He returned the handset to its cradle. “Amend that to really fucking creepy. That was the mayor’s deputy chief of staff. Apparently, they want to be certain that we give the Harts our closest attention.”

They were on their way to the front of the squad room when Dan Eckels popped his head out of his office. “A word with you two?” he said, waving them over.

“The vic’s parents are up front, sir.”

“I just got a call from the assistant chief. The Harts have already been in contact with the mayor’s office.”

“We know, sir. We don’t want to leave them waiting.”

“Right. You’re taking them to interview three?”

“Assuming it’s empty,” Ellie said, still following Rogan.

“I’ll sit in.”

“Of course. Whatever you want.”

PAUL HART HAD thinning brown hair, ruddy skin, and an extra twenty pounds on his large frame. He wore a light blue crewneck sweater over a collared shirt and navy blue dress slacks. His wife Miriam wore a long black jersey dress that could have been selected either for mourning or simply as a wrinkle-free travel outfit. She had chin-length light gray hair that had probably once been blond, and she seemed unconcerned with her red, puffy eyes or makeup-free face.

They were probably just hitting fifty, married more than twenty years, and walked into interview room 3 holding hands. Even on the most difficult day of their lives together, the Harts carried themselves like good people.

Rogan took care of the introductions and gestured for the couple to be seated next to each other. He took the chair on the other side of the table. Ellie and Eckels stood against the window of the interview room, creating the impression of more privacy.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Rogan said. “We weren’t expecting you until later tonight.”

“We made some calls on the way to the airport,” Miriam said. “A friend is a friend of a friend of the CEO of Centennial Wireless. They had a private jet waiting for us at the Fort Wayne Airport.”

“The people close to us are doing everything they can.” Paul gave his wife’s hand a squeeze. “We’re at least fortunate in that respect.”

Were Ellie in their position, she did not think she would be able to find anything to be thankful for. She was constantly amazed by the variation in human responses to misfortune.

“It’s as if we had this entire network of people working the phones for us while we were coming to terms with all this on the plane,” Miriam continued in businesslike fashion. “It turned out that Paul’s brother-in-law was fraternity brothers with someone in your mayor’s office. He made some calls, and now we’re supposed to speak this afternoon with some volunteers with the Polly Klaas Foundation-you know, just to help us navigate the system and figure out what we need to do.”

“They’re an excellent organization,” Ellie said, wondering if her words sounded as hollow as they felt.

“You just let us know how we can assist,” Eckels said.

“You can assist,” Paul said firmly, “by finding the person who murdered our daughter.”

Ellie intervened before Eckels unwittingly offended the Harts further. “We’re doing everything we can on the investigative front. The crime scene unit and the medical examiner’s office have collected some physical evidence that might prove very important. We obtained detailed statements this morning from your daughter’s friends. They were extremely helpful. Thanks to Stefanie and Jordan, we have a thorough timeline of their activities yesterday and are following up on every lead.”

“Are the girls here?” Paul asked.

“They just left a few minutes ago,” Rogan said. “They worked with a sketch artist for a couple of hours-”

“You have a suspect?” Miriam interrupted, sitting up straighter.

Rogan shook his head. “It’s too early to say. Just a man Chelsea was talking to at the club last night. But the sketch artist wants to work with the girls again tomorrow, so we had a victim’s advocate take them back to the hotel.”

“We’re going to need them to stick around in New York for the time being,” Ellie said. “Once we have a suspect, it’s essential that we get a prompt identification.”

Miriam nodded. “I’ll call their parents and the university this afternoon and make sure they know it’s important that the girls stay here. We’ll be here, too. However long it takes. Those poor girls,” Miriam said, her voice breaking. “I promised their parents I’d make sure they were holding up.”

“They’re strong girls,” Rogan said. “They’re hanging in there.”

“I do think they’re putting some of the blame on themselves,” Ellie added.

“They shouldn’t. Do you know how many times I caught Chelsea breaking curfew, just to learn that Stefanie had been there trying to get her to come home?”

“Our daughter wasn’t perfect, but she was a remarkable girl,” Paul said.

That single sentence was enough to fully break Miriam’s composure. Her shoulders began to shake, and she choked back a sob. “She was unique and wonderful and remarkable in every way. But she did what she wanted, Paul. I was trying to say it wasn’t Stefanie or Jordan’s fault. They didn’t do this.”

“Shh.” Paul placed an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “What do we need to do next?” he asked quietly.

“Unfortunately, I think you need to prepare yourselves for significant media attention. Reporters are going to call you for quotes, for photographs, for old yearbooks. Your daughter’s MySpace profile will have thousands of hits before the end of the day.”

“The Polly Klaas people mentioned that, too,” Paul said, “right off the bat. They’re going to contact the company on our behalf to remove her profile.”

“Good,” Ellie said. “They can help you juggle the media requests as well. You’re also free to refer anyone you want to the NYPD’s public information office.”

“What else?” Paul asked.

Rogan cleared his throat. “When you’re ready, we’re going to need you to make an official identification of your daughter’s body.”

Miriam let out another sob, but Paul nodded stoically. “We’re ready. I’ll do it,” he said to his wife. “You won’t need to see.”

“I can take you to the medical examiner’s office,” Eckels offered, “while Detectives Rogan and Hatcher continue the investigation.”

The Harts muttered their thanks as they rose from their seats. As Miriam Hart passed Ellie, she turned and looked at her directly with puffy, bloodshot, pleading eyes. “Chelsea wasn’t just a drunk girl at a club last night. She was my baby.”

“I know,” Ellie said, returning the eye contact. “She loved Wuthering Heights and that bulldog of hers. She lit up a stage and could run like the wind. And she was good to her friends. She was the glue that held them together, and she could make them laugh through anything.”

A tear fell down Miriam’s cheek, and she mouthed a silent “Thank you.”