Regan sighed. “Cal, where on the Upper East Side was the bar?”

“Up in the Eighties off of Second Avenue.”

“Could you get me the exact address?”

“I’ll find out for you right away.”

Regan glanced again at the pictures of the hideously scarred arms. “We’ve got to find Georgina. If her grandmother worked on the Upper East Side, she might have gone back up there tonight. Let’s get going. I’ll call the police in Atlanta from the car.”

“I’m coming with you,” Melanie cried. “I don’t care what Dexter says. He was too much of a wimp to come up here with us. If I lose my job, so be it. Those pictures are awful! I want to help you find Georgina before she brands anyone else. Kit knows what she looks like but she’s on crutches. I can run in and out of bars and spot her easier than you can from just a picture. Especially since the bars are so dark tonight.”

Regan looked at the young girl with affection. She remembered the way she felt when she was Melanie’s age and started to work on cases, fueled by a desire for justice. “It’s fine with me, Melanie. But I’d hate for you to get fired.”

Melanie threw her arms in the air. “If I can’t risk my job at this age doing what I think is the right thing, then when can I? Besides, how would it look for my company if after hiring a nutcase like Georgina, they fire me for wanting to help find her?”

“Good point, Melanie. Now let’s get going.”

23

W ally and Arthur were speeding across the George Washington Bridge in glum silence. Pointing to the darkened Manhattan skyline, Wally marveled, “That’s something isn’t it?”

“You don’t have to point it out to me,” Arthur growled. “Are you forgetting I was already there tonight?”

“No. Sorry. It’s just weird that the only lights are coming from the cars on the road.” He glanced down at his lighted dashboard, and his heart skipped a beat. There was one light there that he hadn’t noticed when they got into the car. The warning light on the gas gauge. They were running on empty. The last couple times he’d taken the car on a quick errand, he’d noticed that he needed gas. But both times there had been a line of at least two cars at the local gas station, so he put off filling the tank.

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

Please God, he thought. Just let us get to Tribeca. I’ll leave the car on the street and walk home if I have to. He slowed down to preserve whatever fuel was left.

“What are you doing?” Arthur snapped. “We’re not out for a Sunday drive.”

“I don’t want to get a ticket,” Wally mumbled as he took the exit that led them to the West Side Highway. “The last thing we need to do is attract attention.” He kept his foot on the accelerator as lightly as he could while still maintaining a steady rate of speed. It couldn’t be more than five miles, he told himself as he gripped the steering wheel tightly. Come on, baby. We’ve been together through thick and thin. Just get me there, and I promise I’ll never do this to you again.