In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,45

and routines, and it occurred far from her home here in the city. I am convinced Fromley must have had some connection with her, however tangential.”

“What did you say?” Angus asked, the moment he registered what I had said.

We merely looked at him in surprise, so he reiterated his question. “What was that name you just mentioned? Michael Fro . . . what?”

“Michael Fromley,” Alistair replied, puzzled. “Do you know the name?”

“I’ve heard it,” Angus said, and he seemed newly distressed. “I think . . . I can’t be positive, mind you . . . but I believe it’s a name she mentioned during my last conversation with her.”

“In what context?” I asked, my mind racing.

“His name surfaced in conversation about a problem the lass was having, relevant to her work at the dean’s office.” His thick brow furrowed. “I can’t quite recall—but she mentioned the name. I’m sure of it.”

I looked to Alistair. “The dean’s office? Could her position there have in any way brought her into contact with your research project?”

We knew that Sarah worked two afternoons a week for the graduate dean of arts and sciences in a clerical role. In light of Sarah’s political activities and the way her mathematical genius had generated rivalries, her work for Dean Arnold had seemed to be the least controversial aspect of her life. Ostensibly she worked for extra money, but according to Angus, she had also done it to gain some administrative experience. She was worried she would be barred from teaching positions after obtaining her degree, as most women were.

“But I can’t imagine how any administrative work for the dean would connect her to Fromley,” Alistair said. “At our research center, we have absolutely no dealings with the dean’s office, other than the usual requests for grants and funding throughout the year. While you might find Fromley’s name in the text of a funding request, to my knowledge, he has never been to the dean’s office or become acquainted with anyone there.”

It made no sense, but then so little did.

After catching my train home to Dobson, I reviewed the paperwork in the case file until the wee hours of the morning, working through my exhaustion. I hoped Alistair was doing the same; he had promised me he would thoroughly review the Fromley files that night in search of any mundane references to Fromley’s habits. I needed to know more about his lifestyle—for though he had vanished into the depths of the city, even someone like him couldn’t disappear forever.

The missing women were our best hope, I decided. Tomorrow I would focus my efforts toward locating Stella Gibson and Clara Murphy—both of whom apparently had seen Fromley in the hours before their disappearance. Then I collapsed into a heavy, dreamless sleep that lasted until a pounding on the door and Joe’s voice calling my name ushered in the next morning.

CHAPTER 11

The sharp rapping at my door grew louder, almost matching the intensity of the pounding in my head.

“Late night?” Joe observed with raised eyebrows, after I managed to stagger to the door and let him in.

“Guess you could say that,” I acknowledged uncomfortably. My voice, I knew, sounded raspy and tired. Odd how my body reacted to the combination of stress and sleep deprivation much in the same way it would a thoroughgoing hangover. I observed Joe sniffing my clothes, trying to be discreet but failing entirely, as he tried to ascertain any signs of a night spent drinking. Had he found them, I had little doubt but that he would have attempted to convince the mayor I was guilty of some dereliction of duty. I wondered if he would ever give up seeking excuses to get rid of me.

“Coffee?” I offered, heading toward my small kitchen to perform what was invariably my first task of the morning. The strong aroma of the fresh beans invigorated me as I turned my hand-crank grinder. Joe accepted, and I spooned the ground coffee into the filter of my metal press pot. After adding boiling water, I retreated to my bedroom to get ready for the day while the coffee and water steeped. Meanwhile, Joe sat on the small gray sofa in my sitting area, listening carefully as I shared the details of the previous day with Alistair.

Though he listened completely—and remarkably for Joe, without judgment—I anticipated his skeptical response. “That’s quite a theory your new friend has expounded. I admit there’s a logical reason to further investigate the Fromley boy, but