Twisted (4 page)

Even without knowing who he was about to cross paths with, he clearly didn’t want to be here. His entire body language told her that.

It got worse. His probing stare found her, and his midnight-blue gaze went from brooding to glacial.

“Sloane.” He said her name as if seeking confirmation that this wasn’t really happening.

“Hello, Derek.” Sloane had rehearsed her opening. No physical contact. Not even a handshake. No proximity. She stayed where she was, letting the table act as a barrier between them. “Right on time, as always. Excellent. I appreciate your taking this meeting. I see you printed out file information. That’ll give me a jump start. Shall we begin?” She gestured for him to take a seat.

“You’re the Trumans’ consultant?” he demanded.

“Guilty as charged.”

“And you asked Tony not to mention that.”

Clearly, he wasn’t going to make this easy.

“Guilty again. I couldn’t risk your refusing to come. So I asked Tony not to mention my name.”

“Obviously nothing’s changed. You’re still a coward.”

“And you’re still a judgmental hard-ass. Adhering to a new dress code, I see. But otherwise the same.”

“The dress code’s part of the job. You can’t blend into the gang world wearing a suit.”

“Point taken. And, hey, the jeans and T-shirt are as crisp and wrinkle-free as your suits. Different uniform, same Army Ranger.”

“Ditto for the Manhattan A.D.A.,” Derek countered, referring to her pre-
FBI
days as a New York City prosecutor.

“Touché.” Sloane acknowledged his dig with a tight nod. “Now that we’ve gotten the cutting remarks out of the way, can we talk about Penny Truman?”

“Why? Do you have a new lead?”

“I won’t know until you run through your case file with me.”

“I’m sure you already have all the facts. And unless you’ve become psychic, there’s nothing for you to find. I realize the Trumans are desperate for answers, and that they have the money to pay an outside consultant to find them. But you’re wasting your time. I covered all the bases, and then some.”

Sloane gripped the back of her chair and leveled a hard stare at Derek. “Leave your ego at the door, Derek. This isn’t about your skills as an agent. Yes, the Trumans are desperate. But they didn’t just call me because I’m good and because I can devote more time and resources to their case than the Bureau can. They called me for personal reasons. Penny and I were once close friends. We went through school together. I had no idea she was missing until her mother called me last week. If you need to justify my involvement in the case, use that. Spin it any way you want to. All I want is to find Penny.”

The tension in Derek’s jaw slackened a bit. “I wasn’t aware of any of this. Fine. Have a seat.”

Simultaneously, they pulled out chairs and sat down, facing each other across the table.

“Why didn’t the Trumans mention you when I questioned them?” Derek asked.

“Because Penny and I hadn’t been in touch for a while.” Sloane filled him in on the background of their friendship. “But I did know her—well. And there’s no way she’d just take off like that, not because of a job, not because of a guy. She’s either being held against her will, or dead.”

One dark brow rose.

“Yes, I’m aware the odds favor the latter,” Sloane responded. “That doesn’t mean I’m ready to call it quits—not without a fight.”

“I guess some things are worth fighting for. Others aren’t.”

Sloane gritted her teeth as the pointed barb found its mark. She’d throw it right back in his face, if his implication didn’t have merit. Plus, she wasn’t here to fight. She was here for Penny.

On that thought, she stuck to the case. “When you interviewed Penny’s friends, coworkers, ex-boyfriend, did your gut tell you anything the evidence couldn’t support?”

“Nope.” Derek’s reply was terse. “No red flags. I got the usual—apprehension over what happened to Penelope, jitters over talking to the
FBI
, and alibis that all checked out.”

“Including the one provided by Penny’s ex-boyfriend?”

“Yup. He was in Honolulu all week—with the colleague he dumped your friend for.” Derek slid the file across the table. “Read it for yourself. It’s all there. Copies of everything—a list of everyone Penelope knew, my interviews with each of them, details of her life during the months preceding her disappearance. Also, the names and phone numbers of the agents I worked with in the Newark field office. Take the file. Dig as deep as you want to. But after eleven months, I’d steel myself for the worst.”

“That’s par for the course these days. Steeling myself for the worst is the only way to survive.” Sloane picked up the file, pausing as she gazed down at it. “How long have you been in New York?” she heard herself ask.

“A year.”

“So you got the transfer right away?”

“We both knew I would. This field office was my first assignment out of Quantico. I spent seven years here before Cleveland. And with so many Bureau members transferring to counterterrorism since 9/11, and so few new agents requesting assignments in New York over the sunny south, a seasoned agent who’d worked Violent Crimes and kidnappings looked pretty damned good.”

“Still on SWAT?”

“Enhanced
SWAT
,” he corrected. “A bigger team. More sophisticated equipment. New York’s not Cleveland. Ten percent of the Bureau works here.”

“Including you now. You’ve also done some internal transferring since you got back. You moved from Violent Crimes to C-6.”

“My cases shifted. The subjects were into narcotics and gangs. So my transfer to C-6 was a logical step.”

“Tony spoke highly of you. He also mentioned that you just got back from a CE training course at Quantico. You’re building quite a diverse résumé.”

“Diversity’s good. It keeps you challenged and in demand.” Derek leaned forward, and Sloane could feel his hard stare without looking up. “What about you—enjoying the life of a high-paid consultant?”

“It keeps me challenged and in demand,” she parroted back, her chin coming up. “Plus, being my own boss is gratifying—no red tape.” Inadvertently, she gripped the file folder more tightly, causing the edge to dig into her palm right where the scars were. She flinched, and released the file.

Derek’s glance flickered from her hand to her face. His expression didn’t change. “Still in pain?”

“Yeah, well, a two-inch knife slash will do that to you. So will three surgeries, and thirteen months of physical therapy.” Sloane wasn’t looking for sympathy, nor did she expect any—not from Derek. “That’s another reason being in my own business makes sense. I need the time flexibility. My hand therapist and I see a lot of each other.”

“
Three
surgeries?” Derek’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. He’d only been in her life for the first—the emergency surgery that had been performed to stop her from bleeding to death. “Why?”

“Complications,” Sloane replied tersely. “Excess scarring, grafting a ruptured tendon, nerve damage—let’s just say it’s been a busy year.” Gathering up Penny’s file, Sloane rose, her body language declaring the subject closed. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. I appreciate your candor and your thoroughness. If I pick up the slightest lead on Penny’s whereabouts, I’ll advise you immediately.”

“Here’s my direct contact information.” Still scrutinizing her, Derek came to his feet, handing her the familiar Bureau card with the official
FBI
logo on it, along with his own private extension and cell-phone number.

“Thanks.” Sloane responded in kind, whipping out one of her business cards and passing it across the table. “There you go. I doubt you’ll have any cause to reach me, but just in case, everything you need is on there.”

Derek glanced down at the card, which had her office and cell-phone numbers on it, but was devoid of a street address, listing Sloane’s office only as a PO box in Hunterdon County, New Jersey. “You’re working out of your parents’ vacation house,” he surmised.

“Living there, too. My folks retired to Florida. I bought the house from them. It’s perfect for my needs. Small, airy, with an extra room for my office, and four country acres to explore. My hounds like that. So does my archery course.”

“You’re shooting again.”

“Just recently. And just a bow and arrow.”

“Why? Target practice is target practice. A bow, a gun—what’s the difference?”

“About four pounds of trigger-finger pressure and a lot of dexterity and control. Right now I have none of those. It’s possible I never will.” Sloane walked around the table, passing Derek without a backward glance, and heading for the door. “But, like I said, it’s good to see you haven’t changed. Same empathetic guy. Always ready to cut a person some slack. I’ll be in touch.”

DATE:
24 March

TIME:
2200 hours

I crave my time in this room.

Peace, solitude, fulfillment. There’s nothing but me, my thoughts, and her. Being here renews my focus and my strength. And it keeps the demons away.

But only when I’m behind these doors.

I spent hours with Athena tonight. As I suspected, preparing her is harder than the others. She’s young. Intelligent. An unwelcome obstacle. Especially now. I must finish. But it exhausts me.

When I left her, I had to come here. I needed the relief—and the reminder. My resolve has to win out over my weariness.
She
reminds me of that. She reminds me that I have to channel my energy, even when
they
scream for justice. Justice delivered by my hand. And she’ll be my muse.

I don’t want to leave here. I want to shut my eyes and breathe, inhale her scent, visualize her beauty. Then I’ll sleep—maybe for an hour or two. It’s the only time I do, the only place I can.

The demons are lying in wait just outside. Once I open the door, leave this sanctuary, they’ll consume me again.

And I’ll do exactly as they command.

Hunterdon County, New Jersey

March 25, 10:15 A.M.

It was that kind of cold, drizzly morning that made you want to pull the comforter over your head and go back to sleep.

Unfortunately, Sloane didn’t have that option. Not only was she buried in work, but her hounds, as she lovingly called them, wanted no part of sleeping in, or in allowing her to do so.

The term
hounds,
albeit accurate, seemed like a misnomer when it came to Sloane’s three troublemakers. Moe, Larry, and Curly were three miniature dachshunds Sloane had adopted from animal rescue two years ago, as puppies. Moe—short for Mona—was long-haired and the sole female of the trio, Larry was wire-haired, and Curly was a sleek, bald frankfurter—the traditional smooth, short-haired variety. All three of the pups had boundless energy, strong personalities, and were loving and loyal—except when they were fighting.

Today, like every other day, they’d leaped up at daybreak, badgered Sloane until she let them out to do their “business”—which they did as quickly as possible to escape the rain. They then raced through the house and jumped all over the bed, wreaking havoc with Sloane and her bedding until she relinquished any idea of going back to sleep.

It was just as well. Penny’s case was weighing heavily on her mind. She had a lot to accomplish in very little time. Two days, to be exact. After that, she was heading up to Boston, where she was conducting a two-day crisis management and resolution training program at the corporate headquarters of a multinational bank. She was catching a 6 A.M. flight up to Logan Airport on Thursday. Which gave her just today and tomorrow to make some headway.

Settled on the cushy lounge in her home office, with Moe, Larry, and Curly sprawled around her, Sloane reread Derek’s report on Penny’s alleged Atlantic City trip—again. Then she shoved the papers aside and sank back into the cushion. She’d read the file cover to cover three times. No red flags. Still, she kept being drawn back to Atlantic City. It didn’t make sense. Why would Penny go there? She’d grown up wealthy, but practical. Her philosophy about money was simple: spend, but only on those things that mattered. Which to Penny meant her appearance, her education, and anything relating to a career in fashion writing.

Sloane could still remember their annual Christmas outings to
FAO
Schwarz, when they were kids. She herself was a stuffed-animal freak; she’d run from display to display, unable to decide, wanting to buy everything. Penny would stand off to a side, sizing up the inventory and eventually choosing the stuffed toy that matched her room and conveyed an aura of elegance.

Gambling? Never—not when Sloane knew her. Penny would think that was wasteful and stupid.

Just in case her friend’s habits had changed, Sloane had scrutinized Penny’s credit-card statements. Nope. Same old Penny. Itemized charges for a designer wardrobe and accessories that were in sync with someone climbing the corporate ladder at
Harper’s Bazaar
. Also, charges for extracurricular courses in everything from modern art to ancient philosophy. No surprises there either. Penny always prided herself on being cultured and well rounded. She loved to learn.

None of those charges was beyond the scope of what her salary could cover. As for gambling, there was absolutely no indication of it in her financial records or the behavioral descriptions provided by her friends and colleagues—and not even a single lottery ticket found in her apartment.

Maybe Penny had planned to meet someone in Atlantic City. But, if so, wouldn’t that person have called when she didn’t arrive? Sloane had checked Penny’s cell-phone records, which had been retrieved by court order. They indicated that no calls had been made or received since April 14—the day of her disappearance.

One dead end after another. Derek hadn’t lied. He’d been every bit as thorough as he’d claimed, leaving no stone unturned.

Sloane would have to rely on her knowledge of Penny to spot a tiny, unnoticed stone and flip it over, hoping to find something beneath it.

Grabbing a pad and pen, she made a list of the people Penny was closest to at the time of her disappearance. It was time to reinterview every one of them—starting with the ex-boyfriend. Maybe if Sloane asked the right questions, she’d provoke an answer, however innocent, that held the filaments of a clue.