“Good point.” UHS wasn’t exactly Fort Knox. “But surely there must be security cameras at the entrances to the building?”

“We’re looking into it,” he said. “But in weather like this, when everyone’s bundled up, they tend not to be too useful. At least, unless the perp thinks to look straight up and smile for the camera. And there are a bunch of kids in here with the usual midwinter flu, so the place has been especially busy.”

I’d thought Barbara Barnett had been overreacting when she’d mentioned arranging for private security, but her suggestion now appeared a lot more reasonable. I made a mental note to call her-she’d said she’d take care of it, but the task must have fallen to the bottom of her to-do list. And then I had another thought. “A guy named Grant Crocker was here this afternoon. Did you know that?”

“Yes, we are aware of that. Meanwhile, so were several other people, including yourself, Ms. Benjamin. Listen,” continued O’Connell. “Ms. Grenthaler’s fine now, and she’s resting comfortably. I appreciate your coming by-it saved me a phone call. But the best thing for you to do right now is to go on home. Ms. Michaels is with her, I’ve posted an officer at her door and I’ll have one there until we resolve all this, and I’m about to give the people at the nurses’ station and the folks downstairs a pretty stern lecture about keeping a better eye on who’s coming and going.” He was slowly but firmly ushering us back through the lobby and toward the elevators.

“Can I have your card? In case I think of anything? That’s what they always do on Law & Order,” said Hilary.

“What would you think of?” asked O’Connell, distractedly punching the call button for the elevator.

“Leads. Clues. Stuff like that. And I’d like to interview you for my book. You’re going to be one of the main characters, after all.”

“I’m going to be one of the main characters?” His voice was flat with exhaustion, but I thought I detected an undercurrent of amusement mixed in with his usual politely veiled impatience.

“Yes. I’m a journalist, so I’ve written a lot, but this is my first book. And I’m really looking forward to working with you.” Hilary’s radiant smile flashed again, but O’Connell’s poker face betrayed no discernable impact.

“To working with me?” O’Connell repeated her words. This time the amusement was tangible.

“Sure.”

An elevator announced its arrival with a beep, and the doors parted. A sea of people spilled out, and I recognized them all. Edward and Helene Porter rushed immediately to the nurses’ station, with Barbara Barnett following on their heels. Behind them were Grant Crocker and Jonathan Beasley.

Jonathan gave me a wave and bent down to kiss me on the cheek. Over his shoulder, I saw Hilary and Matthew exchange a look. I was definitely going to be hearing about this later. “I need to talk to Detective O’Connell,” said Jonathan. “Are you going to be around for a while?”

“Um. Just a bit.” I’d been about to leave, but now I wanted to find out why Grant Crocker had shown up. He still had my vote as most likely to be a Creepy Stalker, and Violent, too.

“Well, I’ll call you later, then, if I miss you on the way out.” He caught O’Connell’s eye, and the two of them disappeared around the corner, with Officer Stanley mutely bringing up the rear.

I signaled to Hilary and Matthew that I needed a minute and intercepted Grant Crocker. He was heading toward Sara’s room, but he stopped when I put a hand on his elbow. His black eye looked even worse in the harsh fluorescent light. “What are you doing here?” I asked, managing to keep the hostility I was feeling out of my voice.

“I ran into Professor Beasley in the Square. He was on his way here and told me what happened.” I looked at him carefully, eager to discern anything that would indeed betray him to be the Creepy Violent Stalker, but all I saw was a guy with a serious shiner and what appeared to be serious concern on his face. Although, the ability to dissemble effectively was likely a prerequisite for a Creepy Violent Stalker. “Anyhow, will you excuse me? I want to make sure Sara’s all right.”

I didn’t want to excuse him, but I didn’t have a valid reason to stop him. I doubted he’d be able to get past the policeman outside Sara’s door, anyhow, and if he did, Edie was in there with Sara. If he were the Creepy Violent Stalker, it would be hard to try to kill her again tonight.

The Porters were busily conferring with someone who looked like a doctor (he was wearing a white coat), and Matthew had surreptitiously joined them. Barbara Barnett was standing off to one side, peering at the small screen of her cell phone. Despite their oddly limited mobility (Botox-induced, perhaps), her features had managed to twist themselves into an expression of impatience. She looked up when I approached and gave me a forced smile.

“This is very upsetting,” she said. “Edward and Helene were actually at my house this evening, paying a condolence call, when we heard what happened. I’ve been trying to track Adam down. I asked him to help with security, and he said he’d be able to line someone up for tonight, but we clearly need to get somebody on duty right now.”

“I think it’s been taken care of,” I explained, and told her about the police officer outside Sara’s door. I said goodbye, and she joined the Porters as they headed for Sara’s room. I met Hilary and Matthew back at the elevator. “I think we’re done here,” I said.

“Are you sure?” asked Hilary.

“Not really, but I don’t know what else I can do.” I pressed the call button for the elevator, and this time the doors immediately slid open. The three of us got in, and Matthew pushed the button for the ground floor. The doors had almost slid shut when we heard a voice call, “Wait!”

Matthew fumbled for the door-open button, getting to it at the last possible moment. O’Connell and Officer Stanley rushed into the elevator.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I can’t say,” said O’Connell in the sort of tone that shut off further inquiry, even for Hilary. We were silent as the elevator made its laborious descent, and he was off like a shot as soon as the doors opened, his partner running silently after him.

O ’Connell managed to give Hilary the slip on the way out of UHS, largely because the rest of us were physically restraining her. We offered up a nightcap at Shay’s, one of our favorite college haunts, as a consolation prize.

“Cheer up,” said Jane. “It will give you an opportunity to hit on undergrads.”

“True,” agreed Hilary. “But what if he was rushing off because they’ve found something out about the prostitute killer? Or maybe another body? It would be amazing to see a fresh crime scene. I mean, I trust in my journalistic abilities to paint a vivid scene for the reader, but it would be a lot easier if I were actually there.”

“Yes, but we don’t know if there even is a crime scene, much less where it is,” Emma said. “So come along to Shay’s and have a drink.”

She agreed, but she wasn’t happy about it. “Rachel was right. O’Connell is just my type.”

“You have a type? Just one?” asked Luisa skeptically.

It was now close to eleven on a Friday night, and not surprisingly the place was packed. In warmer months, we would have opted for the front terrace facing JFK Street, but since the snow was still coming down and the wind chill must have been a few hundred degrees below freezing, we pushed our way inside. While Hilary and Luisa negotiated with undergrads for their tables and Jane went to the ladies’ room, the rest of us threaded our way through the crowd to fetch drinks at the bar. As Sean struggled to catch the bartender’s attention, I turned to Matthew. “What exactly did the doctor say?” I had to yell to make myself heard over the cacophony of music and voices.