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“Not hang out.” Connie shot her a strange look. “She just went there for a closer view of the ferry landing. The university’s right at Sixty-third Street. She probably went to an upper floor to peer out a window, or walked over to one of the nearby parks.”
“Right. To see the East River.”
“No, to watch the ferries. And I didn’t supply this information, Nick did.” Connie put down Sloane’s hand and inclined her head quizzically. “Why are you acting so weird? And why are you asking such strange questions?”
It’s a coincidence, Sloane reassured herself. It has to be.
“What else did Nick say?” she asked.
“Nothing of significance, at least not according to Michael. Then again, Michael had some trouble understanding Nick’s English. He’s got a pretty thick Greek accent. Oh, he said he’d called the cops, which we already knew, but that they didn’t turn up anything.”
“I want to talk to Michael,” Sloane announced, coming to her feet. “Is he in the hospital now?”
“He’s down the hall.” Connie rose as well, putting aside her therapy tools. “But you’re not talking to him until you tell me what’s going on, and why we’re cutting your therapy session in half.”
“One last question, since you and Lydia were friends.” Sloane blew right by Connie’s demand. “Does Lydia have any family here? Not just in New York, but in the States?”
“No. She has two sisters and both her parents, but they’re all living in Greece.”
“What about friends outside the hospital? Who did she stay with during the separation?”
“That one I can answer. Lydia’s family is very religious. She was afraid they might call and find out that she and Nick were separated. So she moved into the spare bedroom.”
“So she never left. And there’s no one who can account for her whereabouts.” Sloane raked a hand through her hair, forcing herself to stay calm. “Connie, I promise I’ll explain everything to you. But first, I have to speak to Michael. In the meantime, I need you to get me Nick Halas’s contact information.”
Twenty minutes later, Sloane left the hospital. Making this phone call was essential before she met with Larry. Because it was possible she’d have even more to discuss with him than she’d had an hour ago.
She checked her cell phone. Good—three bars. She finally had the reception she needed.
She punched in Bob’s direct number at Midtown North.
“Sergeant Erwin,” he answered.
“Bob, it’s Sloane Burbank. I’m so glad you’re at your desk.”
“Yeah, well, my wife’s not. But since the media got hold of the information that Cynthia Alexander’s disappearance could be part of serial kidnappings, I practically sleep here.”
“I’m afraid I’m not about to help cut back on your hours,” Sloane said ruefully. “I need you to do me a favor. Check out a missing persons report that was called into your precinct on December fifth of last year. The woman’s name is Lydia Halas. The call would have been initiated by her husband, Nick Halas.” She gave Bob their address and telephone number as well as the facts Connie and Michael had just provided.
“I don’t think I like where you’re going with this.”
“Neither do I. Look, this could be a total waste of time. I don’t want to press the panic button—yet. On the other hand, the profile fits. In which case, Lydia Halas could be another victim of our serial killer.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
DATE: 14 April
TIME: 1600 hours
At last. Her bedroom.
I cross the threshold with all the respect due a goddess, especially this most significant one. I inhale deeply. I can smell her fragrance. Not perfume, just the pure, natural scent of her skin.
The room is simple, tasteful. Exactly as I expected. The only objects on display are the very personal things that make her Artemis.
I need to be part of those things. The gloves allow me to immerse myself in her life without worrying about leaving fingerprints in a room I should never enter, on items I should never touch.
