In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,34

the Bonhams and the Wingates?

“You said the Riemann hypothesis was Angus MacDonald’s life’s work. Would he have been angry—jealous possibly—if Sarah had solved it?” I asked.

After another bout of coughing, Richard Bonham answered me deliberately. “I have known the man some twenty years, and I cannot believe he would react badly to another person’s solving the proof. I would remind you, there have been a handful of people over the years who thought they solved the Riemann hypothesis, only to find their proof did not hold up under the scrutiny of other mathematicians. Angus never reacted badly to those attempts, however disappointed he may have been. And, do not forget: He was actively helping Sarah with her work on the hypothesis.”

“And yet, you also would not have suspected MacDonald of pursuing a romantic relationship with Sarah, either,” I reminded him. He looked away in embarrassment.

“What about this man?” Isabella asked. “Do any of you recall having seen him before?” She passed around our now dog-eared picture of Michael Fromley.

Caleb and Artie both glanced at the photograph briefly before replying no, but Richard looked at it long and hard before answering. He finally said, “There is something about the boy that looks familiar, but I can’t place him. What is your interest in him?”

“He is our prime suspect,” I said. “We have circumstantial evidence linking him to Sarah’s murder.”

But no hard evidence, I thought silently. And that was what I desperately needed.

Where was Alistair?

“Did your suspect attend Columbia?” Richard asked, puzzled.

But we answered no and imparted no further information. We thanked them for their time and left, the noise of Richard’s hacking cough following us all the way down the stairs until we were nearly out of the building.

Across the quad at the research center, there was no word from Alistair. While Isabella assured me this was typical and not to worry, I was impatient, with so much still to be done. We had learned a great deal from this afternoon’s interviews, and Sarah was beginning to take human form in my mind. But the more she became real to me, the more I felt an urgency to find her killer. Michael Fromley remained at large, and that was—unacceptable.

I made use of our wait to telephone Joe, filling him in about Angus MacDonald; then I left a message at Princeton for the mathematician himself, requesting him to telephone or come to the research center in person.

Why was Alistair taking so long?

Ten more minutes passed.

I suggested to Isabella that we walk over to Broadway to see if there was any sign of him. Perhaps we would even find him waiting to meet us at 113th Street, as originally planned.

A street vendor was selling bags of roasted peanuts at the corner of 116th and Broadway, and the moment I smelled their aroma, I became aware that I was ravenous with hunger. I purchased two bags, which Isabella and I devoured as we walked.

“You know, I think I met her once before. It would have been a little over a year ago.” Isabella’s comment was entirely unexpected.

“Her?” I asked her to clarify, though I assumed she meant Mary Bonham, the young woman we had interviewed.

But she surprised me further with her reply. “I mean Sarah Wingate.”

“You’ve previously met Sarah?” I stopped walking and turned to face her. My disbelief was evident in my tone. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I only just remembered—and I’m not positive that I’m right. But I believe I met her last fall at a ladies’ committee meeting held in support of Seth Low’s mayoral reelection campaign. Many people, especially here at Columbia, were hoping we could persuade our former college president to run against McClellan again.”

“What was Sarah like?” I asked.

“Intense.” Isabella glanced up at me through thick black eyelashes. “By that, I mean she didn’t engage in small talk. It was all highbrow political jargon. Sarah came to just one meeting. I got the impression,” she said, smiling ruefully, “that we were not quite her style. And from what Mary has said today, I think I understand better; the ladies’ committee approach would have been too conciliatory for her tastes.”

I voiced my confusion as we began walking again. “I’m sorry. I’ve no idea what a ladies’ committee meeting is, much less why it would not be to Sarah’s taste.”

She laughed at my bewilderment, her brown eyes flashing with humor. “Oh, dear—how discouraged our organizer Mrs. Rodin would feel to hear that! You see, ladies’ committees are essentially political groups