Reporters were in heavy evidence, and she found herself irritated. In a city like New York, there were a thousand things going on, so why were they all hanging around here? Then again, she supposed she should be glad that so many people seemed to have such an appreciation for the history of the city that history was making the news.
It was just that, despite what she’d told Melissa, she was tired of all the questions about Matt and how she herself was coping.
Well, she had chosen to come back here, so she had no right to complain. She straightened her shoulders and headed straight for the gate, where most of the throng was standing.
“Excuse me, I’m working here and I need to get through,” she said, pushing her way past people.
Professor Laymon was standing in the middle of the dig, holding court in front of a group of journalists, with Brad at his side. She didn’t want to steal anyone’s thunder, but maybe it would be better to get the interest in her over and done with. She strode toward the two of them.
“It’s Leslie MacIntyre,” someone whispered as she passed, and the sound seemed to grow as others echoed her name.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully when she reached the two men. There was a nice police presence, she saw. People were being kept from trampling sacred ground.
“Miss MacIntyre, welcome back to New York,” a man called. He had a notebook in his hand.
“Thanks.”
“What’s it like being back?” someone shouted.
“Is there a new man in your life?”
“How are you coping, being so close to Hastings House?”
“Have you been back inside?”
“I’m thrilled to be back in New York,” she said, leaning toward Laymon’s mike. “I think this is going to be a very important discovery, and…well, New York is my home.”
“Hey, you found the body yesterday, right?”
“I happened upon the remains, yes. Along with my partner, Brad Verdun. Brad and I are both here under the guidance of Professor David Laymon. We’re all very grateful to the city for inviting us to be part of this extraordinary project—and, of course, to the development company of Tyson, Smith and Tryon. There’s Hank Smith now,” she said, pointing him out. “It’s thanks to his company that we have this opportunity. And thank you all for your interest, but now, please excuse us. We need to get back to work.”
But the reporters weren’t going away. Too bad. She had managed to speak, to be friendly—even to suck up to the developers, she thought wryly. But now she was done. She hurried away, leaving Professor Laymon and Brad to do the talking, but once again it seemed there was nowhere to go to but the trailer, so she strode toward it, hoping it had been left open.
It had. But once inside, she found herself frustrated once again, since she had none of her research materials with her to study. Then she noticed that someone had left the daily papers lying around, so she picked one up and started to flip through the local section. There was a large article on the dig, which she skimmed. Then she turned the page and found a picture of a very pretty young woman with wide eyes that seemed to defy the world. The caption read: Family Desperate to Find Missing Heiress Genevieve O’Brien.
She found herself reading the accompanying article with such keen interest that the time slipped away. Genevieve had been a social worker who had resigned her position shortly before her disappearance. She had worked long, hard and diligently for the underprivileged. She had last been seen on a street downtown, entering a dark sedan. Her family was offering a substantial reward for any information that led to her return.
Without thinking, she shut her eyes and let her fingers roam over the picture.
“Trying to communicate with the missing now?” a teasing voice asked.
Startled, her eyes flew open and focused on the door to the trailer. Hank Smith, as neatly and richly attired as ever, was standing there.
“A little tired, that’s all,” she murmured.
He shrugged, walking over to the little refrigerator and taking out a bottle of water. “Well, you never know. Our good friend Sergeant Adair may soon be asking for your help. In my opinion, the girl just got sick of her persnickety family and her grungy clients and moved on.” She must not have been looking at him with much approval, because he quickly added, “Sorry, I know that sounded cold. But I’ve known a few addicts in my day. You can’t help an addict who doesn’t want to be helped. It’s a waste of time and money, and I hate to waste money.”
“I know the feeling,” she said politely, wondering if he was less sanguine than he’d claimed about the consequences of delaying the project. “Is the press spectacle over?”
“They all went back to digging, and it seems they managed to drive the press off through boredom,” Hank said, grinning. “Sorry, I know it’s your thing. But to those of us without the patience…it’s pretty damn dull.” He smiled disarmingly to take the sting out of the words.
She stood, setting the paper aside. “Believe me, Hank, you’re not the first person to say so.” She grinned. “And thanks for the use of the trailer.”
“No problem. And like I said, anytime you want to escape for lunch, you let me know.”