Page 51 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. "Of course they were. Why wouldn't they be? It was a school day. A Wednesday, as a matter of fact." Dixon marched toward the back and stopped by a desk in the second-to-last row. "Clark Baldwin sat right here. He wore a red basketball shirt from his town rec team. I think he wore that shirt twice a week that school year. Francesca Moore"--he moved up to the front row and to the desk on the end--"she sat here. She wore a yellow blouse. That was Francesca's favorite color. Yellow. She drew yellow daisies on every assignment."

Dixon stopped and looked at Myron. "Why on earth would you ask that?"

"They were both here all day?"

"All day," he repeated. "I got a call from Mrs. Baldwin at two thirty."

"Brooke Baldwin?"

"Yes."

"She called you herself?"

"Yes. Via the main office. She called the principal's office and asked to speak to me. She said it was an emergency."

"What did she tell you?"

"She said that there had been a personal incident and that a police officer was going to pick up Francesca and Clark. She asked if I could keep the children late until they got there. I said of course."

"Did you know about the kidnappings?"

"No, not then." He shook his head. "I still don't get why you're here, Mr. Bolitar."

Myron didn't know either. He could give him the same song and dance about the clumsy search for the needle in a haystack, but he didn't think there was any point.

"Did the cop pull up in a squad car?"

"No," he said. "It was a female officer. She was in plainclothes in an unmarked car. I don't see the point of this."

"Tell me about Clark and Francesca."

"What about them?"

"Do you know that they are college roommates?"

Dixon smiled. "That's nice."

"Were they close back in fifth grade?"

"Of course. I think their shared experience bonded them."

"How about before the kidnappings?"

He thought about it. "They were just classmates. I don't think they hung out together or anything. I'm really glad that they had each other, though, especially for Francesca."

Especially for Francesca.

Needle? Meet my dear friend Haystack.

"Why do you say that about Francesca?" Myron asked.

"She was going through a bit of a rough patch."

"What sort of rough patch?"

"This really isn't proper, Mr. Bolitar."

"Call me Myron."

"It still isn't proper."

"Rob, your information is ten years old. The fifth grade girl with the rough patch is now a college student."

"The kids trusted me."

"And I can see why. You're kind. You're caring. You want what's best for them. I had some great elementary teachers when I was a kid. I remember them all. Middle school teachers, high school teachers--not so much. But the good elementary school teachers? They stay in your heart forever."

"What are you trying to get at?"

"I don't want you to betray confidences. But something went really wrong that day. No, not the obvious. We know that two boys went missing. But something else. Something big. Something that we need to know if we ever want to find the truth. So please, I'm asking you to trust me. Why was Francesca going through a rough patch?"

Rob Dixon took a few seconds to decide. "Her parents," he said at last.

"What about them?"

"They were going through a rough patch."

He stopped.

"Can you be more specific?"

Rob Dixon looked back out the window. "Her father found some texts on her mother's phone."

*

Myron was back in the car and flooring it to the campus of Columbia University. He had gotten Clark's phone number when he'd last been there, and he dialed the number now. Clark answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Where's Francesca?" Myron asked.

"We're sitting out on the quad."

"Don't move. Don't let her move."

"Why, what's up?"

"Just sit tight. Do not move."

There was traffic at the George Washington Bridge. Myron tried the Jones Road shortcut. It saved him a little time. The Henry Hudson was backed up, so he took Riverside Drive down to 120th and parked close to a hydrant. He'd risk the tow. He sprinted up 120th and down Broadway and entered near Havemeyer Hall. Students stared at the seemingly old man running across campus. He didn't care.

The campus was laid out before him as he passed the domed-and-Grecian-columned Low Library, the most prominent building on campus. He headed down the steps, doing a reverse Rocky, passing the sculpture of a seated Athena and down onto the grassy South Field East.

They were both there, Francesca and Clark, sitting outside on a green Ivy League campus quad. There were, Myron knew, few places like this, few moments in life quite as pure and rich and innocent and protected as being a college student sitting in a grassy quad. Was that real or illusory? Didn't matter. Didn't matter that he was about to shatter all of that for these two young people.

He was close to the truth now.

Francesca looked up as Myron decelerated to a stop. Clark rose and said, "What's so important?"

Myron debated asking them to go inside, to move someplace with more privacy, but they were outside now, no one really within earshot, and there was no time to play around or stall or make it more comfortable for her.

He sat across from Francesca in what they used to call "Indian style," but, remembering what Mickey had told him, maybe it was now "with legs crossed." You didn't have to be the Master of Deduction to see that Francesca was distraught. She was still crying. Her eyes were red and puffy.

"She won't tell me what's wrong," Clark said.

Francesca squeezed her eyes shut. Myron looked back at Clark. "Could you give us a minute?"

Clark said, "Francesca?"

With her eyes still shut, she nodded for him to go.

"I'll be at the cafe in Lerner Hall," Clark said.

Clark slung his backpack over his right shoulder and trudged away. Francesca finally opened her eyes. When he was far enough away, Myron said, "You need to tell me the truth."

She shook her head. "I can't."

"It's destroying you. It's destroying your brother. I'm going to find out anyway. So let me help. We can still make this right."

She made a scoffing noise and started crying again. Nearby students glanced over, concerned. Myron tried to smile them off, but he imagined that this looked like either an older man breaking up with a younger girl or, he hoped, a teacher delivering bad news to a student.

"I just spoke to Mr. Dixon," Myron said.

She looked up at him, confused. "What?"

"Your fifth grade teacher."

"I know who he is, but why . . . ?"

She stopped.

"Tell me what happened," Myron said.

"I don't understand. What did Mr. Dixon say?"

"He's a good man. He didn't want to betray any confidences."

"What did he say?" Francesca asked again.

"Your parents were having marital difficulties," Myron said. "You talked to him about it."

Francesca plucked a blade of grass from the ground. There were freckles on her face. Man, Myron thought, she looked so young. He could almost see her in that classroom, the scared fifth grader, worried about her whole world falling apart.

"Francesca?"

She looked up at him.

"Your father found texts on your mother's phone, didn't he?"

Her face lost all color.

"Francesca?"

"Please don't tell Clark."

"I won't tell anyone."

"I didn't know, okay? I didn't know until . . ." She shook her head. "Clark will never forgive me."

Myron shifted so that they were facing each other full on. Someone started blaring music from a dormitory window. The song started with the vocalist letting us know that once he was seven years old. In seconds, he was eleven years old.

Yeah, Myron thought, watching this girl, I get that.

"Tell me what happened, Francesca. Please."

She didn't reply.

"Your father found the texts," Myron said, trying to draw her out. "Were you home when that happened?"

She shook her head. "I came in a few minutes later."

Silence.

"Was your brother home?"

"No. He was at the Little Gym. He had a class there on Mondays."

"Okay," Myron said. "So you came home. Were you coming from school?"

Francesca nodded.

"Were your parents fighting?"

She squeezed her eyes shut again. "I'd never seen him like that."

"Your father, you mean?"

She nodded again. "They were in the kitchen. Dad was holding something in his hand. I couldn't see what. He was screaming at Mom. She was covering her ears and ducking down. They didn't even notice I was home."

Myron tried to picture the scene. Ten-year-old Francesca opens the door. She hears Hunter screaming at a cringing Nancy in the kitchen.

"What did you do?"

"I hid," she said.

"Where?"

"Behind the couch in the living room."

"Okay. Then what happened?"

"Dad . . . he hit Mom."

Campus life was all around them. Students laughed and strolled the grounds. Two boys with their shirts off threw a Frisbee. A dog barked.

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