Twisted (17 page)

“Did the police save the
CCTV
footage from a year ago?” Sloane asked.

“That’s one of the things we’ll be finding out. I think we should all attend this meeting so we know precisely what we’re dealing with. After that, we can split up and do our respective things.”

“Yeah, ours is going to be a lot of schmoozing with the powers that be,” Tom noted. “The president of the college isn’t going to like our marching in and causing negative publicity for the school.”

“True. On the other hand, he wouldn’t want to be uncooperative when it comes to solving a potentially violent crime.” Derek’s tone said he was ready for the administration’s reticence, and would do what was necessary to eradicate it. “We’ll make sure that he and the campus police get lots of positive press for their efforts. It’ll be fine.”

He turned to Sloane. “During this morning’s meeting, we’ll find out which apartments, dorms, and lecture halls have a view of the section of Lake Fred where Penelope disappeared. Then we’ll arrange to get printouts of the rosters you mentioned the other day—the tenants who lived in those apartments, the kids who lived in those dorms, and the students and staff who had classes in those lecture halls. You can get started interviewing whoever’s still here a year later. We’ll start searching for the ones who’ve gone elsewhere.”

“Great.” Sloane was pleasantly surprised by how much thought Derek had given this. “I’m also going to take a stroll around the lake right after our meeting. That’s the time Penny disappeared. I’ll talk to the students, the Frisbee players, the joggers—whoever usually hangs out around Lake Fred late morning, early afternoon. Maybe some of the regulars were also regulars last year. If so, I might be able to dig up a clue.”

“Good idea.” Derek nodded. “So let’s head over to the main building and hear what the campus police have to contribute to this investigation.”

As they trudged off, Sloane automatically flipped her cell phone back on to check her messages.

Three missed calls. All
restricted
. She doubted they were from clients. Clients left messages.

Frowning, Sloane made a mental note for later today—to pull those strings she’d been considering.

She was about to turn off the phone, when it rang. She glanced at the display, knowing full well what it would say:
restricted caller
. Big surprise.

“Do you need to get that?” Derek asked, watching her expression as the phone continued to ring.

“Nope. Not necessary.” Sloane turned off the cell, flipped it closed, and stuck it in her purse. “I know what it’s about. I’ll deal with it later.”

DATE:
1 April

TIME:
1230 hours

I was elated with the breakthrough Hera had made with Athena. I served her lunch, inviting her to sit on her throne while she ate. Then I presented her with her surprises—a big bowl of fresh fruit, and a copy of today’s newspaper. The latter was a first. It was a sign of my trust, the greatest reward I could give her.

She’d earned it.

Richard Stockton College

4:20 P.M.

The wind had picked up, and there was a cold rain falling in a steady stream as Sloane trudged back to her car. So much for the spring weather. The sun and fair skies had deteriorated as the day progressed.

The day itself had been long and intense. First the meeting with the campus police. Then hours stationed at Lake Fred questioning anyone and everyone—until the rain had sent them all scurrying inside. Last, interviewing faculty members and students. A few tentative leads. Nothing rock solid—yet.

All that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Derek and Tom had slashed their way through academic red tape. With just the right choice of words, they’d convinced the college president that it would be in his best interest to cooperate—and to exert influence on the campus police to do everything the
FBI
asked
ASAP
. Records and
CCTV
footage would be retrieved and produced swiftly. Flyers with pictures of Penny would be posted all over campus, and an e-mail blast would go out asking all those who were residents of housing overlooking Lake Fred last April to contact the campus police or the
FBI
. Ditto for those who’d attended classes in key lecture halls overlooking Lake Fred.

Sloane wasn’t discouraged. She’d known this was going to be a tedious process. But she wasn’t going away. Come hell or high water, she was going to find out what had happened to Penny.

She couldn’t wait to get into her car and put on the heat. Not so much for the chill in her body, but for the throbbing in her hand. This kind of weather was the absolute worst for her injury.

That wasn’t in the cards. Lady Luck had another surprise in store for her. The minute Sloane reached the parking lot, she saw that her car was leaning heavily to the right. A flat. She could spot it from yards away. The right front tire looked like a pancake.

Great. Just what she needed to complete her day.

She squatted beside the car to take a look. It took three seconds to zero in on the nail that had punctured her tire.

Okay, she thought, tossing her briefcase and purse into the car, then rising and going to the trunk to get the tools she needed. So much for her Tahari suit. Now it would be waterlogged, filthy,
and
torn.

Ruining her clothes turned out to be the least of her problems. She’d forgotten that it had been several years since she’d changed a flat. Which meant that the last time had predated her injury.

Jacking up the car wouldn’t be too bad. She’d bought one of those hydraulic floor jacks. But removing the tire was hell. Thanks to the chill of winter, the lug nuts weren’t cooperating. The second one was tight—very tight. Twisting it took all Sloane’s strength, and dug the wrench into her palm. And the third one was frozen solid, and wasn’t budging. After ten minutes of battling it, Sloane was sweating and tears had filled her eyes from the intensity of the pain. Her scar tissue was throbbing, her index finger was numb, and the nerve pain in her hand was shooting all the way up her arm.

Swearing, she threw down the wrench and flipped open her phone. It was either call a gas station or flag down some students—who were nowhere to be found, thanks to the rain. And Derek and Tom were still in a meeting, so she wasn’t about to interrupt them.

So a gas station it was.

She punched on the phone—and was greeted by the fact that she had eleven missed calls, all from a restricted caller.

She was still staring at the missed-call messages and fuming over the fact that she’d received them, when she got that feeling again—like someone was watching her. She raised her head slowly and looked around, pretending to scan the area for someone who could potentially assist her with the flat.

There was no one in plain sight. That meant nothing, since whoever was out there didn’t want to be seen. But he was there. She could sense it.

It was the where and the why that was irking her.

At that precise moment, her cell phone rang again, flashing the
restricted call
in the caller-ID screen.

Livid about this invasion of her personal space, Sloane refused to give in to the jerk responsible. No way would she give him the satisfaction of answering his call, or appearing to be panicked by the realization that she was being harassed. In fact, she’d act as if his call, and its significance, hadn’t even registered in her mind.

To that end, she made a loud exasperated sound and turned off her phone, flipping it closed as if opting to ignore any incoming calls in lieu of getting help to fix her car. She’d psych Mr. Restricted out by denying him the very reaction he sought.

Despite her bravado, Sloane wasn’t a fool. She knew that her caller was more than just an obnoxious telephone harasser. Whoever he was, his actions were personal. He was, at the very least, watching her and trying to scare her with his nonstop phone calls. At worst, he was someone with a personal vendetta, and was acting out, maybe even going so far as to shove a nail in her tire to cause her flat.

The good news was that, just like the other morning in her backyard, he wasn’t coming after her. It was the same scenario. He’d had ample time and opportunity. She was alone, the parking lot was deserted, and the area was thickly wooded. Yet he hadn’t assaulted her.

No, this was a head game—for the time being. But she had no intention of letting it continue. Whoever this son of a bitch was, she’d find out—today—and get a new cell-phone number in the process.

The hell with the gas station. She wasn’t calling them while dodging this wack job. She’d take a walk in the rain and find a blue light phone to call campus security. They’d help change her tire. Then she’d get out of here, get in touch with the right someones, and initiate a trace on her mystery pest.

She threw her tools into the trunk of her car and locked it. What a fine way to end the day. She looked and felt like a drowned rat, her car was out of commission, her hand and arm were throbbing like hell, and she was being stalked by some weirdo. It couldn’t get much worse.

Evidently, she was wrong.

She turned back toward campus, intending to hunt down a campus phone—and promptly collided with Derek.

“Car trouble?” he asked, his eyes twinkling as icy sheets of rain streamed through his dark hair.

Leave it to Derek to be unbothered by getting drenched.

“I have a flat,” Sloane informed him. “There’s a nail in my tire. And I can’t get the damned lug nuts to give.”

“Outdone by a couple of lug nuts? That doesn’t sound like you. The Sloane I knew would have bludgeoned those lug nuts off the tire and flung them onto the ground, where they’d be begging for mercy.”

“That was then. This is now. Things change. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some help.” Sloane dragged her left sleeve across her face to wipe away the rain so she could see. Then she sidestepped Derek and started to walk away.

“Wait a minute.” He grabbed her right arm to stop her. “I’ll help you change the—” He broke off as Sloane emitted a stifled whimper. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, gritting her teeth as a jolt of pain shot through her arm. She flexed her fingers and winced as the pain radiated down, slicing through her finger and palm.

“I’m fine,” she managed. “I just need to get the damned flat fixed.”

“No, you’re not fine.” Derek saw her wince again, his gaze shifting to the arm he was still gripping. Abruptly, he realized what was going on, and released his hold. Instead, he caught her wrist and drew it toward him, turning her hand palm up.

Sloane bit back a moan of pain.

“Your whole palm is inflamed,” Derek announced, frowning. “What the hell did you do, wrestle with the lug-nut wrench for a half hour?”

“I didn’t time myself.” Sloane tried to tug her hand away, but Derek wasn’t complying. He stared at her injury, seeing it—really seeing it—for the first time.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, scrutinizing the sharp incision lines and patches of scar tissue, now swollen and red from Sloane’s battle with the wrench. “Your hand’s like a battlefield.”

Something inside Sloane went very cold. “Give the man a cigar. He finally gets it.”

For a long moment, Derek said nothing. He just stared at her hand. When he raised his head, his midnight gaze reflected some ambiguous emotion that Sloane couldn’t quite place.

“You and I need to talk,” he stated flatly. “I’m driving you over to the student health center so you can get whatever first aid you need for your hand. While you’re there, I’ll come back here and change your tire. Then we’re getting out of here. You’ll follow me in your car. We’ll drive to my glamorous Best Western. We don’t have to go inside. We can sit in the car. Or walk around the parking lot with an umbrella. I don’t give a damn. But we’re having a conversation—a real one. Alone and without interruptions.”

Sloane didn’t even blink. “With all due respect, it’s a little late for that. Thirteen months too late. Plus, I’m not in the mood. I’m in horrible pain. I’m freezing cold. I’m wet and dirty. I’ve got three pissed-off dachshunds waiting for me to pick them up, and an exhausted, elderly woman taking care of them when she should be taking care of herself. Oh, and I’ve got a few favors to call in so I can get my hands on cell-phone records and figure out who’s been screwing with me via heavy-breathing hang-ups and following me around. So how about if you just drop me off at the health center and change my flat. Then you can take off, and we can skip the conversation.”

“Wait.” Derek held up his palm. “Go back to that part about the hang-ups and the stalker.”

“I don’t know if he’s a stalker. Maybe he just wants a date. If so, I’ll either say yes or get a new cell-phone number, depending on how hot he is.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Neither am I. But I
am
perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“And
I’m
capable of pulling the strings you need to bypass the red tape of initiating a call trace. You’ll have your caller’s info and a call block
ASAP
.”

Sloane inhaled slowly. “If you can make that happen, I’ll owe you one. In the meantime, I’ve got to take care of my car and my hand.”

“Like I said, I’ll help you with both.”

“I appreciate that. But just so we’re clear, the payment for all this help you’re offering doesn’t include a heart-to-heart.”

“Wrong. You said you owed me one, remember?”

“I remember. And I meant it—with one stipulation. No personal conversation. I’m not interested in reliving our good-byes—or lack thereof.”

“Sorry, that stipulation doesn’t work for me.”

“Why not?” Bitterness laced Sloane’s tone. “You suddenly need to talk things out? The silence worked fine for you for thirteen months.”

“Oh, you mean since you quit the Bureau, cut me out of your life, and walked away?”

“
Walked away?
” Sloane felt her restraint snap. After the past half hour, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. “How could I
walk
when I was
shoved
? The minute I didn’t handle things the way
you
would have, you wrote me off.” She broke off, fought for control, and then gave it up.