Twisted (35 page)

In addition, Bob Erwin had called to tell her that it looked like her instincts were right. Lydia Halas’s “leaving home” was decidedly suspicious and fraught with holes. The police records did indeed indicate that Nick Halas had called in his wife’s disappearance and filed a missing persons report. The cops had followed up by interviewing Nick, as well as the neighbors in their apartment. The couples who lived on either side of them had reported hearing several heated arguments between Nick and Lydia—accompanied by slamming and thudding sounds that could have been anything from Nick punching walls to striking his wife—adding that they had no proof he’d been abusing her, but they weren’t surprised when she’d left. And since there was no evidence of foul play, and lots of signs that the Halases’ marriage was rocky enough for her to take off, the investigation had been dropped.

But now Bob had probed deeper. It was true that Lydia, who’d been a conscientious employee for twenty years, had given no notice to the hospital, nor had she discussed the possibility of resigning with Dr. Houghton or anyone on his team. She’d also left behind all her clothes, jewelry, and personal items—which could signify a frightened woman running from her husband, or an average woman who’d been taken against her will. In addition, none of her credit cards had been used since her December disappearance—another detail that mirrored Penny’s disappearance.

The parallels had been strong enough to persuade Bob to contact Lydia’s relatives in Greece. Not a single one had heard from her.

Combining all that with the other links of Lydia’s disappearance—the college campus, the body of water, and the connection to Sloane—Bob was ready to add Lydia to the list of potential victims.

Sloane climbed out of her car, gathered her purse and her files, and shoved the car door shut with her knee. She paused to wave good night to her nighttime security guard, Hank Murphy, who’d been right on her tail and was now parked at the curb in his Ford Focus.

He flashed his headlights and waved back.

She headed up the front walk, fishing for her keys at the same time. She located them just as she reached the door. Jostling her files around, she fitted the key into the lock and elbowed open the door, simultaneously flicking on the hall light and plopping her files onto the hall table.

Instantly, she knew something was wrong.

Part of it was gut feeling. Part of it was the absence of the hounds rushing to the door to greet her.

Pure instinct took over.

Sloane inched her way over to the locked cabinet where she kept her personal weapon. Silently, she removed the key from its hiding place and slid open the cabinet drawer, pulling out the Glock 27. It was smaller and lighter than the 22 that was standard issue at the Bureau—but it did the job just fine.

By this time, she could hear the dogs whining, scratching to be released from whatever prison they’d been confined to. Gripping her pistol, she called out, “Moe, Larry, Curly—I’m home. Where are you?”

She was rewarded by a barrage of barking and scratching from the spare bedroom. Still holding her weapon poised and ready to fire, she eased over in that direction, twisted the doorknob, and pushed open the door.

The three dogs came flying out, jumping up and down, looking a little disoriented, but unharmed—and thrilled to see her.

She squatted down, hugged each of them fiercely, while never lowering her head or her gun. She was so relieved, she almost started to cry. The hounds were okay. That was the most important thing. Now she’d investigate who her visitor had been, and if he was still here.

The kitchen light was on, but she always left it on, so the hounds would never be in total darkness. Still, she started there. Slowly, room by room, she went through the house, gun raised, ready to fire if need be.

Nothing had been stolen, and nothing seemed to be disturbed.

Until she went into her bedroom.

He’d been here. She could sense it. Evidently, so could the hounds, because they shoved past her and began sniffing every square inch of the bedroom floor.

Flipping on the light, Sloane swept the room with her gaze and her pistol. No one was there—now.

But she quickly spotted that her picture frame was sitting at a different angle than it had been before, her hand-therapy tools had been rearranged, and one of the pillows on her bed was propped slightly higher than the other—not to mention that there was a faint, but distinct imprint of a person’s body on her comforter.

Still scrutinizing the room, she picked up the phone and dialed 911. Clearly and concisely, she reported the break-in, then provided the operator with her name, address, and phone number, as well as with the facts that no one had been injured and there was no sign that the intruder was still on the premises.

That call complete, she punched in the home phone number of Gary Lake, a special agent who’d graduated from Quantico with her, and who now worked in the Newark field office. One of his ancillary responsibilities was being part of the Evidence Response Team.

He answered the phone on the second ring.

“Gary?” she began. “It’s Sloane. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Hey.” He sounded surprised. “Nope, I have some work to do before I turn in. Ironic you should call. I was just talking about you to Tom McGraw. I told him the Bureau needs you back; you’re an awesome agent.”

“He mentioned it. Thanks for the praise. Listen, Gary, I need a favor. Someone broke into my house.”

“Are you okay?” All personal catch-up vanished as Gary immediately transformed into a hundred percent special agent and concerned colleague.

“I’m fine. Thankfully, no injuries, not to me or my dogs. I already called the local police. They’re on their way. But there are mitigating circumstances to this break-in. I have reason to believe that the offender is wanted by the
FBI
and the NYPD—and not for robbery. For drug theft, kidnapping, and multiple murders. I realize you live about twenty minutes away. But I need you to come over and see if you can find even a shred of evidence—a fingerprint, footprint, anything—to prove that this is the same offender. Can you possibly swing it?”

“I’m on my way.”

“Thanks, Gary.” Sloane felt another wave of relief. “I owe you one. I’ll leash up my dogs and take them outside so we don’t further contaminate the crime scene. And I’ll fill in the locals when they arrive.”

“See you in twenty.” Gary hung up. The minute Sloane stepped out the front door with all three hounds in tow, Hank opened his car door to determine what was going on.

“I’m fine, Hank,” Sloane called out to him. “Someone broke into my house while I was in the city.”

He jumped out of the Focus, retrieved his weapon, and rushed up the driveway.

“The intruder’s gone,” Sloane assured him as he bounded up the front steps and reached the door. “I called the police. There’s no cause for alarm. No one’s hurt and almost nothing was touched.”

Hank scowled. “Why didn’t you come out and get me the minute you realized you’d had an intruder?”

A rueful smile. “It’s the
FBI
agent in me. Trained to defuse a situation quickly and safely. I just grabbed my pistol and checked out the place. And I saw right away that whoever had broken in here was gone. Besides, I had to make sure my dogs were all right. Which they are.”

“Next time, clue me in. That’s what I’m here for.” Hank whipped out his cell phone. “I’ll call Derek.”

“No, don’t.” Sloane put her hand on his arm to stop him. “There’s nothing Derek can do, and no reason for him to freak out. Like I said, the intruder’s gone, and everything’s fine. Besides, look.” She pointed toward the road as a local police car sped up to her house and veered into the driveway. “The cops are here.”

Simultaneous with her announcement, the hounds went into a barking frenzy.

“Easy,” Sloane soothed them. “It’s okay.” She turned back to Hank. “I also called someone from the Newark field office’s
ERT
. Everything’s under control. We’ve got more than enough law enforcement here. Derek’s in the middle of a Bureau crisis. I’ll fill him in when I actually have information to pass on.”

Hank hesitated, clearly ambivalent about Sloane’s request.

“I’ll take full responsibility for this,” she assured him quietly. “Please, Hank. I’m a big girl. I’m also a trained
FBI
agent, even if I’m not with the Bureau now. I know what I’m doing. And you’re welcome to stay for the police questioning. In fact, I’d welcome it. You can fill in anything pertinent I omit. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you anyway.”

“All right.” Hank relented as two uniformed police officers walked over, ready to take Sloane’s statement.

At the same time, Gary’s car swung into the driveway.

“That’s an
FBI
agent,” she explained to the cops. “I called him. He’s with the Bureau’s
ERT
.” She saw their miffed expressions and hurried on. “It’s possible that whoever broke into my house is wanted by the
FBI
and the
NYPD
. So Special Agent Lake will be searching my house for evidence. In the meantime, I’ll give you a full report of the break-in. And this is Hank Murphy, my security guard. He’s been with me all day, but he’ll gladly answer any of your questions as well.”

That seemed to appease them. She said hi and thank you to Gary, and then told him to go in and do his thing. She and the hounds stayed outside with Hank and the cops, where she filled them in on what she had—and hadn’t—found upon arriving at her house tonight. There been no sign of the intruder. He’d come and gone when no one was home except her dogs, whom he’d locked in the spare bedroom. No one was hurt. Nothing was stolen. And nothing was damaged.

Then the questioning had started. Sloane knew the rundown, and she responded as coherently as her dazed mind would allow. Hank filled in an occasional detail, which Sloane greatly appreciated. She felt like she was operating in slow motion, the adrenaline that had been pumping through her now plummeting and dropping her to earth with a thud. She had no idea how much time had passed, or how long she had stood outside answering the officers’ questions.

No, she didn’t believe this could have been a prank. Yes, she kept her front door locked. Yes, she definitely believed this was personal. And, yes, she was convinced that the break-in was linked to the other crimes in question.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Gary stepped outside onto the front porch.

Sloane’s head came up. “Did you find anything?”

“Yup.” He held up a sealed Ziploc bag. “There were no fingerprints or footprints. But there were these few strands of hair on your pillow that weren’t your color or texture. I’ll have them analyzed as quickly as I can.”

“Great. And after you do, run the
DNA
in
CODIS
and please be sure to cross-check against the forensic index.”

Gary met her gaze and nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

“And once you are, do we know who we’re arresting?” one of the officers asked.

“Not yet,” Sloane replied. “But we will.”

One by one, the law enforcement crowd left her house. Hank waited until she and the hounds were safely locked inside before he returned to keep vigil in his car.

Sloane sank down on the carpet and hugged and scruffled each hound. They tolerated it for a minute or two, then raced back to the bedroom to explore the strange, new smells.

It was only then, when Sloane was sitting alone on the floor, that she felt the throbbing in her palm and the pain in her index finger. She looked down and realized she was still clutching her pistol.

And she knew that, pain or no pain, she would have used it.

DATE:
16 April

TIME:
0900 hours

I’d made a fine selection. The right goddess to replace Tyche.

Linda Crowley. Professor of East Asian Studies at Princeton. Artemis had audited her Advanced Mandarin class last fall. Professor Crowley, who took brisk evening walks around Carnegie Lake, who enjoyed the simple wonders of nature. She would have been an ideal Demeter.

But when I arrived, university cops were patrolling the streets and swarming the campus like ants on an anthill. Security was tight, and the entire community was on high alert.

The grounds were deserted. No one was walking around Carnegie Lake or anywhere else. Success had escaped me.

I left Princeton in a hurry, heading as fast as I could toward home.

That’s when it struck me.

The extended involvement of the
FBI
and police departments throughout New York and New Jersey had squeezed me out of my home turf. Campuses in both states would be like high-security prisons. Fulfilling my mission would be impossible.

With that realization, I lost it entirely. I’m sure no one could blame me, not even the gods. I was trapped. Stuck in an immoral world, powerless to reach Mount Olympus.

Filled with rage, I drove so recklessly that I was lucky to make it home alive. Once inside, I smashed whatever was in my path—chairs, tables, the vases I’d bought for Demeter’s flowers. I even put my fist through a wall, ignoring the cuts and lacerations. I actually considered going back to Queens and butchering every whore in the borough, just to spit in the cops’ faces.

I pictured the whores. Their depraved bodies and faces after I slashed them to bits. I fell to my knees, dug my knife deep into the carpet, and tore it apart, visualizing their bleeding, severed bodies as I shouted obscenities. I grabbed the furniture that was in my way, hurled it against the walls. Pieces of wood shattered, like the bones and ribs of their bodies.

Abruptly, I couldn’t breathe. The room started spinning, then fading, dark spots flashing before my eyes. I fell to the floor, gasping for air. For one horrifying minute, I thought I was dying, that this was the gods’ punishment for my falling short of their expectations. Death, followed by hell. No. Please, no. This couldn’t be what they intended.

Comprehension dawned. I had to prove my worthiness. They were testing me. I couldn’t,
wouldn’t,
fail them.