It was that kind of cold, drizzly morning that made you want to pull the comforter over your head and go back to sleep.
Unfortunately, Sloane didn’t have that option. Not only was she buried in work, but her hounds, as she lovingly called them, wanted no part of sleeping in, or in allowing her to do so.
The term hounds, albeit accurate, seemed like a misnomer when it came to Sloane’s three troublemakers. Moe, Larry, and Curly were three miniature dachshunds Sloane had adopted from animal rescue two years ago, as puppies. Moe—short for Mona—was long-haired and the sole female of the trio, Larry was wire-haired, and Curly was a sleek, bald frankfurter—the traditional smooth, short-haired variety. All three of the pups had boundless energy, strong personalities, and were loving and loyal—except when they were fighting.
Today, like every other day, they’d leaped up at daybreak, badgered Sloane until she let them out to do their “business”—which they did as quickly as possible to escape the rain. They then raced through the house and jumped all over the bed, wreaking havoc with Sloane and her bedding until she relinquished any idea of going back to sleep.
It was just as well. Penny’s case was weighing heavily on her mind. She had a lot to accomplish in very little time. Two days, to be exact. After that, she was heading up to Boston, where she was conducting a two-day crisis management and resolution training program at the corporate headquarters of a multinational bank. She was catching a 6 A.M. flight up to Logan Airport on Thursday. Which gave her just today and tomorrow to make some headway.
Settled on the cushy lounge in her home office, with Moe, Larry, and Curly sprawled around her, Sloane reread Derek’s report on Penny’s alleged Atlantic City trip—again. Then she shoved the papers aside and sank back into the cushion. She’d read the file cover to cover three times. No red flags. Still, she kept being drawn back to Atlantic City. It didn’t make sense. Why would Penny go there? She’d grown up wealthy, but practical. Her philosophy about money was simple: spend, but only on those things that mattered. Which to Penny meant her appearance, her education, and anything relating to a career in fashion writing.
Sloane could still remember their annual Christmas outings to FAO Schwarz, when they were kids. She herself was a stuffed-animal freak; she’d run from display to display, unable to decide, wanting to buy everything. Penny would stand off to a side, sizing up the inventory and eventually choosing the stuffed toy that matched her room and conveyed an aura of elegance.
Gambling? Never—not when Sloane knew her. Penny would think that was wasteful and stupid.
Just in case her friend’s habits had changed, Sloane had scrutinized Penny’s credit-card statements. Nope. Same old Penny. Itemized charges for a designer wardrobe and accessories that were in sync with someone climbing the corporate ladder at Harper’s Bazaar. Also, charges for extracurricular courses in everything from modern art to ancient philosophy. No surprises there either. Penny always prided herself on being cultured and well rounded. She loved to learn.
None of those charges was beyond the scope of what her salary could cover. As for gambling, there was absolutely no indication of it in her financial records or the behavioral descriptions provided by her friends and colleagues—and not even a single lottery ticket found in her apartment.
Maybe Penny had planned to meet someone in Atlantic City. But, if so, wouldn’t that person have called when she didn’t arrive? Sloane had checked Penny’s cell-phone records, which had been retrieved by court order. They indicated that no calls had been made or received since April 14—the day of her disappearance.
One dead end after another. Derek hadn’t lied. He’d been every bit as thorough as he’d claimed, leaving no stone unturned.
Sloane would have to rely on her knowledge of Penny to spot a tiny, unnoticed stone and flip it over, hoping to find something beneath it.
Grabbing a pad and pen, she made a list of the people Penny was closest to at the time of her disappearance. It was time to reinterview every one of them—starting with the ex-boyfriend. Maybe if Sloane asked the right questions, she’d provoke an answer, however innocent, that held the filaments of a clue.
She was still writing when her cell phone rang.
Preoccupied with what she was doing, she picked up the phone automatically and punched it on, anchoring it in the curve of her shoulder and pressing it to her ear. “Sloane Burbank.”
“Hey, Sloane. It’s Bob Erwin.”
“Bob…hi.” Sloane put down her pen. Bob was a sergeant with the NYPD’s Midtown North Precinct. He’d consulted with Sloane several times in the past, and attended two of her daylong workshops on workplace violence. “What’s up?”
“I’m not sure.” Bob cleared his throat. “Evidently, we’ve got a missing college student. Name’s Cynthia Alexander. Twenty years old. Last seen on her college campus a week ago Sunday. But that’s not necessarily the day she disappeared. It was spring break. The school was pretty deserted. She was supposed to fly home this past Thursday night for a long weekend. She bought the ticket—round-trip. But she never showed, so her parents called the cops. She could be a runaway. She could be a kidnapping victim. Or she could be a free-spirited college junior who took some chill-out time and is going to show up any minute. Who the hell knows? I’ve got a team of detectives looking into it.”
Sloane’s brows knit. The scenario Bob had just presented was all too commonplace. College students often took off on a whim, then returned when they were ready. But even if the NYPD suspected foul play, there’d be no reason to call her. Not unless there was more to this than what she’d just been told.
“Okay, Bob, what aren’t you saying?” she asked bluntly. “Is this girl from a prominent or political family? Did she take someone with her when she vanished into thin air—possibly against that someone’s will? Is the president of the university putting pressure on you that would be relieved by your being able to say you’re working with a consultant? Is the precinct trying to up its conviction numbers, or feeling squeezed to resolve this before turning it over to Missing Persons?” A pause. “Did I leave anything out?”
A tight chuckle. “I keep forgetting you used to be a kick-ass prosecutor. Remind me never to get on your bad side. No to all the above. Average girl, average family, disappeared alone and without hostages, and no internal pressure. Although Missing Persons is swamped and I’d love to solve this case in a week so I don’t have to dump it in their laps. On the other hand, if Cynthia Alexander was kidnapped en route, it’s an interstate matter, since she’s from Ohio. So it might be the FBI we’ll have to call in.”
“Well, since I’m no longer FBI, why are you calling me?”
“Cynthia’s from Cleveland. In which case it’s possible the case might fall into the jurisdiction of your old FBI field office. I’d want a rundown on your contacts there so I could direct this to whoever would be most helpful. But more immediately, I’m hoping you can narrow down the time frame of Cynthia’s disappearance. The campus she vanished from was John Jay. She was registered for that two-day workshop you were a panelist on, which is why she didn’t leave earlier for spring break. I’m trying to ascertain whether or not she actually attended the conference. We’re talking to all the speakers. But when I saw your name on that list, I was thrilled. I know you had an auditorium filled with people, but I also know you have a mind like a steel trap. I don’t expect you to remember her by name. But I’d like to show you some photos. Maybe something will click.”
Sloane blew out a breath. “When did you want to do this?”
“Today, if possible. The sooner the better. Are you completely tied up?”
“Always. But how about this—let me make some calls, set up a few interviews on a case I’m working on. Then I’ll drive into Manhattan. We can meet at John Jay. Two of my other workshop presenters are professors there. With class back in session, they should be available. In the meantime, you contact the rest of the panelists. The more of us that can look at those photos, the b
etter chance you’ll have of someone recognizing Cynthia Alexander.”
“I’ve already put in those calls. How does two o’clock sound? We can meet in the same auditorium you spoke in. There’s no lecture going on in there until four-thirty.”
“Sounds like a plan. Count me in.”
John Jay College of Criminal Justice
New York City
2 P.M.
As it worked out, this timing was perfect, Sloane thought as she hurried into the building. She’d arranged a meeting with a group of Penny’s colleagues at Harper’s Bazaar at four-fifteen, a quick drink with Penny’s old roommate, Amy, at five-thirty, and a dash down to Wall Street for a cup of coffee with Doug Waters, Penny’s ex, at seven. That gave her an hour plus now to help out the NYPD on this missing college kid, then do some in-depth interviews probing Penny’s state of mind at the time of her disappearance.
Tomorrow, she’d pore over the interviews, follow up on any leads she might spot, then call Hope Truman with an update. After that, she had a hand-therapy session, some romp time with the hounds before she brought them over to her neighbor, and an evening of putting the finishing touches on her latest presentation before she packed a bag and fell into bed.
The bank execs wanted the works—including a simulated barricade with hostages. Well, they’d be getting one. By the time Sloane hopped onto the plane for her return flight, the staff would be able to handle whatever was thrown their way.
Practically vibrating with energy, Sloane took the stairs at John Jay at a dead run, yanking off her gloves and scarf, and unbuttoning her coat as she dashed through the auditorium door.
She spotted Sergeant Erwin right away. In his early forties, he was tall and thin, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of pleasant face that often gave perps a false sense of security—enough to talk freely about things they shouldn’t without an attorney present, and wind up behind bars.
Right now he was perched at the edge of the table Sloane had sat behind last week, reviewing photos with her fellow “Crimes Against Women” speakers.
“Hi, Bob.”
“Sloane, great, you’re here.” He beckoned her over. “Take a look at some of these and see if they ring any bells.”
Tossing a general wave of greeting to the rest of the group, Sloane inclined her head in Bob’s direction. “Anything yet?”
“Not from me.” SVU detective Jimmy O’Donnelly scrutinized the last photo and the police report and pushed both of them away.
“I can’t offer anything either,” Sharon McNally said apologetically.
The two of them stood up, said their good-byes, and prepared to leave.
“Thanks, anyway.” Bob turned back to watch Sloane scan the photos. “I appreciate your taking the time to come in. I could have e-mailed all this to you, but I was hoping that if the bunch of you got together, maybe one of you would notice something that would jog the others’ memories.”
Sloane was only half listening. Chewing her lower lip, she was concentrating on the photos of Cynthia Alexander. An all-American girl. Pretty, tall, with long dark hair, green eyes, and a firm, athletic figure. Not a surprise, given that the police report said she was captain of the swim team. In two of the photos she was wearing a varsity jacket and in another she was dripping wet but proudly brandishing a team trophy. Sloane got it. She herself had been captain of the swim team and the tennis team back in her undergrad days at Penn State. The adrenaline high of a win, the thrill of competing—it was a rush. She could see that mirrored in Cynthia’s eyes.
“Do you recognize her?” Bob asked.
“Unfortunately, no. Have you talked to her swim coach yet?”
“Yup. Cynthia has never missed a practice. She’s cool under pressure. She doesn’t drink—not even beer. And there’s no signs she’s into drugs.”
“Not a surprise. Not a great omen either—not in this case.” Sloane frowned. “It contradicts the theory that she’s off on some who-gives-a-damn weeklong bash. Lack of discipline and varsity sports don’t mesh.”
“I know. Neither does the background info we’re getting on Cynthia Alexander and the idea of her being a spring-break party girl. According to everyone we’ve interviewed, she’s a loner—into school, sports, and music. From a close-knit family. No emotional baggage. No boyfriend, no tight crowd of girlfriends, no car. Hangs out in the library or with her fellow swim-team members. Responsible and punctual. And frugal when it comes to money. Not exactly someone who’d register for a workshop, buy plane tickets to go home, and chuck both.”
Sloane tilted her head in Bob’s direction. “What about Cynthia’s parents? Where are they now?”
“Her father’s camped out at the Cleveland police station, and her mother’s camped out at ours.”
“Right.” Sloane recognized the scenario. It was the ultimate expression of hope. Cynthia’s parents needed to believe that their daughter was alive and would magically reappear, unharmed, with a perfectly logical explanation. At the same time, they were realistic enough to understand that if something traumatic had happened to their child, she’d need a loved one there to comfort and support her when she resurfaced.
“The Alexanders are playing it smart,” Sloane concluded aloud. “By splitting up and posting themselves on either end, they’re making sure that whichever city Cynthia surfaces in, she won’t be alone. This way, they can offer maximum help to the authorities and to their daughter.” Pausing, Sloane blew out her breath. “I don’t have a good feeling about this. If you and the Cleveland police decide to bring in the FBI, I can contact my old field office for you. In the meantime, you mentioned that it’s Mrs. Alexander who’s in Manhattan. I’d like to talk to her. I know you have many competent female detectives, and I’m not trying to step on any toes, but…”
“But you have a special way with people,” Bob finished for her. “I’ve seen it firsthand. So, if our investigation goes nowhere and Cynthia doesn’t show up in the next few days, I’ll take you up on both your offers.” An uneasy pause. “Which my instincts tell me I’ll be doing.”
“This scenario never gets easier.” Sloane picked up the paperwork Bob had brought, flipping through the police report until she found Cynthia’s spring schedule. “Most of the courses Cynthia’s registered for are literature and social sciences.”
“Which is why Dr. Hewitt didn’t recognize her. He teaches math and stats. Cynthia’s major is Humanitus and Justice. Dr. Doyle would be a better bet, since she teaches sociology and Cynthia took two of her classes—one last year, one last semester. We’re waiting for Dr. Doyle to arrive. Her son is driving her in.”
Sloane’s brow furrowed. “She’s not on campus?”
“Doctor’s appointment,” Bob supplied.
“Ah.” Sloane nodded sympathetically. “From what Elliot told me, her cancer is no longer in remission, and the prognosis doesn’t look good. I feel terrible about that. Lillian is an intelligent, caring woman.” Something in Cynthia’s academic schedule caught Sloane’s eye. “Speaking of Elliot, have you spoken with him? Cynthia took a computer course last semester. He might have been her professor.”
“Elliot?” Bob spread his hands in a questioning gesture.
“Dr. Lyman. He’s a computer-science whiz. He teaches here. Primarily on the graduate level, but he does teach one or two undergrad courses.”
“He wasn’t on the list of panelists at your workshop.”
“He wasn’t actually a panelist. He helped me with a demonstration. But he was definitely there through my whole presentation.”
“Great. I’ll send for him now.”
While Bob was contacting the computer-science department, the door to the lecture hall opened and Lillian Doyle made her way in. She looked as if she’d had a trying day. Her step was a trifle unsteady, and she was leaning on her son’s arm. She was visibly more peaked than she’d been last Thursday at the seminar.
“Hello, Sloane.” Depleted or not, Lillian was obviously determined to conceal her l
imitations to the best of her ability. She straightened her spine and smiled as she approached Sloane. “I hope I haven’t held up the process. The police said something about a missing student?”
“Yes.” Sloane felt a wave of sadness. It didn’t take a doctor to see that Lillian was going downhill rapidly. “But I’m sure Sergeant Erwin will keep his interview with you brief.” She turned, giving a sympathetic glance to the man standing beside Lillian. “Hi, Luke.”
“I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” Lillian murmured. “You two remember each other, right?”
“Right, Mother.” Luke’s smile was weary. “Sloane’s been back in New York for a year now. We’ve managed to grab an occasional cup of coffee together, despite her busy schedule. How are you, Sloane?”
“Overworked, but fine.” She smiled back, thinking that Luke had aged even in the couple of months since she’d seen him. He looked as drained as his mother. Clearly, he was suffering as he watched her deteriorate. “How about you?”
“Can’t complain. Bellevue’s been great about rearranging my shifts. So I’ve had more time to fine-tune my chess and other board-game skills in order to take on my mother. Although she’s still the reigning champ. I can’t touch her when it comes to the Book Lover’s edition of Trivial Pursuit, or the Age of Mythology.”
Lillian pooh-poohed him, but Sloane could see that Luke’s praise had lifted her spirits. He was the same reserved, gentle guy Sloane had met seven years ago. Clean-cut and ruggedly built, he had a reassuring demeanor and a solid presence that emanated comfort and strength—even at a time of personal crisis. He was obviously Lillian’s caretaker. Well, no one was better suited for the job. Sloane had seen that firsthand on the day they met: 9/11—the day the world had changed forever.
She’d been at Bellevue Hospital in her capacity as an A.D.A., interviewing a witness for the prosecution. Luke was employed at Bellevue as a medical assistant—a job he was well qualified for. He’d served as a combat medic in the army, stationed overseas in South Korea at Camp Casey.