Twisted (3 page)

“Which field office handled the case—New York or Newark?”

“New York, although they worked closely with Newark. It didn’t matter. Neither turned up anything. Either the woman they thought was Penny never arrived in Atlantic City or there were no witnesses who remembered seeing her.”

“What about a credit-card receipt for the ticket?”

“Another dead end. Whoever bought that ticket paid cash.”

Sloane’s brow furrowed. “This doesn’t sit right. I realize Penny and I hadn’t been in touch in ages, but she wanted to write for a fashion magazine since we were eleven. Plus, she was always conscientious. Unless she made a complete one-eighty—”

“She didn’t.”

“Then didn’t the fact that she missed work for two days without so much as a phone call raise any red flags at
Harper’s Bazaar
?”

“Yes…and no.” Hope took a shaky sip of tea. “It seems Penny was going through a rough patch at work. Something about being passed over for a promotion. It was a rocky time for her. Not just professionally, but personally. According to Penny’s assistant, Rosalinda, Penny had been seeing someone and the relationship had just broken up. So when Penny didn’t come in, Rosalinda covered for her. She told everyone at the magazine that Penny was working at home. When the
FBI
questioned her, she admitted that Penny had left the office the previous day in tears, saying something about what a mess her life was and how she was ready to pack it in.”

“At that point, did Penny get in touch with you?” Sloane asked carefully.

“No, not that day. We spoke about a week earlier.” Hope Truman cleared her throat. “If you’re asking if we were close, I’d say we were—as a mother and daughter. We weren’t girlfriends. She was a private person. She didn’t confide in me about her personal life. So if she went through a breakup, she didn’t mention it. But splitting up with a boyfriend can hardly be compared to dropping off the face of the earth. If Penny had planned on doing that, she would never have done so without a word to her father and me. Nor would she have done so without taking her personal belongings or making final arrangements with her landlord, her bank, and her utility companies. Plus, none of her credit cards has been used since her disappearance.”

“What was the FBI’s theory on all that?”

“That the combination of personal issues in her life might have overwhelmed her. That she might have become depressed. And that severe depression sometimes causes people to behave in ways that are inconsistent with their personalities.”

Sloane hid her skepticism. Translated, the investigators were saying that Penny either lost it and ran off to start a new life, severing all ties with her old one, or she committed suicide. Well, suicide would have produced a body and probably a note. And fleeing to start over? That theory was extreme. Especially since a year had passed. By now, Penny would have contacted her family, let them know she was okay.

None of that reasoning cheered Sloane up. Because the alternatives were far more gruesome.

“I know all the terrifying thoughts that are going through your mind right now,” Hope said. “I’ve agonized over every one of them for almost a year. None of this fits. But I have nowhere to turn. I check in with the
FBI
periodically. The agent at the New York field office who’s handling the case is always polite, always willing to check out anything Ronald and I come up with. But I’m not a fool. They’ve put this case on the back burner. Unless some new lead materializes…”

“Let me talk to them,” Sloane suggested. “I have contacts in the New York field office. I’ll explain the situation and tell them you’ve hired me. They’ll set up a meeting between me and the special agent in charge of your case. He or she will bring me up to speed. That’ll help me decide on the best course of action.” Sloane’s pen poised over the page. “What’s his or her name?”

“His. Special Agent Parker.”

Sloane’s chin came up. “Derek Parker?”

A nod. “Why? Do you know him?”

“Yes. I know him.” Sloane went back to writing. “We worked together in the Cleveland field office.” She shut her notebook and set aside her teacup. “I’ll contact New York first thing tomorrow and set up a meeting with him. I’ll call you right afterward and fill you in. We’ll take it from there.”

Mrs. Truman’s lips trembled. “Thank you, Sloane.”

“Thank me when I have some answers.”
And pray that those answers aren’t what I expect.

Sloane rose. She wasn’t looking forward to this. The whole situation sucked. Her objectivity was compromised on both sides. The odds that Penny was alive stunk. And given who the agent in charge was, the cooperation would stink, too.

She’d have to pull a few favors, set up this meeting without Derek knowing about it in advance. That would take away his home-court advantage and give her an edge—at least going in.

After that, all bets were off.

Where am I?

Oh my God. Where is he?

It’s been hours since he left. Or does it just feel that way? He gagged me. I begged him not to. I promised not to scream. I couldn’t if I tried. My mouth is so dry. My throat is raw. But he said the gag was a test. A test for what?

My mind is fuzzy. I can’t remember how I got here or how long it’s been. Snatches of memory flicker, then scatter like dust. It must be the drugs.

What does he want?

He won’t tell me. All he says is that I’ll know when the time is right, and that if I’m good, he’ll leave off the gag and untie the ropes.

The mattress I’m on smells stale. So does the blanket. It’s scratchy, but at least it’s something to wrap myself in to stave off the chill. I thanked him when he gave it to me. He looked pleased.

Still, I’m so cold. My whole body aches. A rough blanket and a musty mattress do little to cushion this hard, bare floor. It feels like concrete. The room’s small, like a child’s bedroom. I can’t see much. He keeps it dimly lit. There’s a tiny window, but the curtains are drawn. It’s like I’m locked in some kind of a cage. By myself. Earlier today, I heard another voice through the wall. A woman’s voice. At least I thought I did. Maybe I was hallucinating. I can’t focus.

What is he going to do to me?

I’m not sure what’s more terrifying—finding out his plan, or lying here, helpless and waiting.

Footsteps. Coming toward the room. A key turning.

Please, God, let someone have found me. Let this nightmare end.

No. Oh no. It’s him. He’s back.

And he’s back for me.

FBI
New York Field Office

26 Federal Plaza, New York City

March 24

It had taken some doing, but the Asian Criminal Enterprise Task Force—C-6 as the squad was designated in the New York field office—had finally gotten a Title
III
so they could wiretap Chen Long Hua’s phone. A damn good thing, too, considering what they’d intercepted and pieced together from his cryptic Friday-night call. A third prostitute had been killed. Same MO, different location, according to what the Bureau had learned from the
NYPD
. The second prostitute had been killed in Manhattan, the first and third in Queens. No tangible link between them other than their occupation and the fact that they were Asian. Except that they all had been taken to an abandoned building, drugged, and subjected to repeated, violent sex, then killed, their throats slit with a combat knife. In all three cases, the only thing left behind had been a copper coin with a python on one side and a Greek goddess on the other. Probably the killer’s sick idea of payment for services rendered.

And there was one other connection. All three women worked at one of three Fukienese brothels the Bureau had linked to Chen—who was known on the streets as Xiao Long or “Little Dragon,” the leader, or Dai Lo, of the Red Dragons.

Chen had been ripping mad in his Friday-night phone call to his enforcer. He was convinced that Lo Ma, a.k.a. “Old Horse” and his gang, the Black Tigers, were responsible for killing his girls and trying to put him out of business. He wanted revenge. And he wanted it now.

Special Agent Derek Parker took a gulp of lukewarm coffee and turned back to his computer. His squad had kept an eye on the Red Dragons all weekend. The gang had been suspiciously quiet. That meant they were planning something. If C-6 wasn’t all over this like white on rice, an all-out turf war could erupt. Proactive measures had already been taken. Derek had alerted the NYPD’s Fifth Precinct in Chinatown and the 109th Precinct in Flushing to flood the areas with patrol cars. Reinforcements were ready to move in if Chen’s guys showed up in numbers.

Scanning his monitor, Derek continued typing up the FD-302 that detailed Friday night’s surveillance. He ignored the
bing
that announced the arrival of another e-mail. He’d already made a conscious decision to ignore all of them, even though his in-box was exploding in typical Monday-morning fashion. What he was doing took precedence over everything else. He was working a volatile case, with links to international organized crime. This pissing match between Xiao Long and Lo Ma could screw up years of hard work.

The Bureau had invested a lot in this investigation. They’d sent Derek down to Quantico for two weeks of specialized training. When he returned to the New York field office, he was reassigned to C-6. With one special agent out on maternity leave and another two transferred to counterterrorism, C-6 was short-staffed at a time they couldn’t afford to be.

Derek had been a logical choice to move to that squad. He’d worked just about every kind of violent crime, from kidnapping and extortion to bank robberies and murder for hire. His previous investigations had led him to cross paths with the key gang members currently under surveillance. He knew the players. He knew the turf.

And now he knew the drill.

With a quick glance at his watch, Derek saw he was running right on schedule. Eight-thirty. Early for this squad, who worked the streets till all hours of the night. Not for him. His Ranger training had taken care of that. The army had taught him leadership, respect, loyalty, and discipline. Those traits had stayed with him—discipline included. Up at six-thirty. Workout from seven to eight. Shower and dress. Grab a quick, high-protein breakfast. Then report for duty.

“Derek, good, you’re at your desk.”

Derek swiveled around to see his squad leader,
SSA
Antonio Sanchez, standing beside his cubicle, elbow perched on the divider.

“Hey, Tony,” he greeted him. “I didn’t know you were in yet.”

“Ditto. I thought you might show up a little late, since you worked half the weekend. Besides, your targets are first heading off to bed.”

“Yeah, but after what we heard Friday night and an eerily quiet weekend, it feels like we’re perched on a keg of dynamite. We can’t afford a full-scale gang war. I’m getting things in order for the U.S. attorney’s office. Early this afternoon, I’ve got a couple of interviews with our informants. They’ll be wired and hitting the streets to pick up on any neighborhood vibes. The
NYPD
is doing their thing. And the squad and I will rotate shifts in the van, listening.”

Tony gave an emphatic nod. At forty-five, he’d been with the Bureau for sixteen years. He was tight with his squad, but he was every bit a leader. He was shrewd. He was intense. And he knew his team. Including its newest member.

“There’s no doubt that a strike is imminent. Do what you have to. But plan on a short interruption around ten. There’s a meeting I need you to take.”

Derek’s brows rose. “When did this come up?”

“Over the weekend. It’ll only chew up half an hour of your time.”

“What’s it about, and who’s it with?”

“It’s about the Penelope Truman case. You’re the case agent of record. The Trumans requested that you meet with the new consultant her parents just hired.”

The Truman case? That was the last thing Derek had expected. That case had been cold for nearly a year. Plus, it was a missing persons case, unrelated to anything handled by C-6. So why was Tony inserting himself, especially when it wasn’t his style to volunteer one of his team members without any forewarning?

“I don’t get it,” Derek stated bluntly. “Is there some new lead I don’t know about? Did the Trumans hear from their daughter?”

“I wasn’t given any specifics.” Tony straightened and turned back toward his office. “Just call up the file, print out the related paperwork, and take the meeting. Answer whatever questions you can, as cooperatively as you can.” A pause. “Consider it a personal favor.”

“A personal favor,” Derek repeated slowly. “For who?”

“Me. The Trumans. And a couple of our people down in
CIRG
.”

It was almost time.

Sloane wandered around the table in the small meeting room on the twenty-second floor, rolling her bottle of Poland Spring between her palms and steeling herself.

The next half hour was
not
going to be fun. Then again, at least she knew who’d be walking through that door in—she glanced at her watch, aware that Derek was always punctual—precisely three minutes. He, on the other hand, was about to be coldcocked.

She’d called in a favor from Tony Sanchez, who’d mentored her during her hostage negotiation training in Quantico. He’d been kind enough to set things up, no questions asked, even when she requested that her name be withheld during the orchestration of the meeting.

Maybe he knew about the history between her and Derek. Maybe not.

Her bottle of water hit a tender spot in the curve between her thumb and forefinger, and Sloane winced at the contact. She used her left hand to set the bottle on the table and cap it, grimacing as the throbbing in her right hand continued. It wasn’t just the injury. The scars themselves were really bothering her today. Her physical-therapy session this afternoon was going to hurt like hell.

She began performing some simple pain-relief exercises, bending and straightening her fingers, then stretching them to relax the muscles.

The conference room door blew open, and Derek strode into the room. He had a file folder tucked under his arm, and that same cocky walk Sloane remembered all too well. It had been thirteen months, but one quick glance told her he hadn’t changed—at least not intrinsically. The surface was another matter entirely. His dark hair was longer than before and his attire was a one-eighty. Derek had always been a suit-and-tie kind of guy. Now he was wearing jeans and a navy T-shirt. Sloane couldn’t help but do a slight double take on that one.