“I’m fine. I think I might have found someone who can help you out.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a Starbucks on my street. How about if we meet you there?” she added. “You know where.”

“I’m on my way.”

As he drove, he organized his mind, much as he organized his papers. Fact one: He was now convinced that Genevieve O’Brien had been kidnapped, and that she had been taken by the same person or persons responsible for the disappearances of the prostitutes. She had last been seen getting into a dark sedan.

She might still be alive somewhere.

Possibly beneath the city.

Buried sins.

Fact two: The explosion at Hastings House had not been an accident. Okay, that wasn’t a proven fact, but it was a supposition so strong that he felt comfortable treating it as fact.

Fact three: Matt, who had died in that explosion, had written a number of articles on the disappearances.

Theory: All three things were related. Matt’s death, the missing prostitutes, Genevieve O’Brien.

He felt a quickening in his heart. What had Matt known? What had he known that he hadn’t realized he knew? Whatever it was, it had so disturbed a killer that he’d conceived and carried out the perfect plan, a targeted execution that appeared, even after a thorough investigation, to be an accident.

He reached for his cell phone. Robert Adair’s assistant got him a number, and in moments he was talking with Greta Peterson.

She was surprised to hear from him, and he forced himself to chat with her a few minutes, explaining that yes, he was busy, yes, he was fine, yes, he’d seen Leslie, yes, they had a lot in common, yes…

She was more surprised when he asked her for list of everyone who had attended the gala, and for every caterer, police officer and private security person who had worked it. He also asked for a list of anyone who had recently done work at Hastings House.

“I’m sure I gave all those lists to the police.” She paused, then said sadly, “It was an accident, Joe. You looked into it yourself. The file is closed.”

It’s been reopened, Joe thought. Aloud he said only, “Greta, you’re a dear, but I can’t let it go, not yet. Will you get the lists for me?”

“How could I refuse you?”

“Thanks. Can you messenger them over to Hastings House by this evening?”

She sighed. “Sure. If it will help you come to terms with what happened, go over it all you want.”

As he hung up, he had the strange sensation that he wasn’t alone. The feeling was so strong that he actually looked to his right, at the passenger seat. There was no one there. Of course not, you fool. You would have known if someone had jumped in the car.

But he looked in the rearview mirror, as well, feeling even more like a fool.

Suddenly he thought he heard a whisper. Something teasing in his ear, indistinct at first. It was the breeze, he told himself; he had the window rolled down. It was the sound of a radio on the street somewhere nearby. It was conversation coming at him from the crowded sidewalks of Manhattan.

Whatever it was, it seemed to form a name in his mind.

Leslie…

There was an urgency to the sound, which irritated him; common sense and logic were his bywords. Then again, ever since he had known Leslie, he had to admit that somehow what she saw was clearer, what she intuited was often real….

“Screw it,” he said aloud.

And then, despite his own plans, he headed to the library.

Leslie left the library with a roll of copies in her hands. She’d thought she would grab a taxi, but it was midday and the traffic was insane. Actually, she liked the subway, she thought as she headed for the nearest station. It was usually fast and rarely got hung up by traffic jams.

She hurried down the steps, finding her MetroCard as she went. The entry smelled only slightly of urine. There was an obviously handicapped man with a sign sitting by one wall, and she stopped to drop a dollar in his cap. Before she could reach the turnstile, she saw a skinny old woman with a skinny dog. That demanded another pause for a dollar.

Since she’d already opened her heart to the first two, she paused to give the twentysomething leaning against the yellow tiles and playing the flute a dollar, too.

As she dropped the bill into his flute case, she felt a sense of something again, a sense of being watched. This was the subway, for God’s sake, she told herself. Full of people. Anyone could be watching her.

She paused. There was something in her head, a niggling piece of knowledge, but she couldn’t quite get it to make sense. It nagged at her even more strongly as she stood at the top of the stairs leading down to the train platform. She was in the subway. Underground. There were miles and miles of subway tunnels. Maybe that was it. Over the years, subway workers had discovered any number of relics while digging new lines. And there were unused tunnels, too, so…

Great. The killer was probably burying his victims. Wow. Big break. But where?

Huge city. Huge underground.

She started. That strange feeling of being watched struck her again.

Sure, she was being watched. By the guy with the dull eyes in the corner. He wasn’t really seeing anything, though.

It was just a feeling, she told herself.

But it wasn’t that simple. It was…disturbing. She looked around. And saw a dozen people, none of whom seemed to be staring at her.

New Yorkers were busy people on the move.

Oh, Matt, I’m really becoming a total paranoid. If only…

If only you would speak to me….

Matt was dead.

He lived only in her dreams.

With a mental shake of irritation, she moved on, heading down to the train platform.

People walked fast in New York. She joined the throng, people-watching as she went. There were the tourists, carrying guidebooks and looking around with wide eyes. There were the businessmen and women, looking crisp in their dark suits. There were punks with ski caps and students reading textbooks, oblivious to the world around them, their iPods all the company they needed.

A train had just left when she reached her track. She found her mind wandering as she waited for the next one to arrive.

She was happy, she realized, and she hoped desperately that she would be able to bring peace to Elizabeth Martin. Poor Elizabeth. She wanted to be vindicated so badly. The thing was, so many years had passed…who remained to know or care? It wasn’t as if she could go to Elizabeth’s loved ones and explain or ease their pain. But Joe had met a reporter the other night—heck, she knew dozens of reporters, she realized—she could get someone to do a story. She could see that Elizabeth received a proper burial.

She noticed a group of people coming down the stairs, crowding onto the platform, surging and jostling behind her. She staggered a bit but held her position behind the yellow line.

As she did, she felt a gust of fear again.

Cold at the nape of her neck.

Unease.

As if she were prey and something was stalking her.

She started to turn.

She was hit in the back by a heavy shove.

The next thing she knew, she was flying toward the track.

And she could hear the shrill cry of the approaching train, speeding along the rails.

12

J oe couldn’t find a place to park his car. What had he expected? This was New York.

But the sense of danger was so real that he didn’t care. Even knowing he would be towed, he pulled into the first empty space he found along Fifth Avenue. He raced up the stairs to the library, past the magnificent lions, and inside. A second’s hesitation sent him to research, where an attractive young woman told him that he had just missed Leslie MacIntyre, who’d made the copies she wanted and headed out. “It’s impossible to get a cab this time of day, so she probably took the subway. She said she was heading back to Hastings House.”

Joe barely thanked her. He hadn’t seen Leslie on the street, which meant he had already lost precious time. For all he knew, she could already be on a subway downtown.

A voice inside his head kept mocking him. She’s fine. She was at the library. You’re acting like a madman. She’s on her way home.

But another thought kept plaguing him endlessly.

Buried sins.

She wasn’t heading down into a crypt, some dark hollow in the earth. Well, not really. She was going to ride the New York City subway, used by thousands of commuters on an hourly basis.

Still…

He saw the entrance and ran down the stairs, scanning the signs for trains heading toward the downtown financial district. He leapt over the turnstile, again damning himself as a madman. Great. His car was going to be towed, and if the subway attendant yelling at him had his way, he would also be arrested.

As he rushed headlong through throngs of people on the stairs, he felt a sense of dread as he headed toward the platform.

Screams echoed from below, and he ran faster, shoving people out of his way and taking the steps two at a time.

Move!

In a split second, Leslie was aware of so many things. The vibration of the ground beneath her. The bruises forming on her flesh. The awkward way she was lying. The fear that she was going to be electrocuted. The squeak and scurrying of the subway rats…

And that voice.

Move!

She couldn’t move; she was stunned, breathless and in agony.

Move!

Suddenly, arms were reaching for her, pulling her up.

Matt…? Yes, it was Matt!

She blinked, and then she was up, moving with the speed of light. There were arms again, real arms, strong, powerful arms, grabbing her and dragging her up and…

She was lying on the platform. She heard the whistle of the train; felt the air rushing over her, the train so close that its passing rustled her hair, touched her face.

There were new sounds. People. Voices rising in indignation.

“Sweet Jesus—did you see that? She was nearly squashed like a bug!”

“Thank God someone got her out!”

“She got herself out.”

“It’s horrible, Harold. I’m always telling you, it’s horrible—people pushing and shoving down here all the time.”