“Maybe.”
The sound of knocking came from downstairs. “Good night, Melissa, I’ll see you in the morning,” Leslie told her.
“Right. Have a good time. Knock ’em dead.” She blushed. “I mean, you look like a million.”
“Thanks.”
Joe was at the door. She forced herself to smile as she greeted him. He wasn’t Matt; she knew that. They were different people, different personalities. But tonight, he reminded her so much of Matt as he’d looked last night….
They even used the same aftershave.
But he looked good, dark blond hair newly washed, still damp, hard-cut rugged features, casual suede jacket. Tall and well muscled. His shoulders were a little broader than Matt’s; maybe Matt had been a half inch taller.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, frowning.
“Of course. Where’s Robert?”
“We’re meeting him just down the street. Tonight, a good old American steakhouse.”
She smiled. “Let’s go.”
When they reached the sidewalk, she found herself looking back. There sat the house—a picture-perfect Colonial. Around it, present-day Manhattan. Alive, wild, a little bit wicked, and still a place where people were just born, lived and died. The past and the present, interlocking. Countless stories above the ground. Countless stories below it. She closed her eyes. Not far away, the World Trade Towers had stood. So much tragedy. So much destruction. A certain sadness still permeated downtown, despite the fact that so much was up and running again. Somehow, centuries-old churches only blocks away had remained standing. History remembered, history lost.
It was an amazing city, and it was equally amazing the way the house stood where it did, with the modern world all around it. Every decade made a change, she reminded herself.
The house, she thought, was somehow a key to murder.
Matt’s murder.
“What is it?” Joe asked.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. But it was something. Worlds colliding. Stories above the earth, stories below.
He tried to follow. Couldn’t.
But just this morning, she had seen him. It hadn’t lasted long, but she had seen him. Even so…
He had to let go.
No, he couldn’t say goodbye. Not yet, not when he’d just learned to say hello. And now, because of Leslie, Joe was coming to the house. Joe had a sense that something wrong had happened there, and he was convinced that the truth needed to be told. Then…
He loved her, really loved her, and she deserved a long life and happiness, so then he would say goodbye.
“So…your mysterious sixth sense has struck again,” Robert said, idly rubbing his thumb and forefinger over the beginning stubble of a gray beard.
“It had nothing to do with any sixth sense. I fell. Honest to God, I fell,” Leslie said.
Robert shrugged disbelievingly. “Do you know how long Howard Carter looked for King Tut’s tomb without finding it?”
“Robert,” she protested, “it was pure dumb luck. And it’s not even a total shock. City records indicated that the church had been there.”
“Why don’t you just get to it?” Joe asked Robert, amused. He sipped his beer, watching Leslie. They’d already ordered: steaks, potatoes and salads all around. Even Leslie had opted for a beer.
“Get to it?” Robert asked blandly.
“Come on. You know you want her to give you a hand.”
Robert flushed. “No…no.”
“Liar,” Joe said with a laugh.
Robert’s blush deepened. “All right. It’s the missing prostitutes. After each disappearance we put men out on the street to ask a zillion questions that never have any answers. Mostly, we scratch our heads. Then the furor dies down and I’m left with a bunch of useless information that does me no good the next time. All in all, if I’m right and the cases are associated, we’re talking about twelve missing women. In every case, they’ve just vanished off the street.” He looked across the table at Joe. “Including the one who wasn’t a hooker—Genevieve O’Brien.”
Leslie looked at Joe. “The woman you’re searching for,” she said.
“I have to agree with Robert,” he said. “At first, I wasn’t sure, but the more I found out about just how involved she was with those women, the more sense it seemed to make. The best lead I have is that she stepped into a dark sedan. On the same street where half those girls worked.”
“Strange,” Leslie murmured awkwardly. “And you haven’t found any bodies.”
“No bodies. No blood. No sign of a struggle. Nothing,” Robert said.
“There are a lot of ways for bodies to disappear,” Joe reminded them.
“So,” Leslie said, “you’re looking for someone who has learned how to completely hide his crimes. He must be very bright.” She turned to Joe. “Don’t the profilers say that the usual age for a serial killer is between twenty-five and thirty-five?”
“Often,” Joe agreed. “But not always.”