a little over three hours. We think there may be thirty-two altogether.”
“How many females have you processed of the seven?” asked Frank.
“Three,” she answered.
Frank was a math person. She wondered if he thought he could somehow figure out the possibility that one was Star based on the math. Of course not. Silly. He was just trying not to break down by asking questions that had a definite answer.
“Three,” he repeated. “If your sample is random, then of the thirty-two victims, thirteen or fourteen of them would be female.”
“We don’t know if they were randomly located in the house when . . . when it exploded—or randomly recovered.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m just trying to occupy my mind. Here’s the library.”
He parked his dark blue Expedition and they walked up the columned entrance to the library. Since 9/11, the entrance had huge concrete planters out front so that a vehicle loaded with explosives couldn’t get close to the front entrance. They walked past the planters containing spruce trees and up the granite steps.
The information desk was manned by a young woman who looked as if she might be a student herself. Frank asked if there was a way to page a patron in the library. No, there was not. From the sympathetic look they got, they were not the first to ask.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to go to each floor and look,” she said. “If you know what courses your . . .”
“Daughter,” supplied Frank.
“Daughter is taking, you might start where those books or journals are shelved.” She handed them sheets of paper stapled together. “This is a map of the library.” She gave them a sympathetic smile that seemed to say, “I wish I could do more.”
“Do you know what courses she’s taking this semester? Isn’t American History one?” asked Diane.
Frank studied the maps of the floors. “American History, Anthropology, English, Algebra, and Fencing.”
“Fencing?” said Diane.
“She’s pretty good. She’s thinking about joining the fencing team,” said Frank.
Extracurricular activities. She’s getting interested in college, just as Diane had hoped. Please, don’t let her be . . . Diane couldn’t even finish the thought.
They decided to check the library floor by floor instead of going to the different subject areas. It seemed more methodical. The danger was over. There wasn’t a hurry to find Star, except for their own peace of mind. They wanted to be thorough.
Bartram University’s library was a rambling structure built in stages, forming an old central core and younger wings. Varying shades of red brick walls told of different periods of construction. The beige tile floors were kept shined to a high gloss. The tables and chairs were of a light-colored wood and the bookshelves were metal.
Small study areas defined by groups of tables and a few stuffed chairs and small sofas were scattered throughout the floor. Most of the patrons this evening were students who looked to be eighteen or nineteen, with a sprinkling of older people who Diane guessed were graduate students or faculty.
She and Frank split up. He searched the study areas, Diane searched the stacks—looking between rows of bookshelves for any sign of Star’s short black hair with its spiky cut. As Diane passed through the stacks of books, she heard snatches of conversations. “I heard there were fifty bodies.” And, “You could hear them screaming two streets over as they burned.” God, students were gruesome, thought Diane, and prone to believe rumors. “I heard they are canceling finals and giving us all A’s—like a hardship situation.” And prone to wishful thinking. “OK, tell me again how to find the area beneath a curve. Something about rhyming?” “Riemman.” At least some were studying. “The making of palimpsests was possible even with papyri. Are you sure that’s what it says? It’s hard to read the writing.” History? Sounds like a tongue twister. Diane looked down another of the never-ending rows of bookshelves. Star . . . where are you, Star? She wanted to shout her name. What kind of large public building didn’t have a paging system? Come to think of if, the museum didn’t. She would have to check into that.
Diane heard Frank ask several students if they knew Star Duncan. They didn’t. “A freshman? No we don’t know freshmen.”
At the end of another row she saw Star—black spiky hair, pixy look. Diane all but ran toward her.
“Star?” she called a little too loudly.
Startled, the girl turned at the sound. It wasn’t Star. Disappointment almost made Diane sick.