The two of them stood up, said their good-byes, and prepared to leave.
“Thanks, anyway.” Bob turned back to watch Sloane scan the photos. “I appreciate your taking the time to come in. I could have e-mailed all this to you, but I was hoping that if the bunch of you got together, maybe one of you would notice something that would jog the others’ memories.”
Sloane was only half listening. Chewing her lower lip, she was concentrating on the photos of Cynthia Alexander. An all-American girl. Pretty, tall, with long dark hair, green eyes, and a firm, athletic figure. Not a surprise, given that the police report said she was captain of the swim team. In two of the photos she was wearing a varsity jacket and in another she was dripping wet but proudly brandishing a team trophy. Sloane got it. She herself had been captain of the swim team and the tennis team back in her undergrad days at Penn State. The adrenaline high of a win, the thrill of competing—it was a rush. She could see that mirrored in Cynthia’s eyes.
“Do you recognize her?” Bob asked.
“Unfortunately, no. Have you talked to her swim coach yet?”
“Yup. Cynthia has never missed a practice. She’s cool under pressure. She doesn’t drink—not even beer. And there’s no signs she’s into drugs.”
“Not a surprise. Not a great omen either—not in this case.” Sloane frowned. “It contradicts the theory that she’s off on some who-gives-a-damn weeklong bash. Lack of discipline and varsity sports don’t mesh.”
“I know. Neither does the background info we’re getting on Cynthia Alexander and the idea of her being a spring-break party girl. According to everyone we’ve interviewed, she’s a loner—into school, sports, and music. From a close-knit family. No emotional baggage. No boyfriend, no tight crowd of girlfriends, no car. Hangs out in the library or with her fellow swim-team members. Responsible and punctual. And frugal when it comes to money. Not exactly someone who’d register for a workshop, buy plane tickets to go home, and chuck both.”
Sloane tilted her head in Bob’s direction. “What about Cynthia’s parents? Where are they now?”
“Her father’s camped out at the Cleveland police station, and her mother’s camped out at ours.”
“Right.” Sloane recognized the scenario. It was the ultimate expression of hope. Cynthia’s parents needed to believe that their daughter was alive and would magically reappear, unharmed, with a perfectly logical explanation. At the same time, they were realistic enough to understand that if something traumatic had happened to their child, she’d need a loved one there to comfort and support her when she resurfaced.
“The Alexanders are playing it smart,” Sloane concluded aloud. “By splitting up and posting themselves on either end, they’re making sure that whichever city Cynthia surfaces in, she won’t be alone. This way, they can offer maximum help to the authorities and to their daughter.” Pausing, Sloane blew out her breath. “I don’t have a good feeling about this. If you and the Cleveland police decide to bring in the FBI, I can contact my old field office for you. In the meantime, you mentioned that it’s Mrs. Alexander who’s in Manhattan. I’d like to talk to her. I know you have many competent female detectives, and I’m not trying to step on any toes, but…”
“But you have a special way with people,” Bob finished for her. “I’ve seen it firsthand. So, if our investigation goes nowhere and Cynthia doesn’t show up in the next few days, I’ll take you up on both your offers.” An uneasy pause. “Which my instincts tell me I’ll be doing.”
“This scenario never gets easier.” Sloane picked up the paperwork Bob had brought, flipping through the police report until she found Cynthia’s spring schedule. “Most of the courses Cynthia’s registered for are literature and social sciences.”
“Which is why Dr. Hewitt didn’t recognize her. He teaches math and stats. Cynthia’s major is Humanitus and Justice. Dr. Doyle would be a better bet, since she teaches sociology and Cynthia took two of her classes—one last year, one last semester. We’re waiting for Dr. Doyle to arrive. Her son is driving her in.”
Sloane’s brow furrowed. “She’s not on campus?”
“Doctor’s appointment,” Bob supplied.
“Ah.” Sloane nodded sympathetically. “From what Elliot told me, her cancer is no longer in remission, and the prognosis doesn’t look good. I feel terrible about that. Lillian is an intelligent, caring woman.” Something in Cynthia’s academic schedule caught Sloane’s eye. “Speaking of Elliot, have you spoken with him? Cynthia took a computer course last semester. He might have been her professor.”
“Elliot?” Bob spread his hands in a questioning gesture.
“Dr. Lyman. He’s a computer-science whiz. He teaches here. Primarily on the graduate level, but he does teach one or two undergrad courses.”
“He wasn’t on the list of panelists at your workshop.”
“He wasn’t actually a panelist. He helped me with a demonstration. But he was definitely there through my whole presentation.”
“Great. I’ll send for him now.”
While Bob was contacting the computer-science department, the door to the lecture hall opened and Lillian Doyle made her way in. She looked as if she’d had a trying day. Her step was a trifle unsteady, and she was leaning on her son’s arm. She was visibly more peaked than she’d been last Thursday at the seminar.
“Hello, Sloane.” Depleted or not, Lillian was obviously determined to conceal her l
imitations to the best of her ability. She straightened her spine and smiled as she approached Sloane. “I hope I haven’t held up the process. The police said something about a missing student?”
“Yes.” Sloane felt a wave of sadness. It didn’t take a doctor to see that Lillian was going downhill rapidly. “But I’m sure Sergeant Erwin will keep his interview with you brief.” She turned, giving a sympathetic glance to the man standing beside Lillian. “Hi, Luke.”
“I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” Lillian murmured. “You two remember each other, right?”
“Right, Mother.” Luke’s smile was weary. “Sloane’s been back in New York for a year now. We’ve managed to grab an occasional cup of coffee together, despite her busy schedule. How are you, Sloane?”
“Overworked, but fine.” She smiled back, thinking that Luke had aged even in the couple of months since she’d seen him. He looked as drained as his mother. Clearly, he was suffering as he watched her deteriorate. “How about you?”