Dyne held on to the grin, maybe even spread it a bit. “The police will want to know why you feel that way, Mr. D. Maybe you should go to them. Tell them all you know.”

“I might just do that.”

“Good.” Van Dyne leaned closer and whispered. “I think the police would definitely want to know when you last saw Aimee, don’t you?”

Van Dyne leaned back and waited for Davis’s reaction.

“You see, Mr. D,” Van Dyne went on, “they’ll need to know everything. They’ll need to know where she went, who she talked to, what they talked about. They’ll probably look into all that, don’t you think? Maybe open up a full investigation into the wonderful works of our Teacher of the Year.”

“How do you . . . ?” Davis felt the quake start in his legs. “You have more to lose than I do.”

“Really?” Drew Van Dyne was so close now that Davis could feel the spittle in his face. “Tell me, Mr. D. What exactly do I have to lose? My lovely house in scenic Ridgewood? My sterling reputation as a beloved teacher? My perky wife who shares my passion for educating the young? Or maybe my lovely daughters who look up to me so?”

They stood there for a moment, still in each other’s face. Davis couldn’t speak. Somewhere in the distance, another world maybe, he heard a bell ring. Doors flew open. Students poured out. The arteries filled with their laughter and angst. It all grabbed hold of Harry Davis. He closed his eyes and let it, let it sweep him away to someplace far away from Drew Van Dyne, someplace he’d much rather be.

The Livingston Mall was aging and trying hard not to show it, but the improvements came across more like a bad face-lift than true youth.

Bedroom Rendezvous was located on the lower level. To some, the lingerie store was like Victoria’s Secret’s trailer-park cousin, but the truth was, the cousins were really a lot alike. It was all about presentation. The sexy models on the big posters were closer to porno stars, with wagging tongues and suggestive hand placement. The Bedroom Rendezvous slogan, which was centered across the buxom models’ cleavage, read: WHAT KIND OF WOMAN DO YOU WANT TO TAKE TO BED?

“A hot one,” Myron said out loud. It was again not that different from Victoria’s Secret commercials, the one where Tyra and Frederique are all oiled up and ask, “What is sexy?” Answer: Really hot women. The clothing seems beside the point.

The saleswoman wore a tight tiger print. She had big hair and chewed gum, but there was a confidence there that somehow made it work. Her tag read SALLY ANN.

“Looking to make a purchase?” Sally Ann asked.

“I doubt you have anything in my size,” Myron said.

“You’d be surprised. So what’s the deal?” She motioned toward the poster. “You just like staring at the cleavage?”

“Well, yes. But that’s not why I’m here.” Myron pulled out a photograph of Aimee. “Do you recognize this girl?”

“Are you a cop?”

“I might be.”

“Nah.”

“What makes you say that?”

Sally Ann shrugged. “So what are you after?”

“This girl is missing. I’m trying to find her.”

“Let me take a look.”

Myron handed her the photograph. Sally Ann studied it. “She looks familiar.”

“A customer maybe?”

“No. I remember customers.”

Myron reached into a plastic bag and pulled out the white outfit he’d found in Aimee’s drawer. “This look familiar?”

“Sure. It’s from our Naughty-pout line.”

“Did you sell this one?”

“It could be. I’ve sold a few.”

“The tag is still on it. Do you think you could trace down who purchased it?”

Sally Ann frowned and pointed at the picture of Aimee. “You think your missing girl bought it?”

“I found it in her drawer.”

“Yeah, but still.”

“Still what?”

“It’s too slutty and uncomfortable.”

“And, what, she looks classy?”

“No, not that. Women rarely buy this one. Men do. The material is itchy. It rides up the crotch. This is a man’s fantasy, not a woman’s. It’s a bit like porno videos.” Sally Ann cocked her head and worked the gum. “Have you ever watched a porno flick?”

Myron kept his face blank. “Never, ever, never,” he said.

Sally Ann laughed. “Right. Anyway, when a woman picks out the film, it’s totally different. It usually has a story or maybe a title with the word ‘sensuous’ or ‘loving’ in it. It might be raunchy or whatever, but it usually isn’t called something like Dirty Whore 5. You know what I mean?”

“Let’s assume I do. And this outfit?”

“It’s the equivalent.”

“Of Dirty Whore Whatever?”