AUGUST 1972
Jack gave Gifford the photo and the kids’ descriptions of Natalie No-Last-Name and sent him down to Poughkeepsie to find out what he could with the new information.
“Finally,” George said. “My mom always hoped I’d go to college.”
“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong equipment for Vassar.” Jack signed the petty cash receipt and handed the money to the sergeant. “Don’t try to get back tonight. Just phone in if you turn over anything. And bring back your receipts.” He handed the cash box to the secretary.
George winked. “I might need someone to take notes. You interested in a trip downstate, Harlene?”
She turned as red as a prize tomato, but after a moment, she managed to get out, “Not with you, George Gifford!”
Jack grinned. “Thatta girl!” Harlene spun around and headed to her office, keeping her speed down just enough to qualify as a walk instead of a retreat.
George spoke quietly. “If I get the names of her parents, do you want me to notify them?”
Jack shook his head. “Thanks, but that’s my job. Speaking of which”—he glanced at his watch—“I need to get over to the bus station.”
He was in luck. One of the two ticket agents at the Glens Falls bus station had been working last Friday. Jack slid the Polaroid Fran had given him across the white laminate counter and through an arch in the Plexiglas window.
The agent studied it. “Maybe?”
“She got dropped off here around three thirty. She might have gone next door to get something to eat.”
“I may have seen her in the waiting room. I can tell you I didn’t sell a ticket to anyone who looked like that.”
“How busy was it?”
“Friday afternoon in August? Busy. The four thirty-six from New York City is always full of husbands joining their families for the weekend. You can’t walk through the parking lot for the station wagons picking folks up.”
“That’s the one that continues north to Plattsburgh, right?”
“That’s right. In at four thirty-six, leaves at four forty-four.”
Jack took that to be bus speak for sixteen before five. “What if she was headed south? Say, to the city?”
The agent jerked a thumb toward two large black-and-white posters hanging next to a soda machine. Jack could see long lists of stops and times in ordered columns. “Southbound arrives six A.M., two thirty in the afternoon, and eight at night. If your girl was here at four, she was either planning on going north, or she was waiting for the bus from New York.” He slid the Polaroid through the opening as if he were returning change.
“Was there another agent here? One who might have sold her a ticket?”
“Sure. Scottie Kilmer. He’s off today and tomorrow.”
“Can you get me his address and phone number?”
“Give me a sec, and it’s yours.”
While the agent was in the back office, Jack thought about the timing. Arriving at three thirty sounded just right for someone traveling north—enough time to grab a burger at the lunch counter next door and make the bus with plenty to spare. But why north? Most of the stops between Albany and Montreal were small towns that flourished during ski or swim season. Maybe her people were summer visitors? But if that were so, why didn’t she get on that bus?
“Here you go.” The agent slid Jack a piece of paper with an address and number jotted on it. “If you can’t reach him at home, he’ll be in Wednesday at one P.M.”
“Thanks.” Jack walked out of the station and went to the lunch counter next door.
“Sorry, Officer, but Friday afternoon’s not my shift,” the waitress said. He collected another name and address, along with the information that, just like at the station next door, it was always busy on Friday for them. “Since D and H cut off the train service last year, everybody comes up from New York by bus. Tough for Fort Henry, but it’s great for us.”
Maybe Natalie was meeting someone from New York? Of course, there were a lot of stops between there and Glens Falls, but Vassar College, going to Florida on spring break—it all indicated a girl whose family had money, and in this day and age, that meant downstate.
The heat was shimmering off the sidewalk as he made his way back to his vehicle. Her family may have money, but Natalie didn’t. Her share of the communal funds might have stretched to a burger and a bus ticket, but not much further. So she needed cash. Or someone to bail her out. Which might be the reason she was waiting at the bus station for the Friday coach from New York.
He unlocked his car door, and the heat from inside felt like a solid wall. He went around and opened the partner door to let some air flow through, and suddenly had an image of Margy Van Alstyne doing the same thing. Here in Glens Falls. When had that been?
He shook his head. He needed to go back to the commune, find out if Natalie had made a call or used a pay phone in the days before she left. He could also check the Western Union office in town, though he didn’t expect that to pan out. It was a long walk from the bus station; if she had been waiting for a wire, she would have had Isaac drop her off there.
The temperature inside the car dropped from blast furnace to uncomfortable. He got behind the wheel and pulled out of the parking lot. At the red light, a trio of girls crossed the street in front of him, all long tan legs and long silky hair. The sense of how little he knew, and how fast time was passing, dug into his chest with hot fingers. He’d gotten this far on guesses and gut feelings, but sooner or later, his luck would run out. Before that, he needed something solid to build the investigation on.