Twisted (32 page)

I watch the
real
students exiting the building, complaining as they walk. Having campus security posted outside Tyche’s door, 24/7, is screwing up their social lives. Their parties are all on hold. No one wants to risk sneaking alcohol past the cops. So they’ve been going to other dorms to party. And it’s really starting to piss them off.

I almost laugh aloud at the absurdity of their concerns.

I’m surprised by my own reaction. I should be enraged over wasting my time, and furiously planning how to outwit the cops and get into her room.

But I’m not.

She’s simply not worth it. My knowledge is greater now, my understanding deeper.

It isn’t true evil that courses through Tyche’s blood. It’s ignorance and unworthiness. She isn’t the same kind of filth as the
ji nv
I eliminated the other night. She’s just a stupid
biao zhi,
who will never know what she just sacrificed.

The loss is hers. Let her remain in this ugly world, full of diseased and soulless people. While I and the true goddesses soar to Mount Olympus.

That’s the greatest punishment I can impose upon her, after all.

FBI
New York Field Office

26 Federal Plaza, New York City

5:15 P.M.

Jeff rounded the corner and strode into Derek’s cubicle, ignoring the fact that his partner was hunched over the keyboard.

“I just got a call from the Fifth Precinct,” he announced. “Another prostitute’s been murdered. Butchered, from what they said. Details are sketchy right now. But it sounds like the same MO. Naked, tied up, throat slashed, coin placed right beside the body. The M.E. put the time of death on Tuesday, sometime between two and five in the afternoon. The body was in a tenement on Eldridge—not a warehouse this time, a resting house. The
NYPD
got an anonymous tip about the body. The caller was female and could barely speak English.”

“One of the victim’s friends, coworkers, or roommates,” Derek said grimly. “And if the cops found her in a resting house on Eldridge, you know she’s one of Xiao Long’s girls.” He threw down his pen in frustration. “Shit. This is the last thing we need. Xiao Long was on the verge of having his gang declare all-out warfare on the Black Tigers. Last time, we narrowly avoided a war. This time, we’re going to have to do major damage control. And I mean
major
.”

“I know.” Jeff gave a sober nod. “The M.E. said he’d move as quickly as possible on the autopsy. They’re doing a drug screen to see if she’s got ketamine in her system, like the others. And they’ll check to see if the Unsub abused her sexually—and, if so, if it was as vicious as the slashing. Because, like I said, this one was really brutal.”

“Our psycho’s had too much time between prostitutes,” Derek said in a dark, sardonic tone. “He stored up his hatred and his swimmers.” A disgusted sound. “These days all I do is deal with psychos. And I’m not getting any closer to tracking them down.” He glanced at the database he’d been accessing, then logged out, mentally putting the Truman case on hold. “This is going to be an all-weekend deal,” he informed Jeff.

“I expected as much. When I spoke to the Fifth, I asked for their help. Until we can convince the Red Dragons and the Black Tigers that neither of their gangs is involved in these murders, we’re going to have to turn Chinatown into a police state.”

“And deal with the fallout from that, too.” Derek reached for the phone. “I’d better call Sloane and tell her that I won’t be seeing the light of day—or her—this weekend.”

“Yeah. I’d better make a similar call.” Jeff headed off. “I’ll be back in ten.”

“Mm-hmm.” Derek was already punching in Sloane’s speed-dial number.

He frowned when her phone went directly to voice mail. Then he remembered she had an appointment with Connie before meeting Larry at John Jay. “Hey, it’s me,” he said after the beep. “Listen, I’m going to have to cancel our weekend plans. A Bureau emergency just landed in my lap. I’ll be stuck in the office all day tomorrow and the entire weekend as well taking care of it. I’ll give you a call as soon as I can.”

Hospital for Special Surgery

New York Weill Cornell Medical Center

East Seventieth Street, New York City

5:30 P.M.

“Thanks for taking me so late, Connie.” Sloane slid into the padded chair across from Connie at her physical-therapy table. “I’m meeting a colleague at John Jay around eight o’clock. The hounds are troupers, but do have their limits, and my neighbor who usually watches them is ill. So I combined all my Manhattan appointments into the latter part of the business day.”

“Actually, it worked out well for me, too.” Connie sat down on her stool, moved the sensory reeducation tools off to the side, and checked Sloane’s palm. Before they began any aggressive steps, she wanted to make sure it was healing on schedule, with no internal complications. “I’m meeting my date at a restaurant in midtown at seven-thirty. So the timing’s ideal. You and I can have an hour together, and I’ll still have an hour to make myself gorgeous and catch a cab to the restaurant.”

“A hot date, huh? Ken the lawyer?” Sloane’s eyes twinkled.

“Yes.” Connie grinned. “He’s turning out to be a keeper—at least for now. Let’s see how he handles the probation period.”

“You’re tough.”

“And you’re sleeping with Derek again.” Connie propped her elbow on the table and studied Sloane intently. “It’s written all over your glowing face. Wow. That happened even faster than I thought.”

“You and me both.” Sloane didn’t even bother trying to deny Connie’s shrewd assessment. “Our chemistry—it’s like something you read in a novel and say, ‘Yeah, right, like that could ever happen in real life.’ But there it is, and neither one of us can fight it.”

“Why would you?” Connie tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “It sounds like sexual heaven. Have you talked?”

“Every day,” Sloane replied, with a casual shrug. “We’re working on a case together.”

“Who cares? Have you discussed the
breakup
? Who said what, felt what, did what, and why? It’s the only way you’re going to get past this.”

“I told him the details of the knife attack. We exchanged a few angry words about feelings we’ve been harboring. It was more than enough. I don’t want to delve too deeply into this. Frankly, what we have now is wonderfully uncomplicated. If we start dredging up the past, it’s going to get messy, angry, and accusatory—all of which will destroy a great thing.”

“So your new relationship is just sex?”

“Not just sex,” Sloane assured her. “Amazing, addictive sex.” A quizzical look. “Since when has that offended you?”

“It doesn’t offend me. I’m all for amazing, addictive sex. But in this case, it won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re in love with the guy.” Connie flattened her palms on the table, looked Sloane straight in the eye. “You’ve been in love with him since Cleveland. And no matter how pissed off you feel, no matter how much of a grudge you hold, you’re not going to be able to bury those feelings or make them go away.”

Sloane’s jaw tightened. “Maybe not. But I can damn well try. I never intend to be that vulnerable to another human being again. The fallout is too much for me to handle.”

“What fallout?” Connie demanded. “This is the part I don’t get. I know he disagreed with your decision to leave the Bureau. I know his reaction hurt you deeply. But he didn’t break your trust. He didn’t desert you when you were in the hospital practically bleeding to death from the wounds to your hand. He didn’t ask you to ignore his phone calls. And he didn’t ask you to pack and leave without saying good-bye. So where is this sea of resentment coming from?”

“My job at the Bureau meant the world to me,” Sloane replied in curt, clipped tones. “I wanted to be a special agent for as long as I can remember. Derek knew that. He respected it—or at least I thought he did. The fact that he expected—and still does, for that matter—me to accept being placed on medical mandate, turn over my weapon, and become a Bureau pencil pusher—stunned me. And the more I explained, the less he understood. He effectively labeled me a coward and a quitter. My pain, my emotional meltdown, none of it got through that thick skull of his.”

“Maybe he just needed time to—”

“Maybe nothing. Underneath that charismatic exterior is an Army Ranger, a soldier to the core. You know the motto—‘Rangers lead the way.’”

“
DNA
. That’s hard to overcome when your whole family are West Point grads,” Connie reminded her.

“Actually, it should be easier. Yes, Derek’s father and siblings all went the West Point route. But Derek didn’t. He went the
ROTC
route. He wanted to have other options. And he’s been the black sheep of the family ever since. His father
still
hasn’t forgiven him, not really. I know that, on some level, that bothers Derek, even after all these years. He made a choice, one his father didn’t understand or agree with. But he still should have supported it. That’s what love is about. Given his own experience, Derek should have been the first one to accept
my
choice and support
me
. But somehow, when it came to my decision to leave the Bureau, all that support went right out the window. He couldn’t or wouldn’t put himself in my shoes. He was an obstinate, unfeeling
SOB
. So yes, I walked away. Or, to be more precise, he drove me away.”

Sloane pressed her lips together, then finished in a less composed tone: “I don’t fall easily. But when it came to Derek, I fell hard. The forever kind of hard. I believed in him, and I trusted him with my heart. He let me down big-time. So that’s why my loving him can never amount to anything. We’re just too different.”

“Or too much alike.”

“In some ways, yes. And neither of us is going to back down. So the affair is spectacular, but anything more is out.”

“If you say so.” Connie sounded decidedly unconvinced.

“I do. And now I’d like to drop the subject.” Sloane extended her hand to Connie, palm up. “We have a hand to fix.”

Connie gripped Sloane’s wrist and examined the palm. “The inflammation is significantly improved and the swelling has gone down. I think we can resume some of our less strenuous exercises. But I’m going to start with some scar massage.” With that, she put lotion on the scar-tissue massage tool and began a light, gentle motion with the roller ball. “Any pain?”

“So far, so good,” Sloane replied, trying not to recoil instinctively or tense up. She hated that she was doing that again. Right after the stabbing, it had been a reflexive action the instant her palm was touched. But over the months she’d worked with Connie, trust had begun to build, until finally the defensive reactions had subsided. Until now. Now she was regressing, and all because she’d been stupid enough to wrestle with a lug-nut wrench and inflame her palm all over again.

“It’s okay,” Connie said, reading Sloane’s expression. “The trust is still there. Self-protection is a natural instinct in situations like this. So relax. We’ll regain the ground we lost.”

The door flew open, and Dr. Houghton barged in, wearing his surgical scrubs, totally oblivious to anything except his own agenda. “I just finished that emergency surgery,” he informed Connie. “It was even more complicated and intricate than I originally anticipated. The damage is extensive. On the plus side, I was able to control the bleeding and save all his fingers. But he has extensive nerve, bone, and tendon damage. That’s what you get when you stick your hand in a running lawn mower. He’s in recovery now. I need to review the preliminary occupational-therapy plan with you. Since you’re working late, now is as good a time as any.”

Connie cleared her throat, and tipped her head in Sloane’s direction.

Dr. Houghton’s brows drew together, then arched in surprise as he got Connie’s message, and became aware that someone else was in the room with them. His probing stare flickered to Sloane. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were here.” His tone was icy. “Speaking of reckless actions, it’s lucky for you that Constance is as skilled as she is. Otherwise, you might be back in surgery yourself.”

Sloane blinked, uncertain what to say.

Connie took care of it for her. “Fortunately, it won’t come to that. Sloane’s been following your instructions to the letter. Her palm is healing nicely. We’ve resumed using the medium-resistance therapy putty. So it’s a moot point.”

“Not if she continues to risk her well-being by doing careless things like trying to change flat tires.” Dr. Houghton approached the table and glared down at Sloane’s palm. He gave a tight nod, clearly pleased with what he saw. “Try to remember you haven’t rejoined the
FBI
yet. And if you want to heal to the point where that’s possible, you’ll have to use some common sense.” He turned away, fired a look at Connie. “I’ll need a half hour of your time before you leave tonight.”

“Not a problem.” Connie stayed calm and patient. “Sloane and I will be wrapping up by six-thirty. I’ll come directly to your office.”

“If I’m not there, I’ll be in post-op. Page me.”

“I will.”

Without so much as a good-bye, Dr. Houghton left, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Sloane looked at Connie, totally bewildered. “What was
that
all about? Dr. Houghton isn’t known for his charm, but he’s never blatantly rude either. Is he that furious about my aggravating the injury?”

“It isn’t that.” Connie sighed, resumed her work on Sloane’s hand. “He’s just on overload. He’s a brilliant surgeon, and he won’t do anything half measure. That man he just operated on, by all rights, should have lost at least two of his fingers, that’s how mangled his hand was when he was rushed in. Dr. Houghton spent hours in the operating room, saving those fingers. He’s a one-of-a-kind surgeon. His personality is another story. And he’s particularly on edge these days. He’s really short-staffed, and that’s requiring him to take on more than a surgical role. Recovery-room procedures, IV drips, and the administration of antibiotics are usually handled by the nursing staff. Well, there are very few nurses left that he trusts enough to delegate responsibility to. So he’s feeling—and showing—the stress. As you pointed out, he’s not exactly a people person.”