"Exactly." He kissed her again. "I'm going to set up down here and go through the phone records."

Sean watched as Lucy went upstairs. He hadn't been sure she'd like the daisy necklace because she rarely wore jewelry. He was pleased to see the pendant around her neck.

Sean sat at the table and pulled out his spreadsheet of Kirsten's friends and their phone numbers. He compared that list to the cell phone log. Nothing looked unusual. Next, he looked at the phone numbers on the log that didn't match up to Kirsten's known friends.

There was one number in the 917 area code that kept coming up. Sean searched the prefix. It was retained for cell phones in New York City. Who did Kirsten know in New York? Sean looked at last Friday's phone calls and noted that the same number called Kirsten in the morning and they spoke for eight minutes.

He dialed the number. It went straight to voice mail, a generic computer voice telling him to leave a message at the tone.

He emailed Patrick to run a reverse telephone directory search on that number while he continued to go through the rest of the current calls.

The last call Kirsten made was at 1:07 Sunday morning, to that same 917 number. It lasted one minute.

The records didn't identify where text messages were sent or at what time, and there was no way of getting those messages unless Sean had the physical phone.

Kirsten called two 212 phone numbers on Sat.u.r.day, in addition to short calls to the original number. Sean dialed them. One was a restaurant. He asked for their hours and location. Manhattan? He quickly pulled the address up on a map and noted that it was only three blocks from Penn Station.

Amtrak had service from Union Station in D.C. to Penn Station in New York. If Kirsten paid cash, there was no way to trace it. That's why she didn't take her car when she left home; she had taken a train to New York. From Woodbridge, there was both train and bus service direct to Union Station.

He called the second number.

"Clover Motel, Brooklyn."

Brooklyn? That wasn't near Penn Station. "I'm looking for a guest, Kirsten Benton."

"Room number?"

"I don't have it. She would have checked in Friday night."

"Just a sec."

Sean heard the phone placed on a desk and television noise in the background. He Googled the motel for the address. The motel didn't look too bad, though it wasn't a place Sean would stay. Had Kirsten reserved a room, or was she calling a guest?

"Sorry," the clerk came back on the line. "We have no guest by that name."

"What about Ashleigh Benton?"

The clerk sighed. A moment later he said, "No. No Benton. No Kirsten. No Ashleigh. Anything else?" the clerk asked.

"Did you work last Friday night?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm a private investigator looking for a missing teenager."

"How do I know you're not some crazy a.s.shole? You want information, you come down with proper ID, and I'll tell you. I can spot a fake, so don't be pulling any s.h.i.t with me." The clerk hung up.

Sean didn't much want to go to New York just to talk to a motel clerk when he didn't know for certain that Kirsten had been there.

Lucy shouted from upstairs, "Sean!"

He took the stairs two at a time and almost ran right into Lucy as she stood in the doorway.

"I wasn't sure you heard me," she said.

"What happened?"

"Kirsten emailed Trey." She strode over to the computer. "And he responded."

Facebook threaded messages so you could see the original message and every response chronologically.

Kirsten had sent Trey a message at 7:58 a.m.

Trey, I don't know where to start. I've been sick. I didn't even know it was Thursday until I woke up this morning. I'm better, but I sort of can't walk right now.

It's a long story, but I have no way of getting home. I lost my phone. Tell my mom that I'm OK. I have plenty of money and so, yeah.

I don't know what to do! I'm too scared to go home but scared to stay, too. Isn't that silly? Jessie's message was all wrong! And who would hurt her? I think they know me but maybe not. But don't tell anyone where I am! Please please please. My head is foggy and I can't think. But it's all weird here and the news in the paper doesn't explain anything. I already miss her maybe it was my fault I don't know anything.

Can you pick me up in New York when I figure out where I am? I'm somewhere very nice. It's pretty and there's a big bridge.

So sorry everything you were right I was stupid about everything I want to play softball but now I can't I want to Several of her sentences were incomplete, and her message ended there, unsigned. Trey had responded at 8:10 a.m. from his mobile phone: Kirsten, are you still there? What's wrong? I'm leaving for New York right now. Email or call me as soon as you get this message. Are you in the city? Which bridge? It'll take me at least five hours to get there. I'll let you know as soon as I arrive. T.

"He's going to New York?" Sean was furious. "He promised he would call me if she contacted him!"

"I'm worried about her," Lucy said.

"Because she was sick?"

"Read her message carefully. There's a lot of information there, but she must have a fever or maybe she's drugged." Lucy frowned. "She left on Friday?"

Sean nodded. "Did you save that message?"

"Yes, I have a screen capture and I emailed it to myself."

"She has a friend in New York, but when I tried the number it went straight to a generic voice mail. Patrick is running it now. She received a call from that cell number on Friday morning, and left Friday afternoon. She made several calls to the same number after she presumably arrived in New York."

"Where is she staying?" Lucy asked, more to herself.

"She called a motel when she arrived in New York, but the clerk said he didn't have her registered, under Kirsten or Ashleigh."

"Did you describe her?"

"Didn't get the chance. He hung up on me. I don't think the motel has earned even one star."

Lucy said, "Did you see this? Who would hurt her? You need to ask her mother if she has a friend or relative in New York."

"As soon as I talk to Trey." Sean dialed his number. The phone rang four times before bouncing to voice mail.

"Trey, I saw the message Kirsten sent you. Don't be an idiot. Call me."

Sean hung up. "Can we send Kirsten a message? A strange guy might scare her, but you-"

Lucy nodded. "I understand." Lucy logged onto her own account and sent Kirsten a message with her contact information as well as some advice.

Call the police as soon as you can and tell them you need to be put in protective custody.

NINE.

Suzanne and Detective Panetta had been sitting in the waiting room of CJB Investments for twenty minutes, watching the bustling staff. In the adjoining suite, the Barnett Family Trust offered grants and scholarships to young people for college or the arts.

Suzanne spoke in a low voice, reading information off her BlackBerry. "Wade Barnett is twenty-five, works for his brother, graduated from NYU two years ago. No federal record. You?"

"Two DWIs, that's it. License suspended for a year. Some other stuff. Nothing official, but my boss said he's been pulled in a couple times. Charges dropped."

"On what?"

"Illegal gambling, drunk and disorderly at a nightclub when he was underage. A lot of spoiled rich kids get their hands slapped and sent on their way. The DWIs were more serious; they definitely stuck."

"Where does he live?"

"Upper West Side."

Suzanne said, "On the business side, the investment company is doing well. I put an inquiry into our White Collar Crimes Unit, and it looks like CJB is pretty clean. Ditto the charitable trust. According to my a.n.a.lyst, their last tax filing showed just over fourteen million in scholarships, with an operating budget of less than ten percent."

"Good management. I don't think it's Wade Barnett."

"CJ Barnett is the princ.i.p.al," Suzanne said.

"We tread lightly, Suzanne," Panetta reminded her. "The Barnett Trust is well respected."

"I'm not looking to tarnish anyone's reputation. Just want the truth."

An attractive young female came out to the lobby. "Mr. Barnett is available now. May I bring you anything to drink? Water? Coffee? A gla.s.s of wine?"

Suzanne shook her head and Panetta just grinned. They walked into Barnett's large corner office, which seemed incongruous with the rest of the office they'd seen. The expansive view of lower Manhattan was the first thing that struck Suzanne, followed by the opulent office s.p.a.ce, which was bigger than her East Village apartment. The steel-gray carpets were soft and plush, the art trendy and local, and an entire wall a shrine to the New York Yankees. Being a Yankees fan scored Barnett points with Panetta. Suzanne preferred the Mets.

Wade Barnett was lounging on his couch talking on the phone. His feet were bare, and he wore simple khakis and an oxford-style shirt with a tie, sleeves rolled up. His brown hair was thick and s.h.a.ggy, in one of those styles where he could step out of the shower looking good. His poise and style suggested he knew he was attractive.

"Gotta go, Jimmy. But we're on for the Knicks tonight, right? I'll swing by and pick you up at the bar in an hour."

He hung up. "It's not baseball, but it'll pa.s.s the time until April," he said.

Even Wade Barnett's welcoming smile was charming, in an arrogant and privileged way.

"I'm Special Agent Suzanne Madeaux with the FBI. This is NYPD Detective Vic Panetta. Thank you for taking the time to meet with us. We hope you'll be able to help with a case we're working."

"Shoot." He sat up straight and grabbed a baseball off the table, tossing it between his hands. "Sit, please. What can I do?"

Suzanne and Panetta sat in leather chairs across from Barnett. Panetta said, "We came to you because we heard you were familiar with underground parties in the city."

Barnett frowned. "I don't care to talk about that."

Suzanne knew they would lose him quickly if they were too rigid. She said, "We're not here about the parties specifically, we're here about a murder. And because you're in the know about the parties. I don't really care at this point if you're the one setting them up. What I do care about are four dead young women."

Barnett leaned forward. "Is this about the Cinderella Strangler?"

Suzanne cringed at the moniker, but nodded. "We need to know who set up those parties and how the guests found out about them. Whether they were open or closed. If there's a formal invite list. Who's in charge. Their families deserve to know what happened."

"I'd love to help, really-I feel rotten about those girls. But you should know the parties aren't exactly formal. No one calls me to set them up; there's no invite list, really nothing in writing. When someone sets up a party, word gets out and people show up."

"How do people hear about the parties?" Suzanne asked. Though Josh Haynes had explained how information spread, she wanted Barnett's version.

"Mostly online or text messages. Those who go know what to do, it sort of feeds on itself, they bring friends, and so on."

"Is there a specific website?"

"No, not for all the parties. Different groups might have their own sites, you know, like a club or a fraternity or whatever. But there's no central website for every party in the city."

"We were led to believe that there wasn't an underground party in New York that you didn't sanction."

"Whoa! I wouldn't say that." Barnett's expression changed from helpful to wary. "Do I need a lawyer? My brother is a stickler about this kind of stuff. I got in trouble once for mouthing off to a cop, and I don't want to be in trouble."

"And I want to stop a psychopath before he kills another young woman," said Suzanne. "I'd think you'd want the same thing. If word gets out that a serial killer is targeting your parties, attendance might drop way down."

"Serial killer?" He looked troubled, but she didn't know if it was an act. "I really can't help. They're not my parties. I just hear about most of them. Not all, certainly, but people tell me things. You know how it is." He shrugged as if to say because I'm me.

Suzanne bit back a snarky comment and instead said, "You keep your finger on the pulse of the parties, so to speak."

He nodded.

"How many are there?"

"A night? A week? A year? It varies. There are so many fascinating abandoned structures that are perfectly safe, left to rot by bankrupt companies or absentee owners. I've been buying some as I can, fixing them up, reselling or leasing them. I love the old architecture, the original designs, the fascinating history of some of these places."

Suzanne made a note to check on Barnett's financials. He talked a good game, but Panetta had said that big brother CJ ran the show.

"It would be helpful to us if we knew the extent of the parties. If we want to stop this killer, we need to know when and where he might strike again."

"There are secret parties every night, most relatively small. There's a variety of party types-the raves, the frat parties, the drug parties, the s.e.x parties. Sometimes a combination, but then there're also the people who go. Some are all black, some all white, some race isn't an issue. The big parties-over maybe two hundred people-are usually on the weekends. I wouldn't say every weekend, but close to it. There's something for everyone-not all of the parties are drugs and drinking and dancing. There's a large black Christian church that has a huge revival-type party once a year, gospel rock, amazing food, and totally dry. They don't have the money to lease a place big enough, so they find a building that fits their needs."

Every weekend? They had four dead girls in four months, but no specific pattern in location or date-only that they were killed late on a Sat.u.r.day night, and the time between murders was getting shorter.