He said nothing.
“And I know you’re very active in the community, which is commendable.”
“But you’re wondering how I know Naomi.”
“Yes.”
“I probably should have said why from the start.”
“I’m listening.”
“Remember the movie Breakfast Club?” he asked.
“No.”
Oren looked surprised. “You never saw it?”
“No.”
“Really? Man, my kids had it on all the time, even though it was before their time.”
“Is there a point?”
“Do you remember the actress Ally Sheedy?”
She bit back a sigh. “No.”
“Not important. In the movie, Ally Sheedy plays a high school outcast who reminds me of Naomi. In one confessional scene, the character lets down her guard and says, ‘My home life is unsatisfying.’”
“And that’s Naomi?”
Oren nodded. “This wouldn’t be the first time she’s run away. Her father—and this is confidential—has three DUIs.”
“Any signs of abuse?”
“No, I don’t think that’s it. More like neglect. Naomi’s mother walked out, I don’t know, five, ten years ago. Hard to say. The dad works long hours in the city. I think he’s just in over his head raising the girl alone.”
“Okay,” Hester said. “Thanks for telling me.”
“Let me walk you out.”
When they reached the door, they turned to each other full-on. Hester felt a blush come to her cheeks. A blush. Are you ever too old?
“So do you want to tell me what Matthew said to you about Naomi?” Oren asked.
“Nothing.”
“Please, Hester, let’s pretend that I’m a trained law enforcement officer who has been on the job for forty years. You casually stop by my office and ask about a troubled girl who happens to be a classmate of your grandson’s. The detective in me wonders why and concludes that Matthew must have said something to you.”
Hester was going to deny it, but that wouldn’t do any good. “Off the record, yes, Matthew asked me to look into it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He waited.
“I really don’t.”
“Okay then.”
“He seems worried about her.”
“Worried how?”
“Again: I don’t know. But if you don’t mind, I’m going to look into it a little.”
Oren frowned. “Look into it how?”
“I think I’ll stop by her house. Talk to the father. That okay?”
“Would it matter if I said it wasn’t?”
“No. And no, I don’t think there is anything to it.”
“But?”
“But Matthew has never asked me for anything before. Do you understand?”
“I think I do, yes,” he said. “And if you learn anything while looking into it…”
“I’ll call you immediately, promise.” Hester took out her business card and handed it to him. “That’s my cell number.”
“You want mine?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
He kept his eyes on the card. “But didn’t you just say you’d call me?”
She could feel her heart beating in her chest. Age was a funny thing. When your heart starts beating like this, you’re in high school all over again.
“Oren?”
“Yes?”
“I know we are supposed to be all modern and woke and all that.”
“Right.”
“But I still think the guy should call the girl.”
He held up her business card. “And by coincidence, I now have your phone number.”
“Small world.”
“Take care, Hester.”
* * *
“Just the basics,” Tim said, handing sheets back to Hester. “More coming soon.”
They stored a printer in the trunk that hooked up to a laptop Tim kept in the glove compartment. Sometimes Hester’s paralegals downloaded information to her phone, but Hester still preferred the tactile reading experience of paper. She liked to make notes with a pen or underline important phrases.
Old school. Or just old.
“You have the address for Naomi Pine?” she asked him.
“I do.”
“How far away?”
Tim looked at the GPS. “Two-point-six miles, six minutes.”
“Let’s go.”
She skimmed the notes as Tim drove. Naomi Pine, sixteen years old. Parents divorced. Father, Bernard. Mother, Pia. Father had sole custody, which was interesting in and of itself. In fact, Mother had given up all parental claims. Unusual, to put it mildly.
The house was old and worn. The paint had at one time been white, but it was more a cream-to-brown now. Every window was blocked by either a thick shade or cracked shutter.
“What do you think?” Hester asked Tim.
Tim made a face. “Looks like a safe house from the old country. Or maybe someplace to torture dissidents.”
“Wait here.”
A red Audi A6 in mint condition, probably worth more than the house, sat in the driveway. As she got closer to the door, Hester could see that the house had at one point been a grand Victorian. There was a wraparound porch and detailed albeit worn crown molding. The house had been, she bet, what they used to call a Painted Lady, though the paint was scant and whatever feminine charms she had once possessed had long gone to seed.
Hester knocked on the door. Nothing. She knocked some more.
A man’s voice said, “Just leave whatever at the door.”
“Mr. Pine?”
“I’m busy right now. If I have to sign for it—”
“Mr. Pine, I’m not here for a delivery.”
“Who are you?”
His voice had a little slur in it. He had still not opened the door.
“My name is Hester Crimstein.”
“Who?”
“Hester—”
The door finally opened.
“Mr. Pine?”
“How do I know you?” he asked.
“You don’t.”
“Yeah, I do. You’re on TV or something.”
“Right. My name is Hester Crimstein.”
“Whoa.” Bernard Pine snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “You’re that criminal lawyer that’s always on the news, right?”
“Right.”
“I knew it.” He startled back half a step, now wary. “Wait, what do you want with me?”
“I’m here about your daughter.”
His eyes widened a bit.
“Naomi,” Hester added.
“I know my daughter’s name,” he half snapped. “What do you want?”
“She’s been absent from school.”
“So? Are you a truant officer?”
“No.”
“So what does my daughter have to do with you? What do you want from me?”
He looked the part of the man who’d just come home from a hard day’s work. His five-o’clock shadow was closer to seven or eight p.m. His eyes were rimmed with red. His suit jacket was off, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled up, the tie loosened. Hester would bet there was a glass of something in the spirit family already poured.