Twisted (11 page)

He groped for his cordless phone, and answered. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Jeff greeted him.

Derek made a grunting sound. “Aren’t you sick of me yet? We spend more nights together than a married couple.”

“Actually, yeah, I’m very sick of you. So’s my wife. She’s glaring at me as I speak. But Gleason called right before I left. I wanted you to hear this
ASAP
.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“The
NYPD
found another one of Xiao Long’s girls, this time in an abandoned Chinatown tenement just a couple of blocks from the Nom Wo Club. Same MO—she was drugged, raped, throat slit with a combat knife, and one of those python coins left at the scene. Although evidently, this time the sexual assault and the murder were more graphic and more violent. I don’t have all the details. But Gleason’s description wasn’t pretty.”

“How long ago was she killed?”

“That’s the kicker. According to the medical examiner, the time of death was between five and six A.M.—yesterday.”

“Yesterday.”

“Today?”
Derek’s fork struck the table with a thud. He’d assumed the body had been there longer, and had only just been discovered. “We’re talking right after our stakeout.”

“Gleason said she lived near the Nom Wo Club. He figures she was on her way to Xiao Long’s brothel to work around the same time everything went down at the club. Gleason’s guess is she saw the cops and steered clear.”

“Obviously, not clear enough.” Derek’s brows knit. “Either someone in Lo Ma’s gang has a death wish, or whoever did this isn’t one of his. Because no one in his right mind would provoke Xiao Long right after his enforcer was in their face, threatening their lives.”

“My thoughts exactly. I expected Lo Ma’s guys to retaliate by smashing up one of Xiao Long’s gambling parlors. But to blatantly spit in his face by taking out another one of his girls—butchering her, no less—right after the fight at the club? Doubtful.”

“It seems to me we’re back to a third gang trying to start up a war for their own purposes.”

“Gleason said the same thing. His team is already investigating that angle.”

“Are they going to be able to minimize the collateral damage? Or do we have to get involved?”

Jeff sighed. “Not sure. The NYPD’s up to their asses in the murders. We might have to back them up to make sure Xiao Long gets the message before he orders any killings. So I wouldn’t make any hot plans if I were you.”

“Not a problem. The only hot plans I had were a shower and bed. I’ll be on standby all weekend.”

“Yeah; me, too. Which means I’m in the doghouse here.”

A corner of Derek’s mouth lifted. “It’s times like this I’m glad I’m single. Good luck wriggling your way out of the doghouse.”

Hunterdon County, New Jersey

9:40 P.M.

Sloane dropped her bag off at home, then drove directly to the Wagners’ house to relieve Elsa and Burt of their three frolicking charges. She called ahead, although she knew Elsa would be awake for her evening ritual of ten o’clock tea and biscuits.

It took her several minutes, door-to-door, to get to the Wagners’ house, a fact that Sloane always found amusing. The term next-door neighbors was a misnomer in their case. In truth, the two houses were set far back from the road and separated by six wooded acres.

Elsa greeted Sloane at the door, drying her hands on a dish towel. She was a round woman with white hair, black eyes, and a sharp nose who looked a lot like Frosty the Snowman, except when she smiled. Her smile was warm, as was her heart. She’d been a widow for decades, and the strain of running the house alone, not to mention the loneliness, was starting to take its toll. She was aging. She looked weary, the lines around her eyes and mouth more prominent than ever before, her step more unsteady. Which was why having her son around was a blessing, despite Elsa’s sadness over his failed marriage.

Now she beckoned for Sloane to come inside. “You didn’t have to rush over here tonight,” she scolded. “Like I said on the phone, the hounds are playing tug-of-war with Princess Di and Burt in the rec room. You could have gotten a good night’s sleep and dropped by in the morning.”

“I know, but I missed my little troublemakers,” Sloane replied, stepping inside with a rueful grin. “And as long as you were still awake…”

“I was making our tea. Now you can join us.” She gave a little shiver as a blast of night air whisked through the front hall. Hastily, she shut the door, rubbing warmth back into her arms. “Brrr. I’m getting old. The calendar says it’s spring. But to me, it’s still winter.”

“Age has nothing to do with it,” Sloane assured her, wincing as she pulled off her gloves. “My hand is killing me. If March plans to go out like a lamb, it better hurry up and do a one-eighty.”

At that moment, an outbreak of barking erupted from the rear of the house, followed by the skidding and scuffing of padded paws as the dogs raced across hardwood floors.

“I think your trio knows you’re here,” Elsa said with a chuckle. “You say your hellos. I’ll get the tea and biscuits ready—for us,
and
for the dogs. They get special treats, too. My ten o’clock ritual has become quite the event.” On that note, she headed off to the kitchen.

An instant later, Moe, Larry, and Curly hurled themselves into the room, tripping and shoving one another in an attempt to be the first to reach Sloane. She squatted down in time for the onslaught, starting with a group hug, then giving each one special attention. Her face was licked so many times that the chill in her cheeks dissipated.

“Hey, guys, I missed you, too—so much,” she told them fervently.

Moe yipped a protest.

Sloane recognized the tone and stroked Moe’s silky head. “I keep telling you
guys
is a generic term,” she murmured. “It’s a loving reference that’s not gender specific.” She kissed the top of Mona’s head. “So it includes gals. I promise. You know I adore you all equally. You’re just better at slathering on the guilt.”

“She’s female. What did you expect?” Burt strolled out, Princess Di in his arms. “By the way, no need to worry about Moe’s ego. She and Di have won the last three rounds of tug-of-war. Larry and Curly are starting to feel the pressure.”

Sloane laughed. “What can I say? Women have killer instincts when it comes to competition.”

“Right.” Burt fell silent, his lids hooded as he watched Sloane romping on the floor with her dogs.

She took no offense. Burt was a moody guy—friendly one minute, quiet the next. The divorce had hit him hard, which probably explained the way he tensed up around Sloane. Actually, around all women, Elsa had once confided. It seemed that Burt’s wife had been carrying on with another man. Burt had walked in on them in his house, his bed. And it had all unraveled from there.

The divorce had been ugly, and Burt had walked away with the Classic Pages—the literary bookstore he owned and ran, the cabin in the Catskills he lived in, and a very bitter taste in his mouth.

He was a nice-looking guy in his early forties—lean, with short brown hair, scholarly features, and probing dark eyes. These days, he spent most of his time at his bookstore or here at his mother’s. Partly to help her out. Partly because they each filled a void for the other.

“I think Di is jealous,” he remarked now as the frisky Pomeranian struggled out of his arms and ran over to join in the lovefest.

“No reason for that. Let’s fix it.” Sloane leaned forward, scratching Princess Di’s ears and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Thank you for sharing your home with Moe, Larry, and Curly,” she told Di. “You’re a beautiful, gracious hostess.”

“And an active one,” Burt added. “Believe me, she more than keeps up with your three.”

“That’s quite a feat.”

Elsa poked her head out of the kitchen. “Our tea is ready,” she announced. “Everyone join me in the kitchen.”

The cherrywood kitchen was warm and inviting. The table was set up for a formal tea, complete with china, a silver tea service, and a perfectly arranged tray of shortbread cookies. On the floor beside the table was the canine corner—four water bowls, and a chinette plate with four biscuits on it.

“This looks lovely, Elsa,” Sloane told her. “A real treat after the week I’ve had.” She cocked her head in the direction of the drumming paws. “Assuming we’ll have peace to enjoy it.”

“They’re usually polite,” Elsa said, supervising as the four dogs sprinted in and went straight for the biscuit plate. “One each,” she reminded them. “If you share, you each get seconds.”

Sure enough, each dog snatched up a biscuit, then went to a separate spot to chomp on it.

Sloane blinked. “Could you teach me how to do that? Clearly, I’m lacking something in the etiquette training area.”

Elsa smiled. “They’re just like children. Better behaved at someone else’s house, and far more enthusiastic about the snacks they’re offered. When Burt was in grade school, he always came home telling me about the great snacks he’d had at his friends’ houses. I’d call their mothers to find out what these amazing new treats were, only to learn we already had them. Then the other mother would inevitably rave about how well behaved Burt was, how neat and polite. I wondered if it was the same boy who scribbled on the walls with black crayon and chased down squirrels on our property—”

“Mother, I think you’ve made your point,” Burt interrupted. “Sloane doesn’t need a biography of my childhood.”

“Of course, dear.” Elsa gave him an apologetic look. “Let’s enjoy our tea while the pups are busy.”

They all sat down, and Elsa poured the tea and passed around the shortbread. “Tell us all about your trip,” she urged Sloane as they ate. “Was it successful?”

“Yes,” Sloane replied. “Exhausting, but successful.”

Elsa gave a slight shudder. “The world has become such a frightening place. It’s no wonder companies have to protect themselves against workplace violence.”

“Is that what your seminar was about?” Burt asked, looking mildly surprised. “I thought you trained people in crisis management.”

“I do. That includes companies as well. Your mother’s right. The pressures of today’s world have resulted in an increase in workplace violence. Employees need to be prepared to deal with the possibility.”

“Right.” Burt digested that. “How can you spot a potential loose cannon? Are there signs?”

“Usually, yes. Emotional withdrawal, mood swings, uncharacteristic tension, displays of temper. The tricky part is for the right people to pick up on those signs, and their severity, before it’s too late.” Sloane set down her cup. “Those closest to the subject often don’t recognize how serious the situation is until it’s too late. On the flip side, casual acquaintances—which, unfortunately, usually include coworkers—don’t know the subject well enough to spot the telltale signs.”

“So the psychos go undetected.”

“Frequently, yes. But
psychos
is a pretty extreme term. Not everyone who takes hostages falls into that category. Every human being has a breaking point. The challenge is to realize when someone has reached his or hers—before it’s too late.”

“That’s a charitable assessment.” Burt rose to give the dogs their seconds.

“Just an objective one,” Sloane returned factually. “That’s not to say that subjects who take hostages are stable. They’re not. But the point is moot. Full psychological evaluations are done by the experts—
after
the crisis is over. While it’s ongoing, assessing the subject’s mental health is essential only as it pertains to ending the crisis quickly and nonviolently.”

“And how do you manage that? If a guy is barricaded in his office with hostages and a weapon, how do you talk him out?”

“By listening and tailoring my responses to what I hear. The subject has emotions, frustrations, and usually demands he wants to express. My job is to listen, and to establish a line of communication.”

“How?” Elsa asked, turning up her palms in puzzlement. “If you tell him you understand what he’s done, won’t he realize you’re just humoring him?”

“That’s why I don’t. Rather than emotional support, I offer emotional observation. I don’t say, ‘I understand’; I say, ‘You sound frustrated.’ It conveys my awareness that he’s going through something, without saying that the way he’s chosen to display it is okay. It’s called emotional labeling. It’s one of what the FBI’s Crisis Negotiation Unit refers to as ‘active listening skills.’ I learned it when I trained.”

“And you teach that to laypeople?” Burt inquired.

“Both in theory and in practice,” Sloane confirmed. “It’s like a lab course. There are classroom lectures and simulated barricades. It’s a total process. When I finish up and head home, I’m confident that my clients are educated in how to react to a workplace hostage situation—both before the authorities arrive and after, should their assistance be required. They’ll do what they can to control the situation, and when the pros do arrive, they’ll work with them to achieve a happy ending.”

“All that sounds so impressive.” Elsa’s sincerity was evident. But so was her exhaustion. Her lids had begun drooping as Sloane finished up her explanation, and now her voice had grown weaker. She looked and sounded as if she were fading.

It was late. And, despite her best intentions, Elsa was tired.

Sloane feigned a yawn. “The Bureau trained me well. Even so, intensive seminars like these take their toll. I’m wiped.”

A faint, knowing smile touched Elsa’s lips. “I doubt that.”

“Don’t. Between working round the clock since yesterday at dawn, and two shuttle flights, I’m not only beat, I’m dying for a hot shower.” Sloane hoped she sounded convincing.

As it turned out, Curly came to her rescue.

Having polished off his second biscuit, he scrambled over, gripped her pant leg tightly between his teeth, and began tugging with all his might.

The perfect out.

“I think I’m being summoned,” Sloane noted, freeing her pant leg and standing up. “The doggy treats are gone, along with their patience. I’ll clear the table and do the dishes. After that, I’d better take these three home.”

“Nonsense.” Elsa rose, waving away Sloane’s offer. “It’ll take me ten minutes to finish up in the kitchen. You go collect the hounds’ things. They’re in the rec room.”