Twisted (6 page)

He’d worked tirelessly. She’d helped as best she could. And together they’d endured the fallout from the day’s heinous events. That kind of shared experience forged a bond that was hard to explain.

It was certainly motivation enough to stay in touch.

“How’s your hand doing?” Luke was asking.

“Some good days, some bad,” Sloane replied, snapping back to the present. “I take it one baby step at a time.”

As she spoke, Sloane noticed that Lillian was leaning more heavily on Luke’s arm. It was time to get the poor woman’s input on Cynthia Alexander and let her go home. “Sergeant Erwin is over there,” Sloane told her, pointing in his direction. “Why don’t we get you settled in a comfortable chair and let him talk to you.”

“Thank you.” Flanked by Luke and Sloane, Lillian made her way over to the cluster of chairs and the table where the photos were laid out. Beside it, Sergeant Erwin had snapped his cell phone shut and was watching their approach.

“Who’s the missing student?” Lillian asked Sloane.

“Cynthia Alexander. I don’t know if you remember her. But she took a couple of your courses.”

“Cynthia?” Lillian looked surprised. “Of course I remember her. A bright girl. Very conscientious. She did A work even after the swimming season got under way and she was inundated with practice.”

“Dr. Doyle.” Bob Erwin inserted himself in the conversation, having heard Lillian’s response. “Thank you for coming in. Please, have a seat.” He pulled out a chair and waited until she was settled. “Obviously, you’re acquainted with Cynthia Alexander. Just to be on the safe side, is this the girl you’re thinking of?” He offered her two close-up photos.

“Yes, Sergeant.” Lillian glanced at the pictures and handed them back. “That’s Cynthia.” She met his gaze, visibly comprehending his motives. “My illness hasn’t affected my mental faculties. That’s definitely the young woman I’m referring to.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Please, don’t apologize. I understand. You have to be sure.” Lines of concern creased Lillian’s brow. “When you say missing, do you mean taken?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Bob dragged over a chair and sat down directly across from Lillian. “Professor Doyle, do you recall if you saw Cynthia at the workshop you participated in last Thursday?”

“I…” Lillian frowned in concentration. “No, I don’t think so. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t there. The topic is one that would definitely have interested her. Partly because she was a student of human behavior and partly because she was a loner. There were just so many attendees, and I wasn’t feeling one hundred percent. All I recall is a sea of faces.”

“I understand.” Bob’s tone was compassionate. It was clear he was frustrated about striking out again, especially since Lillian was his most promising John Jay lead. But it was equally clear how upset she was about failing to provide concrete details, and about her limited energy level. “Do you feel up to sitting for a few minutes and telling me everything you can about Cynthia?” he asked.

“Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

“Thank you.” Bob whipped out a pad.

At that moment, Elliot entered the lecture hall and strode over. “Hey,” he greeted Sloane. “I was told to come here on a police matter. What’s going on?”

Sloane pulled him aside, quietly filling him in on the situation. “I’m the one who suggested Sergeant Erwin send for you. You were at the workshop with the rest of us. And from Cynthia’s transcript, it looks like she took one of your courses.”

A thoughtful pause, and then a nod. “She did. Comp 201. I remember her, but only vaguely. It was a pretty big intro course. I’m not sure how much help I can be.”

“Do you have a visual of her in your mind’s eye? Because the sergeant has photos.”

“I’ll check them out. But from what I recall, she was tall, dark hair, kind of fresh-scrubbed looking.”

“That’s Cynthia. Do you remember if you saw her at our workshop last Thursday or anytime over the course of that two-day seminar? The cops are trying to establish a more exact time for her disappearance.”

Elliot shook his head. “I didn’t see her at all.” A pause. “You think she was kidnapped?”

“I think it’s a distinct possibility.”

“Ransom?”

“Nope. She comes from a middle-class family. If she was taken, it was for something uglier than cash.”

Elliot looked a little green around the gills. “Besides verifying that she was my student, how can I help the police?”

“Sergeant Erwin’s talking to Lillian now. She knew Cynthia better than any of the rest of us who spoke at the workshop. When they’re finished, he’ll ask you some questions. Anything that pops into your head—even the smallest detail—might mean something. Her work ethic, the classmates she hung around with—something the sergeant asks might trigger a memory. If it does, sing out. It could make a difference.” Sloane shot a quick glance at her watch. “Damn. It’s ten of four. I’ve got to get going. I’ve got three interviews to conduct.”

She went over to where Bob was questioning Lillian. “Excuse me for interrupting, but I’ve got to get to my next appointment. Bob, my offers stand. I’ll be out of town Thursday and Friday, but you have my cell number. Say the word and I’ll get in touch with the Cleveland field office. And, when I get home, I’ll have a talk with Mrs. Alexander.” She crossed her fingers and held them up. “Let’s hope it’s not necessary and Cynthia will be back by then.”

“Yeah. Let’s. Thanks, Sloane.”

“No problem. Lillian, be well.” She waved at Luke, then headed off, pausing only when Elliot caught her arm.

“You sure you can’t stay?” he asked, rubbing his palms together nervously. “I’m not exactly a pro at being interrogated.”

“You’re not being interrogated, just questioned. And you don’t have to be a pro. Just be honest.” Sloane’s mind was already shifting back to Penny’s disappearance and how much she had to accomplish before she left for Boston. “I wish I could hang around for moral support, Elliot, but I can’t. I’ll give you a call later, see how it went.”

“How about dinner instead? You want to grab a bite?”

“Only if you don’t mind eating late. My last interview’s at seven down on Wall Street. I can meet you around eight. Eight-thirty if you want to meet in midtown.”

“Eight-thirty it is. We’ll go to Jake’s. My treat.”

A teasing spark lit Sloane’s eyes at the mention of Jake’s Saloon. It was Elliot’s favorite haunt, just minutes away from John Jay. “Burgers or steak?” she inquired.

He chuckled. “Steak. It’s only fair. You’re putting in extra-long hours for my sake. The least I can do is spring for your favorite—filet mignon.”

“You’re on. See you then.”

DATE:
25 March

TIME:
2300 hours

I enjoyed my customary cup of Earl Grey tea and my single lemon square before I retired for the night. But rather than have them at the coffee table, as I usually do, tonight I enjoyed my bedtime ritual in Aphrodite’s acquiescent presence.

It was a wise choice.

Not that I needed the company. I actually prefer eating my late-night snack alone. But, after the past days with Athena, and the unexpected upset of today, I needed something calming. Aphrodite’s serenity was the perfect balm to my edginess. I brought her fresh rose petals, scattered them around the room. Then I handed her the silver comb-and-brush set I’d purchased especially for her, together with the matching hand mirror, and watched with pleasure as she obeyed my instructions and preened herself.

She was beautiful—a carbon copy of the illustration and story that lay on her mattress. She was my consummate validation, the reinforcement that all my pain and hard work has paid off, and will continue to.

I am a success.

Soon will come her final rituals.

How I envy her peace.

Canal Street, New York City

March 26, 1:15 A.M.

Lower Manhattan at night was like an outdoor flea market—except the merchandise in the booths was either hot, counterfeit, or both.

Wearing well-worn jeans, a black T-shirt, and a cheap parka, Derek lingered at one of the numerous kiosks, turning a Samsung MP3 player over in his hands and studying it with intense concentration, as if he were deciding whether or not to buy.

“Looks like the real thing and a helluva deal,” he muttered. “Too bad it’s really a piece of crap worth about two bucks.”

The seller—an Asian-American in his early twenties named John Lee, whose scrawny build was swallowed up by his navy ski jacket—stared back at Derek, his black almond eyes unblinking, his features inscrutable.

“If you say so,” he answered in unaccented English. “I say otherwise. And I have the warranty and user manual to prove it.”

“Yeah, well, let’s say I’m a skeptic.”

“Then it’s good you’re not here to buy. I save my sales pitch for serious shoppers.”

“Gullible shoppers, I think you mean.”

“That’s your take, not mine. Cash is cash.”

Derek leaned forward, pointing at the MP3 player as if he were asking a question about how it worked. “So what’s the word on the street?” He kept his voice low, although the corner they were on was fairly deserted.

Lee looked around furtively before replying. “The meeting’s happening tomorrow night.”

“Where and when?”

“Nom Wo Club. Two A.M.”

No surprise there. The Nom Wo Club was one of Lo Ma’s most profitable gambling parlors. “And the agenda? Property damage or bloodshed?”

“Depends on how it goes. Could be either. Could be both.”

“Who’s showing up?”

“Enforcers on both sides, the Red Dragons and the Black Tigers. Plus backup. I’m not sure how many. But I do know it’s not just the kids.”

“And you’re sure you can get in?”

“No sweat. I’m a regular. I play there three nights a week.”

“Only this time you’ll play with an electronic listening device.” Derek reached into his pocket. “Come to the field office at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I’ll prep you and set you up.”

Lee wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I can’t be seen at your offices.”

“Give me a break, Lee.” Derek counted out two tens and a five. “Your crowd doesn’t hang out at Federal Plaza. Plus, they’re not even awake until two in the afternoon. You’ll be long gone by then.”

“And this listening device?”

“Tiny. And too well concealed to be spotted. You’re cool.”

A pause, as Lee considered his options. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed. He eyed the bills in Derek’s hand, his gaze shifting to the MP3 player. “You buying that?”

“Hell, yeah.” Derek’s tone was laced with sarcasm as he tossed Lee the bills. “A Samsung MP3 player with an
OLED
display for twenty-five bucks? That’s a steal.”

Lee shoved the money into his pocket.

“Don’t forget the warranty and user manual,” Derek reminded him. “You can’t be too careful these days. Everyone’s out to rip you off.”

With a grunt, Lee handed over the fake papers. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

85 West Cocktail Bar

Marriott Hotel World Financial Center

Vesey Street, New York City

1:30 A.M.

Sloane shifted on the bar’s leather stool and took another careful sip of her raspberry cocktail. She’d been nursing it for the past half hour, making sure to keep a clear head. Not only for the drive home, but for the interview she was about to conduct.

After Doug Waters had blown her off at the last minute because of some major deal he was negotiating, she’d called his bluff, determined to speak to him today, while she was in Manhattan. Her interviews with Penny’s friend Amy and coworkers at
Harper’s Bazaar
had yielded nothing. But they’d all mentioned Doug, and the fact that Penny had seemed to take the breakup hard. So Sloane was hell-bent on getting Doug’s side of the story—tonight, before he had time to spin the facts in his favor.

She’d decided to wait him out. Even investment bankers went home eventually. So, after hearing the time commitment involved in his negotiations, she’d suggested they meet between 1 and 2 A.M. right here at the Marriott, walking distance from Merrill Lynch’s investment-banking headquarters. Doug had been audibly surprised by how far she’d bend to make this meeting happen. He’d lost his smooth edge, tripped over an attempted excuse, and then finally realized he sounded like a man with something to hide. He’d agreed to meet her at the bar.

Sloane had made some quick arrangements. She’d called her neighbor, Elsa Wagner, an elderly woman who lived alone, except for her Pomeranian, Princess Di, and her son, Burt, who’d practically moved in since his recent divorce. Between Elsa and Burt, Sloane had constant and reliable backup for her beloved hounds when she was out of town or working long hours.

Having made plans for her “babies,” Sloane then prolonged her dinner with Elliot—although she knew she was less than stellar company, given how drained and preoccupied she was. She made sure to fortify herself with three leaded cups of coffee. Those were all the reinforcements she needed to be sharp as a tack for her meeting with Doug. Her time at the Bureau had conditioned her well for the long days and bizarre hours that were the mainstay of investigative work.

Now she took a healthy swallow of water to dilute the effects of the alcohol, then returned to her drink, stirring it with the little straw. There were just a handful of stragglers left at the cocktail bar. Most of them were cramming for early-morning meetings.

Sloane didn’t envy them.

Not ten minutes later, a good-looking guy in his midthirties wearing a dark navy Zegna suit and carrying a sleek Ferragamo briefcase approached the counter. He looked exhausted. “Excuse me,” he said to the bartender, who was in the process of cleaning up. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone. My name is Doug Waters. Has someone—a woman—asked for me?”

“That would be me,” Sloane informed him from the quiet corner she was sitting in.

He turned, and did a double take. “
You’re
Sloane Burbank?”

“Guilty as charged.”