were on the registration sheet, asking them to check their e-mails and get back to her ASAP—within the hour if possible. Since college students were notorious for having their cell phones glued to their ears, Sloane crossed her fingers that she’d hear back from them before she had to take off.
She used the waiting time to call the other three New Yorkers. Two were NYU roommates, one of whom answered the phone, and, as soon as Sloane mentioned last April’s lecture at Richard Stockton, said that she and her friend had registered, but ultimately blown off the lecture.
The third New Yorker, Deanna Frost, worked in the communications department of the New York Public Library in midtown Manhattan. Sloane got her voice mail as well, and left an equally urgent message.
Frustrated, she punched off her phone. Her growling stomach reminded her that all the people she was trying to reach were probably at lunch. She bought herself a grilled chicken panini and a Diet Coke, and ate them in the car. The weather was still too nippy to sit outside, and her hand was feeling the chill.
That reminded her she had an appointment with her hand therapist at four-thirty. It was already after one. She’d better get some results here soon, or she’d have to cut the information gathering short and do the rest long distance.
Two more Richard Stockton students called in the next half hour, both to say they’d gotten Sloane’s message, checked out the e-mail, but were drawing a blank when it came to the woman in the photo.
Disappointed and time-stressed, Sloane was just thanking the last guy for his promptness and cooperation when the beep that signified her call waiting sounded.
It was Deanna Frost.
“Your message said you needed information about a particular woman who attended the seminar at Richard Stockton last April, that her safety could be at stake.” Deanna was frank and to the point. “How can I help?”
“You were registered for the seminar,” Sloane replied. “Did you attend?”
“Yes. I took an express bus from the Port Authority.”
It was a long shot. Express buses ran from New York City to AC all the time. Still, Sloane had to try. “I see you registered using your personal Yahoo account. Are you at home now or at the library?”
“The library. Why?”
“Because Doris Hayden forwarded you an e-mail and a photo. Can you access your personal e-mail from there?”
“Of course. Just give me a minute.” Some clicking sounds on a computer keyboard, then a pause. “Here’s the e-mail from Richard Stockton. Let me open it.”
A few more clicks. “Missing?” she murmured in distress. Clearly, she was reading Doris’s e-mail. “How terrible. Was she kidnapped?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Would you open the attachment and take a look at the photo?”
“Right now.” A minute passed, then a slight gasp. “Penny.”
Sloane’s head snapped up. “You know her?”
“Only her name and that she works in fashion. We met the day of the seminar, at the Atlantic City bus terminal. It turned out we’d caught the same bus out of the Port Authority. When we realized we were both heading for the Richard Stockton campus, we shared a cab.”
“So Penny did attend the lecture.”
“That was the odd part. She didn’t. She seemed so enthused about it during our taxi drive. But she never showed up.”
“I don’t understand. If you rode to campus together…”
“We got there an hour early. I dashed off to grab a cup of coffee. Penny wanted to take a walk. We agreed to meet up at the lecture hall in forty-five minutes. She never came. I assumed she had an unexpected change in plans. Even though we were barely acquainted, I was surprised enough to want to contact her, and make sure everything was all right. But I had no idea how to reach her. I didn’t even know her last name.”
“Truman,” Sloane said woodenly. “Her last name is Truman. And it’s possible you were the last person to
She used the waiting time to call the other three New Yorkers. Two were NYU roommates, one of whom answered the phone, and, as soon as Sloane mentioned last April’s lecture at Richard Stockton, said that she and her friend had registered, but ultimately blown off the lecture.
The third New Yorker, Deanna Frost, worked in the communications department of the New York Public Library in midtown Manhattan. Sloane got her voice mail as well, and left an equally urgent message.
Frustrated, she punched off her phone. Her growling stomach reminded her that all the people she was trying to reach were probably at lunch. She bought herself a grilled chicken panini and a Diet Coke, and ate them in the car. The weather was still too nippy to sit outside, and her hand was feeling the chill.
That reminded her she had an appointment with her hand therapist at four-thirty. It was already after one. She’d better get some results here soon, or she’d have to cut the information gathering short and do the rest long distance.
Two more Richard Stockton students called in the next half hour, both to say they’d gotten Sloane’s message, checked out the e-mail, but were drawing a blank when it came to the woman in the photo.
Disappointed and time-stressed, Sloane was just thanking the last guy for his promptness and cooperation when the beep that signified her call waiting sounded.
It was Deanna Frost.
“Your message said you needed information about a particular woman who attended the seminar at Richard Stockton last April, that her safety could be at stake.” Deanna was frank and to the point. “How can I help?”
“You were registered for the seminar,” Sloane replied. “Did you attend?”
“Yes. I took an express bus from the Port Authority.”
It was a long shot. Express buses ran from New York City to AC all the time. Still, Sloane had to try. “I see you registered using your personal Yahoo account. Are you at home now or at the library?”
“The library. Why?”
“Because Doris Hayden forwarded you an e-mail and a photo. Can you access your personal e-mail from there?”
“Of course. Just give me a minute.” Some clicking sounds on a computer keyboard, then a pause. “Here’s the e-mail from Richard Stockton. Let me open it.”
A few more clicks. “Missing?” she murmured in distress. Clearly, she was reading Doris’s e-mail. “How terrible. Was she kidnapped?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Would you open the attachment and take a look at the photo?”
“Right now.” A minute passed, then a slight gasp. “Penny.”
Sloane’s head snapped up. “You know her?”
“Only her name and that she works in fashion. We met the day of the seminar, at the Atlantic City bus terminal. It turned out we’d caught the same bus out of the Port Authority. When we realized we were both heading for the Richard Stockton campus, we shared a cab.”
“So Penny did attend the lecture.”
“That was the odd part. She didn’t. She seemed so enthused about it during our taxi drive. But she never showed up.”
“I don’t understand. If you rode to campus together…”
“We got there an hour early. I dashed off to grab a cup of coffee. Penny wanted to take a walk. We agreed to meet up at the lecture hall in forty-five minutes. She never came. I assumed she had an unexpected change in plans. Even though we were barely acquainted, I was surprised enough to want to contact her, and make sure everything was all right. But I had no idea how to reach her. I didn’t even know her last name.”
“Truman,” Sloane said woodenly. “Her last name is Truman. And it’s possible you were the last person to
Similar Books
