Loves Music, Loves To Dance

V FRIDAY February 22

Darcy stared unseeingly at the blueprint of the apartment she was decorating. The owner was spending a year in Europe and was specific about her needs. “I want to rent the place furnished, but I’m putting my own things in storage. I don’t want some klutz burning a hole in my carpets or upholstery. Fix the place up tastefully but cheaply. I hear you’re a genius at that.” Yesterday after she’d left the police station, Darcy had forced herself to follow up a “Moving/Everything Must Go” sale in Old Tappan, New Jersey. She’d hit a bonanza of good furniture that was practically a giveaway. Some of it would exactly suit this apartment; the rest she’d store for future jobs. She picked up her pen and sketching pad. The sectional should be on the long wall, arcing to face the windows. The… She laid down the pen and put her face in her hands. I have got to get this job finished. I’ve got to concentrate, she thought desperately.

A memory came unbidden. The week of finals of their sophomore year. She and Erin holing up in their room, cracking the books. The music of Bruce Springsteen coming from the stereo in the next room, echoing through the walls, tempting them to join the celebrants whose exams were over. Erin lamenting, “Darce, when Bruce is playing, I can’t concentrate.”

“You’ve got to. Maybe I can buy us earplugs.”

Erin, a mischievous look on her face: “I’ve got a better idea.” After dinner they’d gone to the library. When it was closing, they hid in stalls in the bathroom until the security guards left. They’d settled themselves on the seventh floor at the desks by the elevator, where fluorescent lights burned all night, and studied in perfect peace, letting themselves out through a window at dawn.

Darcy bit her lip, realizing she was on the verge of tears again. Impatiently, she dabbed at her eyes, reached for the phone, and called Nona. “I tried you last night, but you were out.” She told her about going to Erin ’s apartment, about Jay Stratton, about finding the Bertolini necklace, about the missing diamonds.

“Stratton’s going to wait a few days to see if Erin shows up before he makes a report to the insurance company. The police can’t accept a missing-person report because it interferes with Erin ’s right to freedom of movement.” “That’s nonsense,” Nona said flatly.

“Of course it’s nonsense. Nona, Erin was meeting someone Tuesday night. She’d answered his ad. That’s what worries me. Do you think you should call that FBI agent who wrote to you and talk to him?”

A few minutes later, Bev poked her head in Darcy’s office. “I wouldn’t bother you, but it’s Nona.” There was sympathetic understanding in her face. Darcy had told her about Erin ’s disappearance.

Nona was brief. “I left a message for the FBI guy to call. I’ll get back to you when he does.”

“If he wants to meet you, I’d like to be there.” When Darcy hung up, she looked across the room at the coffee brewer on a side table near the window. She made a new pot, deliberately heaping a generous amount of ground coffee into the filter.

Erin had brought along a thermos of strong, black coffee that night they had hidden in the library. “This makes the gray cells stand at attention,” she had announced after the second cup.

Now, after the second cup, Darcy was finally able to fully concentrate on the apartment plan. You’re always right, Erin-go-bragh, she thought as she reached for her sketchpad.

Vince D’Ambrosio returned to his twenty-eighth-floor office from the conference room in the FBI headquarters on Federal Plaza. He was tall and trim, and no one observing him would doubt that after twenty-five years he still held the record for the mile run at his high school alma mater, St. Joe’s, in Montvale, New Jersey.

His reddish-brown hair was cut short. His warm brown eyes were wide-set. His thin face broke easily into a smile. People instinctively liked and trusted Vince D’Ambrosio.

Vince had served as a criminal investigative officer in Vietnam, completed his master’s degree in psychology on his return, then entered the Bureau. Ten years ago, at the FBI training academy on the Quantico Marine Base near Washington, D.C., he’d helped set up the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. VICAP, as it was called, was a computerized national master file with a particular emphasis on serial killers.

Vince had just conducted an update session on VICAP for detectives from the New York area who had taken the VICAP course at Quantico. The purpose of today’s meeting had been to alert them that the computer which tracked seemingly unrelated crimes had sent out a warning signal. There was a possible serial killer loose in Manhattan.

It was the third time in as many weeks Vince had delivered the same sobering news: “As you all are aware, VICAP is able to establish patterns in what heretofore have been considered isolated cases. The VICAP analysts and investigators have recently alerted us to a possible connection between six young women who have vanished in the past two years. “All of them had apartments in New York. No one is sure whether they were actually in New York when they disappeared. They’re all still officially listed as missing persons. We now believe that is a mistake. Foul play is a probability.

“The similarities between these women are striking. They are all slender and very attractive. They range in age from twenty-two to thirty-four. All are upscale in background and education. Outgoing. Extroverted. Finally, every one of them had begun to regularly answer personal ads. I am convinced we have another personal-ad serial killer out there, and a damn clever one. “If we are right, the profile of the subject is the following: well-educated; sophisticated; late twenties to early forties; physically attractive. These women wouldn’t have been interested in a diamond-in-the-rough. He may never have been arrested for a violent crime but could have a juvenile history of being a Peeping Tom, maybe stealing women’s personal items at school. His hobby could be photography.”

The detectives had left, all promising to be on the lookout for any reports of missing young women who fit that category. Dean Thompson, the detective from the Sixth Precinct, lingered behind the others. Vince and he had met in Vietnam and had remained friends over the years.

“Vince, a young woman came in yesterday, wanting to file a missing-person report on a friend of hers, Erin Kelley, who hasn’t been seen since Tuesday night. She’s a young woman who fits the profile you’ve described. And she was answering a personal ad. I’ll stay on top of it.”

“Keep me posted.”

Now, as Vince flipped through the messages on his desk, he nodded with satisfaction when he saw that Nona Roberts had called him. He dialed her, gave his name to her secretary, and was immediately put through. He frowned as Nona Roberts’s troubled voice explained, “Erin Kelley, a young woman I talked into answering personal ads for my documentary, has been missing since Tuesday night. There is no way Erin would have dropped out of sight unless she’d been in an accident, or worse. I’d stake my life on that.” Vince looked at his list of appointments. He had meetings in the building the rest of the morning. He was due at the Mayor’s office at one-thirty. Nothing he could skip. “Would three o’clock work out for you?” he asked Roberts. After he replaced the receiver, he said aloud, “Another one.”

A moment after she telephoned Darcy about the three o’clock appointment with Vincent D’Ambrosio, Nona received an unexpected visit from Austin Hamilton, CEO and sole owner of Hudson Cable Network.

Hamilton had an icy, sarcastic manner which his staff regarded with intense apprehension. Nona had managed to talk Hamilton into the personal-ads documentary despite the fact that his initial reaction had been: “Who cares about a bunch of losers meeting other losers?”

She had secured his reluctant go-ahead by showing him the pages upon pages of personal ads in magazines and newspapers. “It’s the social phenomenon of our society,” she’d argued. “These ads aren’t cheap to place. It’s the old story. Boy wants to meet girl. Aging executive wants to meet wealthy divorcée. The point is, does Prince Charming find Sleeping Beauty? Or are these ads a colossal and even humiliating waste of time?”

Hamilton had grudgingly agreed that there might be a story there. “In my day,” he’d pointed out, “you met people socially at prep school and college and at coming-out parties. You acquired a select group of friends and through them met other social equals.”

Hamilton was a sixty-year-old professional preppie, and the consummate snob. He had, however, singlehandedly built Hudson Cable and his innovative programming was a serious challenge to the three big networks.

When he stopped in Nona’s office his mood was frosty. Even though he was as always impeccably dressed, Nona decided that he still managed to remain remarkably unattractive. His Savile Row suit did not quite conceal his narrow shoulders and thickening waist. His sparse hair was tinted a silvery blond shade that did not succeed in looking natural. His narrow lips, which were capable of selectively breaking into a warm smile, were set in an almost invisible line. His pale blue eyes were chilly.

He got right to the point. “Nona, I’m damn sick of this project of yours. I don’t think there’s an unattached person in this building who isn’t placing or answering personal ads and wasting time comparing results ad nauseam. Either wrap this project up fast or forget it.”

There was a time to placate Hamilton; a time to intrigue him. Nona chose the second option. “I had no idea how explosive this personal-ads business might be.” She fished on her desk for the letter from Vincent D’Ambrosio and handed it to Hamilton. His eyebrows went up as he read it.

“He’s coming here at three o’clock.” Nona swallowed. “As you can see, he points out that there’s a dark side to these ads. A good friend of mine, Erin Kelley, answered one on Tuesday night. She’s missing.”

Hamilton ’s instinct for news overcame his petulance. “Do you think there’s a connection?”

Nona turned her head, abstractly noted that the plant Darcy had watered two days ago was beginning to droop again. “I hope not. I don’t know.” “Talk to me after you meet with this guy.”

Disgusted, Nona realized Hamilton was salivating over the potential media value of Erin ’s disappearance. With a visible effort to sound sympathetic, he said, “Your friend’s probably fine. Don’t worry.”

When he was gone, Nona’s secretary, Connie Frender, poked her head in the door.

“Are you still alive?”

“Barely.” Nona tried to smile. Had she ever been twenty-one? she wondered.

Connie was the black counterpart of Joan Nye, the Toodle-oo Club president. Young, pretty, bright, smart. Matt’s new wife was now twenty-two. And I’ll be forty-one, Nona thought. With neither chick nor child. Lovely thought. “This single black female wishes to meet anyone who breathes,” Connie laughed. “I’ve got a whole new batch of responses from some of the box numbers you wrote to. Ready to look at them?”

“Sure.”

“Want some more coffee? After Awesome Austin, you probably need it.” This time Nona knew her smile was almost maternal. Connie did not seem to know that offering the boss a cup of coffee was frowned upon by some feminists. “I’d love one.”

She returned with it five minutes later. “Nona, Matt’s on the phone. I told him you were in conference and he said it was vital that he talk to you.” “I’m sure it is.” Nona waited for the door to close and took a swig of coffee before she reached for the phone. Matthew, she thought. Meaning of the name? Gift of God. For sure. “Hi, Matt. How are you and the prom queen?” “Nona, is it possible for you to stop being nasty?” Had he always sounded this querulous?

“No, it really isn’t.” Damn, Nona thought. After nearly two years, it still hurts to talk with him.

“Nona, I was wondering. Why don’t you buy me out of the house? Jeanie doesn’t like the Hamptons. The market’s still lousy so I’ll give you a real break on the price. You know you can always borrow from your folks.” Matty the moocher, Nona thought. Marriage to the child-bride had reduced Matt to this. “I don’t want the house,” she said quietly. “I’m going to buy my own place when we unload this one.”

“Nona, you love that place. You’re just doing this to punish me.” “See you.” Nona broke the connection. You’re wrong, Matt, she thought. I loved the house because we bought it together and cooked lobsters to celebrate our first night in it and every year we did something else to make it even greater. Now I want to start absolutely fresh. No memories. She began to go through the new batch of letters. She’d sent out over a hundred to people who had placed recent ads requesting them to share their experiences. She’d also persuaded the cable anchorman, Gary Finch, to invite people to write in about the results of personal ads they’d either placed or answered and the reason they no longer would do it.

The result of the on-air announcement was proving to be a bonanza. A relatively small number wrote ecstatically about meeting “the most wonderful person in the world and now we’re engaged”… “living together”… “married.” Many others expressed disappointment. “He said he was an entrepreneur. Meaning he’s broke. Tried to borrow money the first time I met him.” From Bashful Single White Male: “She criticized me all through dinner. Said I had a nerve putting in the ad that I was attractive. Boy, did she make me feel lousy.” “I started getting obscene phone calls in the middle of the night.” “When I got back home from work I found him sitting on my doorstep sniffing coke.” Several letters were unsigned. “I don’t want you to know who I am, but I’m sure one of the men I met through a personal column is the man who burglarized my house.” “I brought a very attractive fortyish executive home and found him trying to kiss my seventeen-year-old daughter.”

Nona felt heartsick at the final letter in the pile. It was from a woman in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. “My twenty-two-year-old daughter, an actress, disappeared almost two years ago. When she did not return our calls, we went to her New York apartment. It was obvious that she had not been there in days. She was answering personal ads. We are frantic. There has been absolutely no trace of her.”

Oh God, Nona thought, oh God. Please let Erin be all right. Her hands trembling, she began to sort through the letters, adding the most interesting to one of three files: Happy About Ads. Disappointed. Serious Problem. The last letter she held out to show Agent D’Ambrosio.

At one o’clock Connie brought her in a ham and cheese sandwich. “Nothing like a little cholesterol,” Nona commented.

“There’s no point in ordering tuna for you when you never eat it,” Connie commented.

By two, Nona had dictated letters to potential guests. She made a note to herself to invite a psychiatrist or psychologist to be on the program. I ought to have someone who can do a wrap-up analysis of the whole personal-ads scene, she decided.

Vincent D’Ambrosio arrived at quarter of three. “He knows he’s early,” Connie told Nona, “and doesn’t mind waiting.”

“No, that’s fine. Ask him to come in.”

In less than one minute, Vince D’Ambrosio forgot the remarkable discomfort of the green love seat in Nona Roberts’s office. He considered himself a good judge of people and liked Nona immediately. Her manner was straightforward, pleasant. He liked her looks. Not pretty but attractive, especially those large reflective brown eyes. She wore little if any makeup. He also liked the touches of gray in her dark blond hair. Alice, his ex-wife, was also blond but her sunny tresses were the result of regular appointments at Vidal Sassoon. Well, at least now she was married to a guy who could afford them.

It was obvious that Roberts was desperately worried. “Your letter coincides with the most recent responses I’ve been receiving,” she told him. “People writing about meeting thieves, moochers, addicts, lechers, perverts. And now…” She bit her lip. “And now, someone who never would have dreamed of answering a personal ad and did it as a favor to me is missing.”

“Tell me about her.”

Nona was fleetingly grateful that Vince D’Ambrosio did not waste time with empty reassurances. “ Erin is twenty-seven or -eight. We met six months ago in our health club. She, Darcy Scott, and I were in the same dance classes and became friendly. Darcy will be here in a few minutes.” She picked up the letter from the woman in Lancaster and handed it to Vince. “This just arrived.” Vince read it quickly and whistled silently. “Somebody didn’t file a report with us. This girl isn’t on our list. She brings the count up to seven missing.”

In the cab on the way to Nona’s office, Darcy thought of the time she and Erin had gone skiing at Stowe their senior year of college. The slopes had been icy, and most people had headed for the lodge early. At her urging, she and Erin went for one last run. Erin hit a patch of ice and fell, her leg snapping under her. When the patrol came with the meat wagon for Erin, Darcy skied beside her, then accompanied her in the ambulance. She remembered Erin’s ashen face, Erin trying to joke. “Hope this doesn’t affect my dancing. I plan to be queen of the stardust ballroom.”

“You will be.”

At the hospital, when the X-rays were developed, the surgeon raised his eyebrows. “You really did a job on yourself, but we’ll fix you up.” He’d smiled at Darcy. “Don’t look so worried. She’ll be fine.”

“I’m not just worried. I feel so damn guilty,” she’d told the doctor. “ Erin didn’t want to make the last run.”

Now as she entered Nona’s office and was introduced to Agent D’Ambrosio, Darcy realized she was experiencing exactly the same reaction. The same relief that somebody was in charge, the same guilt that she had urged Erin to answer the ads with her.

“Nona only asked if we wanted to try them. I was the one who pushed Erin to do it,” she told D’Ambrosio. He took notes as she talked about the phone call on Tuesday, about Erin ’s saying she was meeting someone named Charles North in a pub near Washington Square. She noticed the change in D’Ambrosio’s manner when she spoke about opening the safe, about giving the Bertolini necklace to Jay Stratton, about Stratton’s claim that there were diamonds missing. He asked her about Erin ’s family.

Darcy stared at her hands.

Remember arriving at Mount Holyoke first day of freshman year? Erin already there, her suitcases piled neatly in the corner. They’d sized each other up, both liked what they saw. Erin ’s eyes widening as she recognized Mother and Dad but not losing her composure.

“When Darcy wrote to me this summer introducing herself, I didn’t realize that her parents were Barbara Thorne and Robert Scott,” she’d said. “I don’t think I ever missed one of your films.” Then she added, “Darcy, I didn’t want to settle in until you were here. I thought you might have a preference about which closet or bed you wanted.”

Remember the look Mother and Dad exchanged. They were thinking, what a nice girl Erin is. They asked her to join us for dinner.

Erin had come to college alone. Her father was an invalid, she explained. We wondered why she never even mentioned her mother. Later she told me that when she was six, her father developed multiple sclerosis and needed a wheelchair. Her mother took off when she was seven. “I didn’t bargain for this,” she’d said. “ Erin, you can come with me if you want.”

“I can’t leave Daddy all alone. He needs me.”

Over the years, Erin completely lost touch with her mother. “The last I heard she was living with some guy who owned a charter sailboat in the Caribbean.” She was at Mount Holyoke on a scholarship. “As Daddy says, being immobilized gives you plenty of time to help your kid with her homework. If you can’t pay for college, at least you can help her get a free ride.” Oh Erin, where are you? What’s happened to you?

Darcy realized that D’Ambrosio was waiting for her to answer his question. “Her father’s been in a nursing home in Massachusetts for the last few years,” she said. “He’s not aware of much anymore. I guess I’m the closest thing Erin has to a relative besides him.”

Vince saw the pain in Darcy’s eyes. “In my business I’ve observed that having one good friend can beat having a passel of relatives.” Darcy managed a smile. “ Erin ’s favorite quote is from Aristotle. ‘What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies.’”

Nona got up, stood beside Darcy’s chair, and put her hands reassuringly on her shoulders. She looked squarely at D’Ambrosio. “What can we do to help find Erin?”

Along time ago, Petey Potters had been a construction worker. “Big jobs,” as he liked to boast to anyone whose ear he could get. “ World Trade Center. I usta be out on one of them girders. Tell ye, the wind wuz whippin’ so ye wondered if ye were gonna stay up there.” He’d laugh, a wheezy chortle. “Some view, lemme tell ye, some view.”

But at night the thought of going back up on the girder began to get to Petey. A coupla shots of rye, a coupla beer chasers, and the warmth would flow into the pit of his stomach and spread through his body.

“You’re just like your father,” his wife began to scream at him. “A no-good drunk.”

Petey never got insulted. He understood. He’d start to laugh when his wife ranted about Pop. Pop had been some card. He’d disappear for weeks at a time, dry out in a flophouse on the Bowery, and then come back home. “When I’m hungry, it’s no problem,” he’d confided to eight-year-old Petey. I go to the Salvation Army shelter, take a dive, get a meal, a bath, a bed. Never fails.” “What’s ‘take a dive’ mean?” Petey had asked.

“When you go to the shelter, they tell you about God and forgiveness and we’re all brothers and we want to be saved. Then they ask anyone who believes in the good book to come forward and acknowledge his Maker. So you get religion. You run up, fall on your knees, and shout something about being saved. That’s taking a dive.”

Nearly forty years later the memory still tickled the homeless derelict Petey Potters. He’d created his own shelter, a combination of wood and tin and old rags that he’d piled together into a tentlike structure against the sagging, shuttered terminal on the abandoned West Fifty-sixth Street pier. Petey’s needs were simple. Wine. Butts. A little food. Litter baskets were a constant supply of cans and bottles that could be redeemed for the deposits. When he was ambitious, Petey took a squeegee and a bottle of water and stood at the Fifty-sixth Street exit of the West Side Highway. No drivers wanted their car windows smeared by his efforts, but most people were afraid to wave him away. Only last week he’d heard an old bat explode to the driver of a Mercedes, “Jane, why do you allow yourself to be held up like this?” Petey had loved the answer. “Because, Mother, I don’t want to have the side of this car scratched if I refuse.”

Petey didn’t scratch anything when he was rejected. He just went on to the next car, armed with his squirt bottle, a coaxing smile on his face. Yesterday had been one of the good days. Just enough snow so that the highway became messy and windshields got sprayed with dirty slush from the tires of cars ahead of them. Few people had refused Petey’s ministrations at the exit ramp. He’d made eighteen bucks, enough for a hero sandwich, butts, and three bottles of dago red.

Last night he’d settled inside his tent, wrapped in the old army blanket the Armenian church on Second Avenue had given him, a ski cap keeping his head warm, a tattered greatcoat, its moth-eaten fur collar cozy around his neck. He’d finished the hero with the first bottle of wine, then settled down to puffing and sipping, content and warm in an inebriated haze. Pop taking a dive. Mom coming back to the apartment on Tremont Avenue, worn out from scrubbing other people’s houses. Birdie, his wife. Harpie, not Birdie. That’s what they shoulda called her.

Petey shook with mirth at the play on words. Wonder where she was now. How about the kid? Nice kid.

Petey wasn’t sure when he heard the car pull up. He tried to force himself to wakefulness, instinctively wanting to protect his territory. It better not be cops trying to knock over his place. Nah. Cops didn’t bother with this kind of shack in the middle of the night.

Maybe it was a druggie. Petey gripped the neck of an empty wine bottle. Better not try to come in here. But nobody came. After a few minutes he heard the car start up again; he peered out cautiously. Taillights were disappearing onto the deserted West Side High-way. Maybe somebody had to take a leak, Petey decided as he reached for the last bottle.

It was late afternoon when Petey opened his eyes again. His head had that empty, throbbing feeling. His gut burned. His mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage. He pulled himself up. The three empty bottles offered no consolation. He found twenty cents in the pockets of the greatcoat. I’m hungry, he whined silently. Poking his head from behind the piece of tin sheeting that served as door for his shelter, he decided that it must be late afternoon. There were long shadows on the dock. His eyes moved to focus on something that was clearly not a shadow. Petey squinted, muttered a profanity under his breath, and dragged himself to his feet.

His legs were stiff and his gait clumsy as he made his unsteady way to whatever was lying on the pier.

It was a slim woman. Young. Red hair curling around her face. Petey was sure she was dead. A necklace was twisted into her throat. She was wearing a blouse and slacks. Her shoes didn’t match.

The necklace sparkled in the fading light. Gold. Real gold. Petey licked his lips nervously. Bracing himself for the shock of touching the dead girl he reached around the back of her neck for the clasp of the elaborate necklace. His fingers fumbled. Thick and unsteady, they could not get the clasp to release. Christ, she felt cold.

He didn’t want to break anything. Was the necklace long enough to pull over her head? Trying to ignore the bruised, blue-veined throat, he tugged at the heavy chain.

Grimy fingerprints streaked Erin ’s face as Petey freed the necklace and slipped it in his pocket. The earrings. They were good, too. From a distance, Petey heard the whine of a police siren. Like a startled rabbit he jumped up, forgetting the earrings. This was no place for him. He’d have to take his stuff, get himself a new shelter. When the body was found, just his being around here would be enough for the cops.

An awareness of his potential danger sobered Petey. On stumbling feet he rushed back to the shelter. Everything he owned could be tied in the army blanket. His pillow. A couple pairs of socks, some underwear. A flannel shirt. A dish and spoon and cup. Matches. Butts. Old newspapers for cold nights. Fifteen minutes later, Petey had vanished into the world of the homeless. Panhandling on Seventh Avenue netted four dollars and thirty-two cents. He used it to buy wine and a pretzel. There was a young fellow on Fifty-seventh Street who sold hot jewelry. He gave Petey twenty-five dollars for the necklace. “This is good, man. Try to get more like this.”

At ten o’clock Petey was asleep on a subway grating that radiated warm, dank air. At eleven, he was being shaken awake. A not-unkind voice said, “Come on, pal. It’s going to be real cold tonight. We’re going to take you to a place where you can have a decent bed and a good meal.”

At quarter of six on Friday evening, Wanda Libbey, snugly secure in her new BMW, was inching her way along the West Side Highway. Complacent in the excellent shopping she’d done on Fifth Avenue, Wanda was still annoyed at herself that she’d gotten such a late start back to Tarrytown. The Friday night rush hour was the worst of the week, a time when many quit New York for their country homes. She’d never want to live in New York again. Too dirty. Too dangerous. Wanda glanced at the Valentino purse on the passenger seat. When she’d parked in the Kinney lot this morning, she’d tucked it firmly under her arm and kept it there all day. She wasn’t fool enough to have it dangling from her arm where someone might grab it.

Another damn traffic light. Oh well, in a few blocks she’d be on the ramp and past this miserable section of so-called highway.

A tap on the window made Wanda look swiftly to the right. A bearded face grinned in at her. A rag began to make swishing movements on the windshield. Wanda’s lips snapped into a rigid line. Damn. She shook her head vigorously. No.

No.

The man ignored her.

I am not going to be held up by these people, Wanda fumed, jamming her finger on the button that opened the passenger window. “I don’t want-“ She began to shriek. The rag was thrown against the windshield. The bottle of fluid pinged off the hood. A hand reached into the car. She watched her purse disappear.

A squad car was heading west on Fifty-fifth Street. The driver suddenly straightened up. “What’s that?” On the approach to the highway he could see traffic stopped, people getting out of cars. “Let’s go.” Siren blaring, lights flashing, the squad car lurched forward, skillfully weaving through the maze of moving traffic and double-parked vehicles.

Still screaming with rage and frustration, Wanda pointed to the pier a block away. “My purse. He ran there.”

“Let’s go.” The squad car turned left, then made a sharp right as they roared onto the pier. The cop in the passenger seat turned on the spotlight, revealing the shack Petey had abandoned. “I’ll check inside.” Then he snapped, “Hey, over there. Past the terminal. What’s that?”

The body of Erin Kelley, glistening with sleet, the silvery slipper flashing under the powerful beam from the spotlight, had been discovered again.

Darcy left Nona’s office with Vince D’Ambrosio. They took a cab to her apartment and she gave him Erin ’s daily reminder and her personal-columns file. Vince studied them carefully. “Not much here,” he commented. “We’ll find out who placed the ads she circled. With any luck, Charles North is one of them.” “ Erin isn’t the greatest record keeper,” Darcy said. “I could go back to her apartment and look through her desk again. It’s possible I missed something.” “That could help. But don’t worry. If North’s a corporate lawyer from Philadelphia, it’ll be easy to trace him.” Vince stood up. “I’ll get on this right away.”

“And I’m going back to her apartment now. I’ll leave with you.” Darcy hesitated. The light on the answering machine was blinking. “Can you wait just a minute till I check the messages?” Attempting a smile she said, “There’s always the chance Erin left one.”

There were two messages. Both were about personal ads. One was genial. “Hi, Darcy. Trying you again. Enjoyed your note. Hope we can get together sometime. I’m Box 4358. David Weld, 555- 4890.”

The other was sharply different. “Hey, Darcy, why do you waste your time answering ads and my time trying to reach you. This is the fourth time I’ve called. I don’t like to leave messages, but here’s this one. Drop dead.” Vince shook his head. “That guy has a short leash.” “I didn’t leave the answering machine on while I was away,” Darcy said. “I suppose if anyone tried to reach me in response to the few letters I sent myself, they probably gave up. Erin started answering ads in my name about two weeks ago. Those are the first calls I’ve gotten.”

Gus Boxer was surprised and not especially pleased to respond to the buzzer and find the same young woman who had wasted so much of his time yesterday. He was prepared to absolutely refuse to allow her to enter Erin Kelley’s apartment again but did not get the chance. “We’ve reported Erin ’s disappearance to the FBI,” Darcy told him. “The agent in charge has asked me to go through her desk.” The FBI. Gus felt a nervous tremor go through his body. But that was so long ago. He had nothing to worry about. A couple of people had left their names recently just in case a vacancy came up. One good looking gal said it would be worth a thousand bucks under the table if he put her at the top of the list. So if Kelley’s friend was able to find out something happened to her, it would mean a nice piece of change in his pocket.

“I’m just as worried about that girl as you are,” he whined, the unfamiliar sympathetic tone catching in his vocal cords. “Come on up.” In the apartment, Darcy immediately turned on all the lights against the impending dusk. Yesterday, the place had seemed cheerful enough. Today, Erin ’s continued absence was leaving its mark. A faint edging of soot was visible on the windowsill. The long worktable needed dusting. The framed posters that always gave brightness and color to the room seemed to mock her. The Picasso from Geneva. Erin had bought it on her one school trip abroad. “I love this even though it isn’t my favorite theme,” she’d commented. It depicted a mother and child.

There were no further messages on Erin ’s machine. A search of the desk revealed nothing significant. There was a new cassette for the answering machine in the drawer. Possibly Agent D’Ambrosio would want the old tape, the one that contained messages. Darcy switched the two.

The nursing home. This was around the time Erin usually called it. Darcy looked up the number and dialed. The head nurse on Billy Kelley’s floor came to the phone. “I spoke to Erin as usual on Tuesday night around five. I told her I think her father is quite near the end. She said she would spend the weekend in Wellesley.” Then she added, “I understand she’s missing. We’re all praying that she’s all right.”

There’s nothing more I can do here, Darcy thought, and suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to go home.

It was quarter of six when she got back to her own place. A hot shower was called for, she decided, and a hot toddy.

At ten past six, wrapped in her favorite flannel robe, steam rising from the toddy, she settled on the couch and pushed the remote control for the television.

A story was breaking. John Miller, the investigative crime reporter for Channel 4, was standing at the entrance to a West Side pier. Behind him in a roped-off area a dozen policemen were silhouetted against the cold waters of the Hudson. Darcy turned up the volume.

“… body of an unidentified young woman was just discovered on this abandoned Fifty-sixth Street pier. She appears to have been the victim of strangulation. The woman is slim, in her mid-twenties with auburn hair. She is wearing slacks and a multicolored blouse. A bizarre twist is that she is wearing mismatched shoes, a brown leather ankle boot on her left foot, an evening slipper on her right.”

Darcy stared at the television. Auburn hair. Mid-twenties. Multicolored blouse.

She’d given Erin a multicolored blouse for Christmas. Erin had been delighted.

“It has all the colors of Joseph’s coat,” she’d said. “I love it.”

Auburn. Slim. Joseph’s coat.

The biblical Joseph’s coat had been stained in blood when his treacherous brothers showed it to their father as proof of his death. Somehow, Darcy managed to find in her purse the card Agent D’Ambrosio had given her.

Vince was just about to leave his office. He was meeting his fifteen-year-old son Hank at Madison Square Garden. They were going to have a quick dinner, then take in a Rangers game. As he listened to Darcy he realized that he had been expecting this call; he just hadn’t thought it would come quite this soon. “It doesn’t sound good,” he told her. “I’ll phone the precinct where the body was found. Sit tight. I’ll get back to you.”

When he hung up, he called Hudson Cable. Nona was still in her office. “I’ll get right over to be with Darcy,” she said.

“She’ll be asked if she can identify the body,” Vince warned. He called the Midtown North precinct and was put through to the head of the homicide squad. The body had not yet been removed from the crime scene. When it reached the morgue, they’d send a squad car for Miss Scott. Vince explained his interest in the case. “We’d be grateful for your assistance,” he was told. “Unless this turns out to be an open-and-shut case, we’d like to have it run through VICAP.”

Vince called Darcy back, told her about the squad car and that Nona was on the way. She thanked him, her tone flat and unemotional.

Chris Sheridan left the gallery at ten past five and with long strides walked the fourteen blocks from Seventy-eighth and Madison to Sixty-fifth and Fifth. It had been a busy and highly successful week and he savored the luxurious freedom of knowing that he had the whole weekend to himself. Not a single plan. His tenth-floor apartment faced Central Park. “Directly across from the zoo,” as he told his friends. Eclectic in taste, he’d mixed antique tables, lamps, and carpets with long, comfortable upholstered couches that he’d covered in a heraldic pattern, copied from a medieval tapestry. The paintings were English landscapes. Nineteenth-century hunting prints and a silk-on-silk Tree of Life wall hanging complemented the Chippendale table and side chairs in the dining area.

It was a comfortable, inviting room, a room which in the past eight years many young women had eyed with hope.

Chris went into the bedroom, changed into a long-sleeved sport shirt and chinos.

A very dry martini, he decided. Maybe later he’d go out for a plate of pasta. Drink in hand, he switched on the six o’clock news and saw the same broadcast Darcy was watching.

His compassion for the dead girl and identification with the grief her family would experience was instantly replaced by horror. Strangled! A dancing shoe on one foot! “Oh, God,” Chris said aloud. Could whoever murdered that girl have been the one who sent the letter to his mother? The letter that said a dancing girl who lived in Manhattan would die on Tuesday night exactly the way Nan died. Tuesday afternoon, after his mother called, he’d contacted Glenn Moore, the police chief of Darien. Moore had gone to see Greta, had taken the letter, reassuring her it was probably from a crank. He’d then called Chris back. “Chris, even if it’s on the level, how do you begin to protect all the young women in New York?”

Now Chris dialed the Darien police station again and was put through to the chief. Moore had not yet heard about the death in New York. “I’ll call the FBI,” he said. “If that letter is from the killer, it’s physical evidence. I have to warn you, the FBI will probably want to talk to you and your mother about Nan ’s death. I’m sorry, Chris. I know what that does to her.”

At the entrance to Beefsteak Charlie’s restaurant in Madison Square Garden, Vince threw an arm around his son’s shoulders. “I swear you’ve grown since last week.” He and Hank were now eye to eye. “One of these days, you’ll be eating your blue plate off my head.”

“What the heck is a blue plate?” Hank’s lean face with a sprinkling of freckles across the nose was the one Vince remembered seeing in the mirror nearly thirty years ago. Only the color of his gray-blue eyes had come from his mother’s genes.

The waiter beckoned to them. When they were seated, Vince explained, “A blue plate used to be the special of the evening at a cheap restaurant. Seventy-nine cents bought you a hunk of meat, a couple of vegetables, a potato. The plate was sectioned to keep the juices from running together. Your grandfather loved that kind of bargain.”

They decided on hamburgers with everything piled on, french fries, salads. Vince had a beer, Hank a cola. Vince forced himself not to think about Darcy Scott and Nona Roberts going to the morgue to view the body of the murder victim. Rough as hell for both of them.

Hank filled him in about his track team. “We’re running at Randall’s Island next Saturday. Think you can make it?”

“Absolutely, unless…”

“Oh, sure.” Unlike his mother, Hank understood the demands of Vince’s job. “You working on anything new?”

Vince told him about the concern that a serial killer was on the loose, about the meeting in Nona Roberts’s office, about the belief that Erin Kelley might be the dead woman found on the pier.

Hank listened intently. “You think you ought to be in on this, Dad?” “Not necessarily. This may be a local homicide solely for the NYPD, but they have requested assistance from the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico and I’ll help them as much as I can.” He signaled for the check. “We’d better get started.”

“Dad, I’m coming in again Sunday. Why don’t I go to the game alone? You know your gut is telling you to follow up on this case.”

“I don’t want to pull that on you.”

“Look, the game is sold out. I’ll make a deal with you. No scalping, but if I sell your ticket for exactly what you paid for it, I get to keep the money. I’ve got a date tomorrow night. I’m broke, and I can’t stand to ask Mom for a loan. She sends me to that hunk of blubber she married. So anxious for us to be buddies.”

Vince smiled. “I swear you’ve got the makings of a con man. See you Sunday, pal.”

On the way to the morgue, Darcy and Nona clasped hands in the squad car. When they arrived, they were taken to a room off the lobby. “They’ll come for you when they’re ready,” the cop who had driven them explained. “They’re probably taking photographs.”

Photographs. Erin, don’t worry. Send your picture if they request it. In for a penny, in for a pound. Darcy stared straight ahead, barely conscious of the room, of Nona’s arm around her. Charles North. Erin had met him at seven o’clock on Tuesday night. A little more than a few short days ago. Tuesday morning she and Erin had joked about that date.

Darcy said aloud, “And now I’m sitting in the New York City morgue waiting to look at a dead woman who I’m sure is going to be Erin.” Vaguely she felt Nona’s arm tighten around her.

The cop returned. “An FBI agent’s on the way. Wants you to wait for him before you go downstairs.”

Vince walked between Darcy and Nona, his hands firmly under their elbows. They stopped at the glass window that separated them from the still form on the stretcher. At Vince’s nod, the attendant pulled the sheet back from the victim’s face.

But Darcy already knew. A strand of that auburn hair had escaped concealment. Then she was seeing the familiar profile, the wide blue eyes now closed, the lashes dark shadows, the always smiling lips so still, so quiet. Erin. Erin. Erin-go-bragh, she thought, and felt herself begin to sink into merciful darkness.

Vince and Nona grabbed her. “No. No. I’m all right.” She fought back the waves of dizziness and made herself straighten up. She pushed away the supporting arms and stared at Erin, deliberately studying the chalky whiteness of her skin, the bruises on her throat. “ Erin,” she said fiercely, “I swear to you I will find Charles North. I give you my word he is going to pay for what he did to you.” The sound of racking sobs echoed in the stark corridor. Darcy realized they were coming from her.

Friday had been an extremely successful day for Jay Stratton. In the morning, he’d stopped at the Bertolini office. Yesterday, when he brought in the necklace, Aldo Marco, the manager, had still been furious at the delay. Today, Marco was singing a different tune. His client was ecstatic. Miss Kelley had certainly executed the concept they had in mind when they’d decided to have the gems reset. They looked forward to continuing to work with her. At Jay’s request, the twenty-thousand-dollar check was made out to Jay as Erin Kelley’s manager.

From there, Stratton went to the police station to file a complaint about the missing diamonds. The copy of the official report in his hand, he’d headed for the midtown office of his insurance company. The distressed agent told him that Lloyd’s of London had reinsured this packet of gems. “They’ll undoubtedly post a reward,” she said nervously. “Lloyd’s is getting terribly upset about the theft of jewelry in New York.”

At four o’clock, Jay had been in the Stanhope having drinks with Enid Armstrong, a widow who’d answered one of his personal ads. He’d listened attentively as she told him about her overwhelming loneliness. “It’s been a year,” she’d said, her eyes glistening. “You know, people are sympathetic and they take you out occasionally, but it’s a fact of life that the world goes two-by-two and an extra woman is a nuisance. I went on a Caribbean cruise alone last month. It was absolutely miserable.”

Jay made the appropriate clucking sounds of understanding and reached for her hand. Armstrong was mildly pretty, in her late fifties, good clothes but no style. He’d run into the type often enough. Married young. Stayed home. Raised the kids and joined the country club. Husband who became successful but mowed his own lawn. The kind of guy who made sure his wife was well provided for after he keeled over.

Jay studied Armstrong’s wedding and engagement rings. All the diamonds were top quality. The solitaire was a beauty. “Your husband was very generous,” he commented.

“I got these for our twenty-fifth anniversary. You should have seen the pinpoint he gave me when we got engaged. We were such kids.” More glistening eyes. Jay signaled for another glass of champagne. By the time he left Enid Armstrong, she was excited about his suggestion that they get together next week. She’d even agreed to consider having him redesign her rings. “I’d like to see you with one important ring that incorporates all these stones. The solitaire and baguettes in the center, banded on either side by alternating diamonds and emeralds. We’ll use the diamonds in your wedding ring and I can get some fine quality emeralds for you at a very reasonable price.” Over a quiet dinner at the Water Club, he pondered the pleasure of substituting a cubic zirconia for the solitaire in Armstrong’s ring. Some of them were so good even a jeweler’s naked eye could be fooled. But of course he’d have the new ring appraised for her with the solitaire still in place. Amazing how single women fell for that. “How thoughtful of you to take care of the appraisal for me. I’ll take it right to my insurance company.”

He lingered at the bar of the Water Club after dinner. Good to relax. The business of being attentive and charming with these old girls was exhausting even though the results were lucrative.

It was nine-thirty when he walked the few blocks from the restaurant back to his apartment. At ten he was wearing pajamas and a robe newly purchased at Armani’s. He settled on the couch with a bourbon on the rocks and turned on the news. The glass shook in Stratton’s trembling hands and liquor spilled unheeded on his robe as he stared at the screen and learned of the discovery of the body of Erin Kelley.

Michael Nash wondered ruefully if he should offer free analysis to Anne Thayer, the blonde who so unfortunately had bought the apartment next to his. When he left the office at ten of six on Friday afternoon, she was at the desk in the lobby, speaking to the concierge. As soon as she saw him, she dashed to stand beside him and wait for the elevator. On the way up, she chatted nonstop, as though she was on a countdown to ensnare him before they reached the twentieth floor.

“I went over to Zabar’s today and got the most marvelous salmon. Fixed a platter of hors d’oeuvres. My girlfriend was supposed to come over but can’t make it. Can’t bear to see them go to waste. I was wondering…” Nash cut her off. “Zabar’s salmon is great. Put it away. It’ll keep for a few days.” He was aware of the commiserating glance of the elevator operator. “Ramon, I’ll see you in a few minutes. I’m on my way out.” He said a firm good night to the crestfallen Miss Thayer and disappeared into his own apartment. He was going out, but not for an hour or so. And if he bumped into her then, maybe she’d start to get the message to leave him alone. “Dependent personality, probably neurotic, could get vicious when crossed,” he said aloud, then laughed. Hey, I’m off work. Forget it. He was spending the weekend in Bridgewater. There was a dinner party at the Balderstons’ tomorrow night. They always had interesting guests. More important, he intended to use the better part of the next two days working on his book. Nash acknowledged to himself that he’d become so interested in the project that he was becoming impatient with distractions.

Just before he left, he tried Erin Kelley’s number. He half-smiled as he heard the message in her lilting voice: “This is Erin. Sorry to miss your call. Please leave a message.”

“This is Michael Nash. I’m sorry to miss you, too, Erin. Tried you the other day. Guess you’re away. Hope there isn’t a problem with your father.” He left his office and home number again.

The drive to Bridgewater on Friday night was as usual a traffic-clogged nuisance. It was only when he passed Paterson on Route 80 that it began to let up. Then with each mile the terrain became more countrylike. Nash felt himself begin to relax. By the time he had driven through the gate of Scotshays, he had a total sense of well-being.

His father had bought the estate when Michael was eleven. Four hundred acres of gardens, woods, and fields. Swimming pool, tennis courts, stable. The house copied from a manor in Brittany. Stone walls, red-tiled roof, green shutters, white portico. Twenty-two rooms in all. Half of them Michael hadn’t bothered with in years. Irma and John Hughes, the housekeeping couple, ran the place for him.

Irma had dinner waiting. She served it in the study. Michael settled in his favorite old leather armchair to study the notes he would use tomorrow when he wrote the next chapter of his book. That chapter would concentrate on the psychological problems of people who, when they answered personal ads, sent in pictures of themselves that had been taken twenty-five years ago. He would concentrate on what factors made them try that ploy and how they explained themselves when the date showed up.

That sort of thing had happened to a number of the girls he had interviewed. A couple of them had been indignant. Some had been downright funny describing the encounter.

At quarter of ten, Michael turned the television on in anticipation of the news, then went back to his notes. The name Erin Kelley made him look up, startled. He grabbed the remote control and pressed the volume frantically, causing the announcer’s voice to shout through the room.

When the segment was finished, Michael flipped off the set and stared at the dark screen.

“ Erin,” he said aloud, “who could do that to you?”

Doug Fox stopped for a drink at Harry’s Bar on Friday evening before heading home to Scarsdale. It was a watering hole for the Wall Street crowd. As usual the bar was four deep and the news on the television set was ignored. Doug did not see the bulletin about the body that had been found on the pier. If she was sure he was coming home, Susan usually fed the kids first, then waited to eat with him, but tonight, when he arrived at eight, Susan was in the den reading. She barely raised her eyes when he came into the room and turned away from the kiss he tried to press on her forehead. Donny and Beth had gone to the movies with the Goodwyns, she explained. Trish and the baby were asleep. She did not offer to prepare anything for him. Her eyes went back to her book.

For a moment Doug stood uncertainly over her, then turned and went into the kitchen. She had to pull this attitude act the one night I’m hungry, he thought bitterly. She’s just sore because I didn’t get home for a couple of nights and was so late last night. He opened the door of the refrigerator. The one thing Susan could do was cook. With mounting anger he decided that when he was able to make it home, the least she could do was to have something ready for him. He yanked out packets of ham and cheese and went to the bread box. The weekly community newspaper was on the kitchen table. Doug made a sandwich, poured a beer, and began to skim the paper as he ate. The sports page caught his eye. Scarsdale had unexpectedly defeated Dobbs Ferry in the midschool tournament. The sudden-death winning basket had been sunk by second-stringer Donald Fox. Donny! Why didn’t anyone tell him?

Doug felt his palms begin to sweat. Had Susan tried to phone him Tuesday night? Donny had been disappointed and sullen when Doug told him he couldn’t make the game. It would be just like Susan to suggest they call with the news. Tuesday night. Wednesday night.

The new telephone operator at the hotel. She wasn’t like the young kids who willingly accepted the hundred bucks he slipped them from time to time. “Remember, any calls come in for me when I’m not here, I’m in a meeting. If it’s real late, I left a do-not-disturb.”

The new operator looked like she posed for a moral majority ad. He’d been still trying to figure out how to snow her into lying for him. He hadn’t worried too much, however. He’d trained Susan not to phone him when he stayed in “for meetings.”

But she had tried him Tuesday night. He was sure of it. Otherwise, she’d have had Donny phone him at the office Wednesday afternoon. And that dumb operator had probably told her there was no meeting and no one was staying in the company suite.

Doug looked around the kitchen. It was surprisingly neat. They’d had the whole house renovated when they bought it eight years ago. The kitchen was a chef’s dream. Center island with sink and chopping board. Plenty of counter space. Latest appliances. Skylight.

Susan’s old man had lent them the money for the renovation. He’d also lent them most of the down payment. Lent. Not given.

If Susan got really sore…

Doug tossed the rest of the sandwich in the compactor and brought his beer into the den.

Susan watched him enter the room. My handsome husband, she thought. She’d deliberately left the newspaper on the table, knowing Doug would probably read it. Now he’s sweating bullets. He figured I probably called the hotel to let Donny give him the news. Funny, when you finally faced reality, it was amazing how clearly you could see things.

Doug sat on the couch opposite her. He’s afraid to give me an opening, she decided. Tucking her book under her arm, she got up. “The kids will be back about half past ten,” she told him. “I’m going to read in bed.” “I’ll wait for them, honey.”

Honey! He must be worried.

Susan settled in bed with the book. Then, knowing she was not able to focus on the print, she laid it down and turned on the television. Doug came into the bedroom just as the ten o’clock news began. “It’s too lonesome out there.” He sat on the bed and reached for her hand. “How’s my girl?”

“Good question,” Susan said. “How is she?”

He attempted to pass it off as a joke. Tilting her chin, he said, “She looks pretty good to me.”

They both turned to watch the screen as the anchorman gave the headline news. “Erin Kelley, a prize-winning young jewelry designer, was found strangled on the West Fifty-sixth Street pier. More after this.”

A commercial.

Susan glanced at Doug. He was staring at the screen, his pallor a ghastly white.

“Doug, what is it?”

He did not seem to have heard her.

“… Police are searching for Petey Potters, a drifter who was known to have been living in this shack and may have observed the body when it was abandoned on this cold, debris-strewn pier.”

When the segment was completed, Doug turned to Susan. As though he had just heard her question, he snapped, “Nothing’s the matter. Nothing.” Beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead.

At three in the morning, Susan was awakened from her own uneasy sleep by Doug thrashing beside her. He was mumbling something. A name? “… no, can’t…” The name again. Susan propped herself up on one arm and listened intently.

Erin. That was it. The name of the young woman who’d been found murdered. She was about to shake Doug awake when he suddenly quieted. With growing horror, Susan realized why the newscast had so upset him. Undoubtedly, he’d linked it to that terrible time in college when he was one of the students questioned about the girl who had been strangled.