Hold Tight

RAPED.

There wasn't so much silence after Susan Loriman said that word as there was a rushing sound, a feeling like they were losing cabin pressure, as if the whole diner were descending too fast and their ears were taking the brunt of it.

Raped.

Ilene Goldfarb did not know what to say. She had certainly heard her share of bad news and delivered much of it herself, but this had been so unexpected. She finally settled on the all-purpose, quasi-stall platitude.

"I'm sorry."

Susan Loriman's eyes weren't just closed but squeezed shut like a child. Her hands were still on the teacup, protecting it. Ilene considered reaching out but decided against it. The waitress started toward them, but Ilene shook her head. Susan still had her eyes shut.

"I never told Dante."

A waiter walked by with a tray teetering with plates. Someone called out for water. A woman at the neighboring table tried eavesdropping, but Ilene shot her a glare that made her turn away.

"I never told anyone. When I got pregnant, I figured it was probably Dante's. That's what I hoped anyway. And then Lucas came out and I guess I knew. But I blocked it. I moved on. It was a long time ago."

"You didn't report the rape?"

She shook her head. "You can't tell anyone. Please."

"Okay."

They sat there in silence.

"Susan?"

She looked up.

"I know it was a long time ago-" Ilene began.

"Eleven years," Susan said.

"Right. But you might want to think about reporting it."

"What?"

"If he's caught, we can test him. He might even be in the system already. Rapists normally don't stop at one."

Susan shook her head. "We're setting up this donor drive at the school."

"Do you know what the odds of that getting us what we need are?"

"It has to work."

"Susan, you need to go to the police."

"Please let this go."

And then a curious thought crossed Ilene's mind. "Do you know your rapist?"

"What? No."

"You should really think about what I'm saying."

"He won't be caught, okay? I have to go." Susan slid out of the booth and stood over Ilene. "If I thought there was a chance to help my son, I would. But there's not. Please, Dr. Goldfarb. Help with the donor drive. Help me find another way. Please, you know the truth now. You have to let this be."

IN his classroom, Joe Lewiston cleaned the chalkboard with a sponge. Many things about being a teacher had changed over the years, including the replacement of green chalkboards with those new erasable white ones, but Joe had insisted on keeping this hold-over from the previous generations. There was something about the dust, the clack of the chalk when you wrote, and cleaning it with a sponge that somehow linked him to the past and reminded him of who he was and what he did.

Joe used the giant sponge and right now it was a bit too wet. Water flowed down the board. He chased the cascades with the sponge, going in straight lines up and down, and he tried to lose himself in this simple task.

It almost worked.

He called this room " Lewiston Land." The kids loved it, but in truth not as much as he did. He wanted so very badly to be different, to not stand up here and do rote lectures and teach the required material and be totally forgettable. He let this be their place. The students had writing journals-so did he. He read the kids', and they were allowed to read his. He never yelled. When a kid did something good or noteworthy, he put a check next to his name. When he or she misbehaved, he erased a check. It was that simple. He didn't believe in singling kids out or embarrassing them.

He watched the other teachers grow old before his eyes, their enthusiasm bleeding out with each passing class. Not his. He dressed up in character when he did history. He had unusual scavenger hunts where you had to do math problems to find the next goodie. The class got to make its own movie. There was so much good that went on in this room, in Lewiston Land, and then there had been that one day when he should have stayed home because the stomach flu was still making his belly ache and then the air conditioner had conked out and he felt so horrible and was breaking out with a fever and...

Why did he say that? God, what a horrible thing to do to a child.

He turned on the computer. His hands shook. He typed in the address of his wife's school Web site. The password was JoeLoves Dolly now.

There had been nothing wrong with her e-mail.

Dolly did not know much about computers or the Internet. So Joe had gone into it earlier and changed her password. That was why her e-mail hadn't "worked" properly. She had the wrong password, so when she tried to log in, it wouldn't let her.

Now, in the safety of this room he so dearly loved, Joe Lewiston checked what e-mails had come in for her. He hoped that he wouldn't see that same sender e-mail address again.

But he did.

He bit down so he didn't scream out loud. There was only so long he could stall before Dolly would want to know what was wrong with her e-mail. He had a day maybe, no more. And he did not think a day would be enough.

TIA dropped Jill back at Yasmin's. If Guy Novak minded or was surprised he didn't show it. Tia didn't have time to question it anyway. She sped to the FBI's field office at 26 Federal Plaza. Hester Crimstein arrived at almost exactly the same time. They met up in the waiting room.

"Check the playbill," Hester said. "You are to play the role of beloved wife. I'm the darling screen veteran who will cameo as his attorney."

"I know."

"Don't say a word in there. Let me handle this."

"It's why I called you."

Hester Crimstein started for the door. Tia followed. Hester opened it and burst through. Mike was sitting at a table. There were two other men in the room. One sat in the corner. The other hovered over Mike. The one doing the hovering stood upright when they entered and said, "Hello. My name is Special Agent Darryl LeCrue."

"I don't care," Hester said.

"Excuse me?"

"No, I don't think I will. Is my client under arrest?"

"We have reason to believe-"

"Don't care. It is a yes or no question. Is my client under arrest?"

"We are hoping that it won't-"

"Again, don't care." Hester looked over at Mike. "Dr. Baye, please get up and leave this room immediately. Your wife will escort you into the lobby, where you both can wait for me."

LeCrue said, "Wait a second, Ms. Crimstein."

"You know my name?"

He shrugged. "Yeah."

"How?"

"I've seen you on TV."

"You want my autograph?"

"No."

"Why not? Doesn't matter-you can't have it. My client is done for now. If you wanted to arrest him, you would have. So he's going to leave the room and you and I will have a nice chat. If I think it is necessary, I will bring him back in to speak to you. Are we clear?"

LeCrue looked at his partner in the corner.

Hester said, "The correct answer is, 'Crystal, Ms. Crimstein.' " Then, glancing back at Mike, she said, "Go."

Mike rose. He and Tia walked outside. The door closed behind them. The first thing Mike asked was, "Where is Jill?"

"She's at the Novaks'."

He nodded.

"Do you want to fill me in?" Tia said.

He did. He told her everything-about his visit to Club Jaguar, about his meeting with Rosemary McDevitt, about nearly getting in the fight, about the feds jumping in, about the interrogation and the pharm parties.

"Club Jaguar," Mike said when he finished. "Think about those instant messages."

"From CeeJay8115," she said.

"Right. It's not a person's initials. It stands for Club Jaguar."

"And the 8115?"

"I don't know. Maybe there are a lot of people with those initials."

"So you think it's her-this Rosemary whatever?"

"Yes."

She tried to soak it in. "In some ways it makes sense. Spencer Hill stole drugs from his father's medicine chest. That's how he killed himself. Maybe he did it at one of these pharm parties. Maybe they were having one on the roof."

"So you think Adam was there?"

"It adds up. They were having a pharm party. You mix these drugs, you think they're safe..."

They both stopped.

"So did Spencer commit suicide?" Mike asked.

"He sent out those texts."

Silence fell upon them. They didn't want to think that through to the other conclusion.

"We just need to find Adam," Mike said. "Let's just concentrate on that, okay?"

Tia nodded. The door to the interrogation room opened, and Hester came out. She walked over to them and said, "Not in here. Let's go outside and talk."

She kept walking. Mike and Tia quickly rose to follow. They got in the elevator, but Hester still would not speak. When the doors opened, Hester strode through the revolving door and outside. Again Mike and Tia followed.

"In my car," Hester said.

It was a stretch limo with a TV set and crystal glasses and an empty decanter. Hester gave them the good seats, facing the driver. She sat across from them.

"I don't trust federal buildings anymore, what with the monitoring," she said. Hester turned to Mike. "I assume you filled in your wife?"

"I did."

"So you can probably guess the deal. They have dozens of what appear to be fake prescriptions written by you. This Club Jaguar was wise enough to use a variety of pharmacies. They got them filled in state, out of state, through the Internet, wherever. Refills too. The fed's theory is fairly obvious."

"They think Adam stole them," Mike said.

"Yep. And they have a fair amount of evidence."

"Like?"

"Like they know your son attended pharm parties. At least, that's what they claim. They were also on the street outside this Club Jaguar last night. They saw Adam go in and a little later they spotted you too."

"They saw me get attacked?"

"They claim you ducked into an alley and they didn't know until later what went on in there. They were watching the club."

"And Adam was there?"

"That's what they claim. But they won't tell me anything else. Like if they saw him leave. But make no mistake about it. They want to find your son. They want him to turn state's evidence against Club Jaguar or whoever runs it. He's a kid, they say. He'll get a slap on the wrist if he cooperates."

"What did you say?" Tia asked.

"First I did the dance. I denied that your son knows anything about these parties or your prescription pads. Then I asked what their offer meant in terms of sentencing and charges. They aren't ready to be specific."

Tia said, "Adam wouldn't steal Mike's prescription pads. He knows better."

Hester just gave her flat eyes. Tia realized how naive her protestations sounded.

"You know the score," Hester said. "It doesn't matter what you think or what I think. I'm telling you their theory. And they have a lever. You, Dr. Baye."

"How so?"

"They're pretending that they're not totally convinced you weren't in on this. They point out, for example, that last night you were on your way to Club Jaguar when you had a violent run-in with several men who hang out there. How would you know about the place, unless you were involved? Why were you in the neighborhood?"

"I was looking for my son."

"And how did you know your son was there? Don't answer that, we all know. But you see my point. They can make a case that you're in cahoots with this Rosemary McDevitt. You're an adult and a physician. You'd give the task force nice headlines and serve serious prison time. And if you're dumb enough to think you should take the bullet for this instead of your son, well, they can then say you and Adam were both in on it. Adam started it off. He went to pharm parties. He and the Club Jaguar lady saw a way of making extra money via a legit doctor. They approached you."

"That's insane."

"No, it's not. They have your prescriptions. That's solid evidence, in their view. Do you know how much money this involves? OxyContin is worth a fortune. It's becoming an epidemic problem. And you, Dr. Baye, would make for a wonderful example. You, Dr. Baye, would be the poster boy for being very careful with how you dispense your prescriptions. I might get you off, sure. I probably will. But at what cost?"

"So what do you advise?"

"While I abhor cooperating, I think that may end up being our best bet. But that's premature. Right now we need to find Adam. We sit him down and find out exactly what happened here. Then we make the informed decision."

LOREN Muse handed the photograph to Neil Cordova.

"That's Reba," he said.

"Yes, I know," Muse said. "This is a picture from a security camera at the Target where she shopped yesterday."

He looked up. "So how does this help us?"

"Do you see this woman over here?"

Muse pointed with her index finger.

"Yes."

"Do you know her?"

"No, I don't think so. Do you have a different angle?"

Muse handed him the second photograph. Neil Cordova concentrated on the image, wishing that he'd find something tangible to help out here. But he just shook his head. "Who is she?"

"There was a witness who saw your wife get in a van and saw another woman drive off in Reba's Acura. We had that witness watch the surveillance tapes. He says that's the woman."

He looked again. "I don't know her."

"Okay, Mr. Cordova, thank you. I'll be right back."

"Can I keep the picture? In case something comes to me?"

"Sure."

He stared, still stunned from identifying the body. Muse stepped out. She headed down the hallway. The receptionist waved her by. She knocked on Paul Copeland's door. He shouted for her to come in.

Cope sat at a table with a video monitor on it. The county office doesn't use one-way mirrors in the interrogation rooms. They use a TV camera. Cope had been watching. His eyes were still on the screen, watching Neil Cordova.

"Something else just came in," Cope said to her.

"Oh?"

"Marianne Gillespie was staying at the Travelodge in Livingston. She was supposed to check out this morning. We also have a hotel staff member who saw Marianne take a man back to her room."

"When?"

"He wasn't sure, but he thought it was four, five days ago, around the time she first checked in."

Muse nodded. "This is huge."

Cope kept his eyes on the monitor. "Maybe we should hold a news conference. Blow up the image of that woman in the surveillance photo. See if anyone can identify her."

"Maybe. I hate to open it up to the public if we don't have to."

Cope kept studying the husband on the TV monitor. Muse wondered what he was thinking. Cope had known so much damn tragedy, including the death of his first wife. Muse glanced about the office. There were five new iPods, still in the boxes, sitting on the table. "What's this?" she asked.

"iPods."

"I know that. I mean, what are they for?"

Cope's gaze never left Cordova's. "I'm almost hoping he did it."

"Cordova? He didn't."

"I know. You can almost feel the hurt coming off him."

Silence.

"The iPods are for the bridesmaids," Cope said.

"Sweet."

"Maybe I should talk to him."

"Cordova?"

Cope nodded.

"That might help," she said.

"Lucy loves sad songs," he said. "You know that, right?"

Though a bridesmaid, Muse hadn't known Lucy all that long or, in many ways, all that well. She nodded anyway, but Cope was still staring at the monitor.

"Every month I make her a new CD. It's corny, I know. But she loves it. So every month I scour for the absolute saddest songs I can find. Total heartbreakers. Like this month-I have 'Congratulations' by Blue October, and 'Seed' by Angie Aparo."

"I never heard of either of those."

He smiled. "Oh, you will. That's the gift. You're getting all those playlists preloaded into the iPod."

"Great idea," she said. Muse felt the stab. Cope made CDs for the woman he loved. How lucky was she?

"I used to wonder why Lucy liked those songs so much. You know what I mean? She sits in the dark and listens and cries. Music does that to her. I didn't get it. And like last month? I had this song from Missy Higgins. Do you know her?"

"No."

"She's great. Her music is a total killer. This one song she talks about an ex-love and how she can't stand the thought of another hand upon him, even though she knows she should."

"Sad."

"Exactly. And Lucy is happy now, right? I mean, we are so good. We finally found each other, and we're getting married. So why does she still listen to the heartbreakers?"

"You're asking me?"

"No, Muse, I'm explaining something to you. I didn't understand for a long time. But I do now. The sad songs are a safe hurt. It's a diversion. It's controlled. And maybe it helps you imagine that real pain will be like that. But it's not. Lucy knows that, of course. You can't prepare for real pain. You just have to let it rip you apart."

His phone buzzed. Cope finally pulled away his gaze and answered the phone. "Copeland," he said. Then he looked up at Muse. "They found Marianne Gillespie's next of kin. You better go."