One fact troubled Melanie greatly, however. When Deon and the prostitute left the bar, they headed straight for the tunnel where Expo had taken Melanie. Nobody else seemed to think this was of much significance, but she did. The murder case wasn’t under her jurisdiction, though, so the best she could do was fill the detective in on her own encounter with Esposito and make him promise to call her if he came up with any connections.

Melanie had an appointment at six o’clock at the Elite Narcotics Task Force to deliver a required lecture on wiretap regulations. She was attempting to review her lecture script, but she was so upset by Fabulous Deon’s murder that she couldn’t concentrate. She knew she should turn her mind to her work, build her case against Esposito brick by brick, get him off the street before he did any more harm. That was the way to vindicate Deon. But the words of the script blurred before her eyes. You are entitled to intercept only criminal conversations. Shut down the recording device if the defendant is talking about something other than criminal activity. Shut it down if he’s talking to his lawyer, doctor, or priest. If he’s having phone sex with his girlfriend or asking his mother to fix him dinner. But you can listen if he’s talking to his girlfriend or his mother about selling drugs. Blah, blah, blah. And yet it was relevant. If they could intercept Expo talking on the telephone about Friday’s heroin shipment and stake him out running some new drug mules back from Puerto Rico, they’d have enough to charge him in the Holbrooke girls’ deaths. If they were lucky, maybe they’d come up with something tying him to Deon’s death. If they were really, really lucky, maybe they’d even find Carmen Reyes in the process. They’d better, because Melanie couldn’t handle another innocent person’s dying on her watch. If it hadn’t happened already-if Carmen was even still alive.

Melanie felt useless to the point of suffocation, sitting at her desk while Carmen was out there somewhere, needing her help. She had a couple of hours before the lecture, and even though the team had covered the bases according to the missing-persons protocol, she worried they weren’t doing enough. There had to be something more, some lead not fully plumbed, some neglected rock that could be turned over, its teeming underside examined and reexamined.

She’d go back to square one and start over, on the principle that where a young girl’s life was at stake, you could never do enough.

34

THE RECEPTIONIST with the British accent sat at her post in Holbrooke’s lobby with perfect posture and a smile on her face, seemingly oblivious to the gathering darkness and snow outside. No doubt about it, Patricia Andover ran a tight ship.

“Ah, yes, Miss Vargas. How may I assist you today?”

There were plenty of people Melanie could talk to here, but she’d start with the one she knew had been overlooked.

“I want to see Ted Siebert.”

A few minutes later, she was seated in a tiny back office across the desk from the general counsel, who was sweating despite the chill in the air.

“You probably expected grander quarters,” he commented, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief as Melanie glanced around the sparsely furnished room. “I’m an independent contractor, not a Holbrooke employee. My firm has offices downtown. So Holbrooke lets me use this space as a courtesy when I’m working on school matters.”

“I guess I’m lucky to catch you in, then.”

“Between the drug scandal and the endowment campaign, it’s a busy time, so I’ve been here a lot this week. Speaking of busy,” he said, looking at his watch, “what can I do for you?”

“Yesterday I was so focused on searching the girls’ lockers that I didn’t take the time to interview you properly.”

“Interview me? About what?” Siebert asked warily.

“Well, first I’m trying to get copies of the girls’ records. Dr. Hogan thought you might have them.”

“Shouldn’t you be out arresting drug dealers instead of worrying how these girls were doing in calculus class?”

“I’m not just looking for transcripts, Mr. Siebert. I was told that each Holbrooke student has a file, akin to a personnel file. I need the files on Whitney, Brianna, and Carmen Reyes.”

“I don’t see why their files are relevant to your case.”

“That’s not your call,” Melanie replied. Why was this guy so intent on stonewalling her? It was making her wonder about him, even more than she already did. “I think they’re relevant. Disciplinary problems, medical and psychological issues, records of family strife, conflicts with other students. I need to look at all of that.”

“Those are exactly the kinds of records we guard most closely. Your request raises major confidentiality issues. I’d like to help you out, but my hands are tied.”

“That’s just not true. There’s no law against disclosing the files, and Mrs. Andover has given her permission.”

“Well, she should have asked me first. I’m the general counsel, Ms. Vargas. It’s my job to worry about breach of confidence.”

“Breach of whose confidence? The girls’ parents don’t object. Enlighten me, because I don’t see a problem here.”

“The parents may say they don’t object, but if the files make their kid look bad, I’ll get hit with a lawsuit faster than you can say ‘litigation.’ Little Susie doesn’t get into Princeton, your average Holbrooke parent’s first instinct is to haul my ass into court over the recommendation letter, and I’m tired of it. They don’t pay me enough to put up with that garbage, and I don’t need any more problems over these dead girls, thank you very much.”

The window behind Siebert’s desk faced out onto a dismal back courtyard. In the halo from an outdoor light, the snow was coming down harder than ever.

Melanie looked Siebert in the eye. “Not to put too fine a point on it: Your ass is about to get hauled into court for obstructing my investigation. There’s a young girl missing and two others dead. Give me those records now, or we’ve got a problem.”

Siebert flushed purple. “I need a subpoena before I’d even consider it.”

“I’ll fax you one in the morning if you’re so determined to cover yourself. But we both know you have no basis for objecting, so enough already.”

They stared at each other. Looking at the guy, Melanie couldn’t help thinking about his chat-room activities. A pervert, Ray-Ray had called him. Maybe, maybe not, based on the evidence, but he definitely was an obstructionist. It was on the tip of her tongue to confront him with what she knew, just out of sheer annoyance. But Siebert saved her from doing that by suddenly deciding to cave. He opened a desk drawer, pulled out three files, and, leaning forward so his large stomach spilled onto the desk, slapped them down in front of her.

“Thank you,” Melanie said coldly, picking them up.

“You can review them now, in my presence. If you find materials that interest you, I’ll arrange to have them copied.”

“Fine.”

For fifteen tense minutes, Melanie examined the files as Siebert pretended to work at his computer. But every time she looked up, he was watching her. She did her best to ignore him and concentrate on the task at hand.

The files told her little she didn’t already know. Whitney Seward’s grades had been average at best, Brianna Meyers’s quite good, and Carmen Reyes’s excellent. Brianna was being treated for an eating disorder on the recommendation of the school nurse. Whitney had been suspended for two days during her freshman year for appearing intoxicated at nighttime-volleyball practice. Melanie found details on Carmen’s scholarship arrangements, including a letter of recommendation signed by James Seward. There were no names or addresses in Carmen’s file that shed any light on her disappearance. The only truly interesting fact Melanie discovered-interesting in view of something Melanie had on her list to ask Harrison Hogan about-was that Whitney Seward’s best grade sophomore year had been an A-minus in Hogan’s biology class. That grade stood in sharp contrast to Whitney’s other science and math grades over the years, which had never risen above a C-plus.