In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,106

confirmed dead. The real killer was close—watching us and disrupting our progress whenever he could. But why? Because he delighted in feeling he outwitted us? Or because we were beginning to threaten him, forcing him to lose control?

“The real question is, why kill Stella?” I asked aloud. “If she was killed because of Sarah, then why did he perceive her as a threat? She had not seen his face; in fact, she had mistaken him for a dead man.”

“But how was her killer to know that?” Tom reminded me. “You didn’t until early this morning. I think we should assume she was killed because of what the killer presumed she knew.”

“Unless she was the killer’s target all along,” I said, “in which case the true reason may lurk in Stella’s background.”

“If I did not know Fromley was secure in his grave, then I should have no doubt of the man we are looking for,” Tom said.

“But that is the point—to confuse us,” I said grimly. “So we must disregard it, as much as we can. Alistair may never be convinced of it, but murder is not always about method and conditioned behavior. In the end, what counts is motive. That must remain our focus: Who had the motive and the means to kill both of these women?”

Yet my voice was filled with much more confidence than I actually felt. I did not like the way in which the dead Michael Fromley continued to shadow our case everywhere. And our lack of progress, even as this other killer spiraled out of control, was infuriating.

“She’s not with you?” Alistair was lying in wait for us as we returned to the research center, and there was no mistaking the panic in his voice.

Tom and I froze, staring at Alistair, who was wild-eyed and agitated.

“Who’s not with us?” I asked. But my stomach had gone hollow; I already knew the answer.

Alistair’s voice was unnatural and high-pitched when he said her name. “Isabella. She’s gone missing.”

CHAPTER 28

Panic is a contagious thing. Its danger lies in its ability to spread quickly, without warning. It had taken hold of Alistair already—and he needed to regain his sense of control before he undermined all of our efforts.

He repeated himself. “She’s missing. She ought to be here but she’s not.”

I tried to be reasonable. “Perhaps she went for a walk,” I said. “Or even finished up here and returned home.”

“No, no. Fred said she took the dog for a walk, but that was hours ago. Oban is back; she should be, as well.”

Oban materialized at once upon hearing his name, his golden tail thumping as he ran from one of us to another. When my eyes met Alistair’s again in startled realization, my concern rose to a level that must have almost equaled his own.

“That’s right,” he said. “Isabella would never have left for this long without him. At least, not without asking me or Mrs. Leab to take care of him.”

He paced back and forth. “She had something to tell me. I was on the telephone with one of those infernal reporters, so I put her off. Now she’s gone.”

“I’ve not seen her, either,” said Mrs. Leab, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “The professor called me to come in around eleven. She wasn’t here then.”

“Why are you so worried, Alistair?” Tom asked. “I certainly don’t mean to make light of your concern, but you don’t normally keep such close tabs on your daughter-in-law. I understand, of course, that Stella Gibson’s murder has unnerved all of us. But I see no cause for alarm.”

Alistair froze—and in that instant, I realized it was the first he had heard of Stella’s murder. After I filled him in, he began pacing wildly.

“When was she last seen?” I asked.

Alistair’s reply was anguished. “Fred saw her just before eleven.”

“Where is he?” I asked.

“He left a few moments ago to look for her,” Alistair said.

I turned to Tom. “Did you see her at any point this morning?”

He frowned. “No, I didn’t. But when I came in at half past ten, the light was on in her office.”

We hastened down the hallway to the small room where Isabella and Horace shared a small office with two desks and a file cabinet.

“Has Horace been in this weekend?” I asked, surveying the papers strewn across his desk.

“No,” Alistair said, adding dryly, “Horace isn’t exactly one for weekend appearances.”

I ignored his comment. Our only focus now needed to be on Isabella. I flipped through several of the pages