He walked into the kitchen alcove and gazed around, not entirely sure what he was looking for. The main thing would be some phone numbers and addresses.
He opened the refrigerator and peered in. It was still running and contained two unopened jars of British marmalade and an empty quart jar with traces of orange juice bordered by mold. The freezer compartment was entirely bare.
The two kitchen cabinets above the stove had been similarly emptied. He gave them a cursory look, then came back and followed a hallway to a bathroom in the back.
When he opened the medicine chest above the sink and peered in, he initially thought it was empty, with a pile of wadded‑up Kleenex on the bottom shelf. He was pulling that out when he realized that the tissue had been wadded around an empty prescription drug vial.
Kristen Starr had prescription number 378030. It was for Libinol—whatever that was, probably some kind of screwed‑up diet pill—and it had been filled five months ago. It had been delivered from Grove Pharmacy on Seventh Avenue to here, 217 West Eleventh Street. The address was pasted on a sticker on the back.
Hmmm, he thought. After she left, rather than transferring the prescription, what if they just had subsequent refills delivered to some other address? There's a long shot that Grove Pharmacy might have a new address for the prescription number. Okay, it would be a very long shot, but still . . .
Unless, of course, her new address had been the Dorian Institute. In that case, the prescription would undoubtedly have
been discontinued once she became a patient. He reached for his cell phone to call the drugstore.
Shit, I forgot it! Damn hangover.
He walked back into the living room and stared at Kristen's phone. If it was still working, he could call Grove Pharmacy and—