Twisted (8 page)

“Only her name and that she works in fashion. We met the day of the seminar, at the Atlantic City bus terminal. It turned out we’d caught the same bus out of the Port Authority. When we realized we were both heading for the Richard Stockton campus, we shared a cab.”

“So Penny did attend the lecture.”

“That was the odd part. She didn’t. She seemed so enthused about it during our taxi drive. But she never showed up.”

“I don’t understand. If you rode to campus together…”

“We got there an hour early. I dashed off to grab a cup of coffee. Penny wanted to take a walk. We agreed to meet up at the lecture hall in forty-five minutes. She never came. I assumed she had an unexpected change in plans. Even though we were barely acquainted, I was surprised enough to want to contact her, and make sure everything was all right. But I had no idea how to reach her. I didn’t even know her last name.”

“Truman,” Sloane said woodenly. “Her last name is Truman. And it’s possible you were the last person to have seen her before she disappeared.”

“I don’t understand,” Deanna responded, clearly upset. “That seminar was almost a full year ago. Are you telling me she’s been missing for that long?”

“That’s what I’m telling you. The police and the
FBI
have been trying to determine her whereabouts. I have investigative experience, and I’m also a close childhood friend of Penny’s. Her parents hired me to see what I could find out. You just helped me narrow down where she vanished from.”

“But not why, or by whose hand.”

“No. Not yet. Deanna, I’m going to contact the
FBI
, and let them know about this development. Their resources are obviously far more vast than mine. I’m sure the agent who’s handling Penny’s case will want to contact you. Please tell him everything you remember, down to the slightest detail. His name is Special Agent Derek Parker.”

“Of course. Anything I can do. Anything at all.”

“You have my contact information in that e-mail Doris Hayden sent you. Use it. Anytime, day or night. If you have a question, or if you recall even a tidbit of related information, please call me. Penny is very dear to me. I plan to find out what happened to her.”

FBI
New York Field Office

3:45 P.M.

Derek was in a foul mood.

He’d done a thorough job of prepping John Lee for tonight’s stakeout. The listening device he’d given Lee was concealed in a pen, so tiny and unobtrusive that no one would spot it. Lee was edgy but under control. He’d do what he had to, since the alternative was jail. The entire squad was prepared for a long night, and Tony had made up the surveillance schedule.

With luck, they’d not only find out if Lo Ma really was responsible for the brutal killings of Xiao Long’s girls, but they’d get some solid evidence on both Dai Los to pass along to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.

So everything was in place. And Derek was wound up and ready to go.

Back in his Ranger days, he’d learned to eat when he could, since the next opportunity to do so might not come for a while. With that in mind, he wolfed down a sandwich, grabbed some bottled water and a bag of chips, and headed back to his desk, intending to type up his interviews and return his e-mails.

That’s when his mood had gone south.

At his desk, he’d found Sloane’s voice mail waiting for him.

The message itself was pretty cryptic, saying only that she had a lead on the Penny Truman case, and she needed to talk to him as soon as possible.

Its vagueness was irritating enough.

But the fact that her voice still had the power to get to him the way it did—now,
that
really pissed him off.

He leaned back in his chair, linked his arms behind his head, and grudgingly let his mind go where he’d avoided letting it go since Monday.

When he’d walked into that conference room and she’d been standing there—it was like a punch in the gut. He’d written his reaction off as the result of being blindsided. After all, she’d been the last person he expected to see when he stepped through that door.

But now there was no excuse. He knew she was working for the Trumans, and he knew she had a personal stake in the case, since she and Penelope Truman were childhood friends. He was the agent of record. It was natural she’d be calling him with any information she stumbled on.

Derek was a hard, fast realist. He didn’t delude himself—not then, and not now. He wasn’t over Sloane. What they’d shared had been much more than an affair. Everything about it had been intense—the attraction, the connection, the sex. It had started—and ended—like an explosion, knocking them both on their asses, going up in fireworks and down in flames.

There’d never been any closure. There hadn’t even been good-byes.

She’d been a stubborn, stoic coward, who’d shut him out and then walked away when the going got tough.

And he? He’d been a hotheaded, judgmental ass, who’d been too pissed off by her decision to see things rationally.

Abruptly, it was over.

That didn’t stop him from thinking about her. He did. A lot more often than he liked. That was bad enough. But his reaction to seeing her again, hearing her voice, that wasn’t just remembering. That was vulnerability. And vulnerability was
not
something he could accept in himself.

As if to challenge that weakness head-on, he picked up the phone and punched in her number.

She answered on the second ring. “Sloane Burbank.” The road noise told him she was in the car.

“It’s Derek.”

“Oh, good.” Her relief was genuine. “Thanks for getting back to me so fast. I was afraid I’d miss you, and I’ll be out of town for the next two days working twenty-four/seven. Phone tag’s not an option. We need to jump on this right away.”

“What is it we’re jumping on?” Derek asked drily.

Sloane filled him in on what Doug Waters had told her, about her trip to Richard Stockton, and about her conversation with Deanna Frost.

“So Penelope did buy that ticket to Atlantic City. It just wasn’t her final destination.” Derek scribbled down some notes.

“She meant to attend that seminar. We know she got to the college campus. So she disappeared on or near there, sometime between eleven-fifteen and noon. We need to figure out who else she might have talked to, where the common walking paths are, if any other suspicious activities were reported during that time period. We need to interview campus security, local police—”

“Hey, drill sergeant, stop.” Derek snapped out the interruption. “I don’t need an education in how to conduct a missing persons investigation. What I do need is some clarification. By
we,
I assume you mean
me
. And that’s not going to fly.”

“Don’t tell me you still think Penny disappeared voluntarily,” Sloane responded in a tight voice.

“I never thought that. But you’re not the only one working twenty-four/seven. I’m in the middle of a case that’s just escalated to front burner. I can’t divert my resources, not now. What I can do is call—”

“Don’t turn the case over to someone else.” It was Sloane’s turn to interrupt. “It’ll take you just as much time to bring the new agent up to speed as it would for you to handle this on your own.” A pause, as if Sloane were forcing out her next words. “You’re the best there is, Derek. I need that for Penny.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest turning it over to another agent. I was going to suggest I call Newark and get Anderson involved. He was the agent who worked your friend’s case in the Newark field office. Richard Stockton is in his jurisdiction, not mine. He’ll call the Atlantic City RA. When we first ran down the AC lead, he worked with a good agent down there. Tom McGraw. He’s smart and he’s thorough. I’ll call Anderson now, see if McGraw can get started on the legwork right away.”

“Makes sense.” Sloane’s wheels were still turning. “One favor. I told Deanna Frost you’d be contacting her as the agent in charge. I’d appreciate if you’d meet with her, just for a cup of coffee. She works at the New York Public Library, so it’s your jurisdiction. It would take maybe an hour of your time. But I think you’d have the best shot of getting her to remember something.”

Derek’s brows rose. “Better than you? That’s one I never thought I’d hear.”

“It’s a question of chemistry, not skill. I only spoke with Deanna briefly. She’s inherently decent and cooperative. But my instincts tell me she’s also a reserved, intellectual loner. You’ll be bigger than life to her. Between your
FBI
status, your whole former Army Ranger macho aura, and that classic charm of yours—trust me, she’ll do handsprings to come through for you.”

Despite his best intentions, Derek found himself grinning. “Can I hear my résumé again?”

“No. Just tell me you’ll do it.”

“Consider it done.”

Sloane’s exhale of relief was audible. “Thank you.”

“I aim to please.”

A taut endless silence.

Derek broke it first. “You said you’d be out of town. Will you be reachable by cell?”

“I’ll make myself reachable. I’ll be in Boston conducting a two-day workshop. I’m leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow and I’ll be back Friday night. During that time, I’ll be on pretty much every minute. But I’ll keep checking my cell for messages. Tonight I’ll be home. Right now I’m heading into Manhattan for a session with my hand therapist, and I’m already running late. But I’ll leave my phone on vibrate.”

“Good enough. I’ve got an hour or two before people start heading home. I’ll make some calls and give you a status report as soon as I have it.”

“And since I’m sitting in the car fighting traffic, I’ll call Hope Truman now and let her know where things stand.”

“It’s a plan. Talk to you later.”

“Derek?” Sloane caught him just before he hung up. “I realize I’m the last person you want to work with. I’m no happier than you. Frankly, the whole situation sucks. But regardless of my personal feelings, or yours—or maybe because of them—I want you to know I really appreciate this. Penny was a big part of my childhood.”

For a long moment, Derek stared down at his desk, contemplating her words. He knew how much they’d cost her to say. His reaction to them was a mixed bag—one he didn’t care to analyze.

“No problem. Just doing my job.”

Four-ten. It was 4:10.

Who ever thought that the simple act of telling time would matter so much?

And yet it gives me a tremendous sense of comfort. In my present world, day and night cease to matter. Time passes in a vague sense of nonreality. So when he paused outside the bathroom door, setting down the pail of toiletries and readying the key to lock me in, I’d looked around and spotted the wall clock for the first time.

A huge wave of relief swept through me. The tiniest awareness of something, anything, that related to life as I’d known it, was a gift.

What a fool I’ve been to take those gifts for granted.

Not anymore.

When he came to my room, announcing that I could have my bath, I almost wept with joy. Even the sight of the combat knife he was clutching didn’t make me flinch, nor did the pressure of it at my throat as he led me outside my prison. I was too focused on the items in the bucket he was carrying.

Soap. Shampoo. Lotion. Common, everyday products that were so familiar and yet so precious.

He withdrew the knife when I was safely inside the bathroom. Twenty minutes, he said. That’s all I have.

It’s enough.

With the door shut and locked behind me, I reached into the old ceramic bathtub and turned on the water, waiting for it to heat up. I’d decided on a shower rather than a bath. In part, that’s because I don’t want to waste an instant of my freedom waiting for the tub to fill, and, in part, because I want to wash away every drop of filth, not sit in it.

I glanced in the mirror just before turning on the shower spray and stepping in. God, I barely recognize myself. My face is gaunt. My eyes are huge, with big, dark circles underneath, and my pupils are dilated from the drugs. My hair is tangled, sticky with sweat. I’d lost my hair band when I struggled with him on campus. So my hair was loose, hanging down, limp and lifeless. I reached up, and my fingers touched the gash on my neck left by his combat knife. It wasn’t being treated, so it wasn’t healing. And it was far from the only mark on my body.

My gaze shifted to my arms. Needle marks. So many of them. And bruises, everywhere. From my capture. From those visits when the madness filled his eyes.

I shuddered and turned away, stepping into the wall of water that was my illusory reprieve.

Hospital for Special Surgery

New York Weill Cornell Medical Center

East Seventieth Street, New York City

4:50 P.M.

Constance Griggs was a forty-one-year-old divorcée with loans up the wazoo, an ex-husband who was as reliable as the rhythm method, and two small kids to raise on her own. She was a natural blonde with a trim figure, a healthy enjoyment of the opposite sex, and no time for a social life. Still, she was a born optimist who believed in happily-ever-afters and had a natural affinity for helping people. She was also fascinated with orthopedic medicine and the intricacies of the fine bones and blood vessels that composed the human hand.

Maybe that’s why she was the best occupational hand therapist in all of Manhattan.

Sloane had been with Constance ever since Dr. Charles Houghton had referred her eight months ago, just after her second surgery. Dr. Houghton was a bona fide genius. He’d operated on Sloane twice—once to reverse the damage done by her initial surgery, conducted under emergency circumstances in a rural Ohio hospital. The surgeons there had done their best, but their focus had been on stopping the bleeding.

They’d patched her up, but their lack of expertise in treating such a complex injury left Sloane with major scarring around the tendons of her index finger, ultimately leaving it so stiff it could scarcely bend. Thankfully, she’d already moved back east and was being treated by Dr. Houghton, who immediately diagnosed the tendon as being stuck in flexion. He operated, removing the scar tissue and freeing the tendon to heal. Then he sent her to Constance for physical therapy. That was the good part. The bad part was that the healing process had to start from scratch. And Sloane was a lousy patient.