Rutledge looked up the block and saw a police car coming, so he ducked under the steps to the upstairs residence until it had passed. On the other side of the steps was a garage door that, apparently, belonged to the house. He stepped back to the sidewalk and looked at the first-floor windows. Lights were on somewhere to the rear of the house, but he saw no sign of life. A light burned over the front door.

Turtle Bay, he knew, had a common garden, surrounded on two sides by rows of houses. The Second Avenue side was made up of a row of shops, and the Third Avenue side was taken up by an office building.

Rutledge walked around the block until he stood at a point even with the rear of Barrington’s house. Some of these common gardens had an entrance opening to the street, and he walked down the block slowly, looking for one. He found a heavy, wrought-iron gate and could see a corner of the gardens through that, but it was locked, and he knew nothing about picking locks. He walked down to Second Avenue, then up Barrington’s street again. He was going to have to catch him entering or leaving his house, but he had no way of knowing when that might be.

He finally gave up and went down to Second Avenue to find someplace to eat.

Peter found the emergency room entrance to the hospital and went inside. The waiting area was packed with people waiting for treatment, many of them wet. He went to the admitting desk, and a woman in scrubs looked up from her desk. “May I help you?”

“Yes, please. I’m looking for a young woman who was brought in by ambulance.”

“Name?”

“Springer.”

The woman consulted her computer screen. “I’m sorry, we don’t have a patient named Springer.”

“Try Patrick.”

The woman looked at him oddly. “She has two names?”

“She might have used either.”

The woman checked her computer again. “First name?”

“Hattie.”

“Yes, she came in about two hours ago and is being seen by a doctor.”

“May I see her?”

“Not until she’s admitted,” the woman replied.

“Will she be admitted? Will she have to stay overnight?”

“I won’t know that until the doctor who is seeing her makes his report on her condition.”

“May I visit her before she’s admitted?”

“You’ll have to wait until I get her chart back and see if there’s an admitting order. Have a seat, and I’ll call you. What’s your name?”

“Peter,” he said.

“Last name?”

“Just Peter.” He went and found an empty seat, one that allowed him to look down a hallway. He had been there for five minutes when a large double door opened, and two ambulance drivers wheeled in a patient on a gurney, pushing it down the hallway and taking a right turn.