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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.
