Twisted

Picking up on her scrutiny, Elliot waved his arm agitatedly at the desktop that was clearly a substitute for his state-of-the-art workstation. “Look at that dinosaur. How can they expect me to work on it? It can’t handle any of my programs. I can’t run any of my software. And my confidential research is now public property.”

  “It’s not public property,” Sloane reassured him. “It’s with the NYPD. Once they’ve checked it out for any leads in the Alexander case, they’ll return it.”

  “Yeah, after their experts have either ripped off my work or trashed it. What ever happened to the First Amendment? They took everything, including all my servers, claiming they needed to look for artifacts of Cynthia’s e-mails, forum postings, chat sessions, and assignments from Comp 201.”

  “They’re not interested in violating your rights. They’re interested in finding a kidnapper. And Cynthia’s communications with other students and faculty may point them in the right direction. The NYPD had a warrant. That means they convinced a judge that seizure of your equipment was justified. In addition, the warrant only authorized them to extract material related to Cynthia and Comp 201. They weren’t given carte blanche.”

  “I get it. But I could have extracted what they needed without exposing my life’s work and my highly sophisticated equipment to some cretin they call a computer tech, or, worse, to one with enough brainpower to see my software’s potential and rip it off. You may trust everyone in law enforcement, but I don’t. My research is cutting-edge, and close to completion. But I haven’t unveiled it to a soul. Now I might as well have auctioned it off on eBay.”

  Elliot might be overreacting, but Sloane understood why. From what she’d gleaned, he wasn’t exaggerating the scope of his work. That was why John Jay’s forensic computer department was funding his research big-time. Although modest in comparison to major universities, the budget they were giving him was large for a city college. The rest, Sloane suspected, was being subsidized by grants from law enforcement organizations, private security companies, and perhaps even the NSA. Elliot’s software program had the potential to provide early warning of cybercrimes in progress by discerning unusual patterns in financial data—everything from credit-card purchases and banking transactions to sophisticated money-laundering practices employed by organized criminal enterprises and terrorists. His work was significant. And it was pretty damned sensitive.

  To Elliot, that made the NYPD’s actions the ultimate invasion.

  Blowing out a breath, Sloane placed the bag of bagels on Elliot’s desk and shrugged out of her coat. “I’m doing Sergeant Erwin a favor today. I’ll see if, in return, he can expedite his analysis of your equipment and get it back to you ASAP.” She turned, giving Elliot’s forearm a gentle squeeze. “Trust me. Bob Erwin is a good man. All he’s interested in is extracting information about Cynthia, her friends, and her potential enemies.”

  Sloane opened the bag and handed Elliot a bagel and cream cheese, neatly wrapped in wax paper. “Now sit down and eat.”

  Elliot stared at the bagel, then sank down in his chair. “I sound like a heartless bastard,” he muttered. “The poor girl’s been kidnapped. God only knows what the wack job who took her has in mind. And here I am worrying about my research. You must think I’m as shallow as they come.”

  “I think you’re human.” Sloane perched at the edge of another chair, unwrapped her bagel, and began munching. “And I think you’d better eat that bagel before I do. I was up all night working, took a three-mile run with the hounds, and then did some serious damage on the archery course. I haven’t eaten a solid meal in two days. So consider yourself forewarned.”

  A hint of a grin. “Yes, ma’am.” Elliot unwrapped his breakfast and took a bite. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “For the bagel, the pep talk, and the sensitivity. I realize you drove down here because of me. You’re a good friend.”

  “I have my moments.” Sloane reached over and grabbed a bottle of water from the small fridge against the office wall. “I assume you heard about Cynthia’s hair band being found?”

  “Yeah, with blood on it and near it. Is that true?”

  A nod. “The DNA results came in. The blood on the hair band and on the grass where it was found is Cynthia’s.”

  Elliot leaned forward. “What about prints? Were there any others besides Cynthia’s?”

  “Partials. They were smudged. The lab is seeing what they can come up with. But it doesn’t look too promising.”

  “The poor kid.”

  “And her poor parents.” Sloane wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “I’m talking to Mrs. Alexander today. My fingers are crossed that she’ll say something, anything, that I can give to Bob.”

  “Wouldn’t she have told him everything she knows already?”

  “Everything she realizes she knows,” Sloane corrected. “You’d be surprised by the number of details we all store in our brains that never register in our consciousness without being prompted.”

  “Yeah. I guess I would.” Elliot fiddled with the edge of the wax paper. “So it’s your job to coax out some of those details?”

  “One of my jobs, yes.” Sloane resumed eating her bagel, choosing her next words carefully. “Hang tough these next few days, Elliot. Everyone’s working at maximum speed and efficiency. But until the investigation’s wrapped up, life at John Jay won’t return to normal. I saw the press converged at the edge of campus.”

  “They’re vultures,” he replied bitterly.

  “You don’t have to speak to them. If you’re approached by a reporter, just keep walking and say nothing. Stay holed up in here as much as possible. Teach your classes. Do whatever research you can. I’ll make sure you get your computers back quickly, so it’ll be business as usual. Just keep it together.”

  Elliot was staring down at his desk. “Do you really think she’s still alive?”

  “I don’t know. Time’s not on her side. She’s been missing for nine days. Statistically, that’s way too long. On the other hand, we haven’t found a body. Until we do, I’ve got to believe she’s alive.”

  “Determined, optimistic Sloane.” Elliot’s expression was as dubious as it was grim. “You’re one of a kind. But somehow I doubt the cops share your opinion.”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  DATE: 31 March

  TIME: 1130 hours

  I had to leave work and come home to check on her.

  She was lying on the floor in a pool of her own vomit. She was barely moving. And her color was bad—pale and greenish. This couldn’t go on.

  I got her up, gave her some water, and half carried her to the bathroom. She whispered a plea to shower, and I agreed. I’m not cruel. I couldn’t deny her that shred of dignity. I gave her a fresh chiton to change into and made sure she was strong enough to stand on her own. Then I gave her a pail of toiletries and left the bathroom. I locked her in, waiting outside as always.

  She still looked sickly when she came out. Her eyes were huge and dazed, and her skin was clean but chalk white.

  I brought her back to her room and gave her a tray of food, which she ate without incident. As a reward, I mopped and disinfected her room, and put a fresh blanket on the bed, along with a newly printed copy of the chapter on Athena. No one could live in that stench of vomit.

  She murmured something that sounded like thank you, and then she asked if she could lie down. She curled up like a child, covered herself, and fell fast asleep.

  As I was leaving the room, I heard her call out for her mother.

  That’s when the voices told me what to do.

  Mount Sinai Hospital

  100th Street and Madison Avenue

  New York City

  Sloane wondered whether the meeting with Penny’s parents would be as difficult as the one she’d just had with Carole Alexander.

  Walking out of the parking garage onto East ninety-ninth Street, Sloane headed toward Madison Avenue and Mount Sinai, replaying the conversation she and Cynthia’s mother had just
shared. It had started with, “I just wish they’d find my baby” and ended with, “All I care about is getting Cynthia home safe and sound.”

  In between, Sloane had heard the story of an all-around camper who loved sports, reading, cultural studies, and family. The den in the Alexander house had an entire shelf of swimming trophies Cynthia had won, both in high school and college. She was quiet, but strong-willed, and refused to give up when she wanted something badly enough. She dated, but not heavily, and there was no one special guy in her life. Between her studies and her athletics, there hadn’t been time. But she had lots of male friends, and all those relationships were normal and healthy.

  Carole went on to explain that Cynthia worked hard to perfect her skills. But the only person she was fiercely competitive with was herself.

  Sloane had more than understood. In fact, listening to Carole Alexander speak, she’d gotten a déjà vu feeling. It was as if she were hearing her own mother talking about her high school and college years, rather than Cynthia’s. There was no doubt that Carole and Cynthia Alexander shared the same unique mother-daughter bond that Sloane’s mother shared with her—a bond that couldn’t be explained or denied.

  That thought brought a rueful smile to Sloane’s lips. She’d been so crazy busy this week that she hadn’t had a chance to give her folks a call. At this particular time, that was probably a good thing. Her mother could read her like a book, even over the phone, sometimes perceiving things about her even before Sloane did. And since crossing paths with Derek had thrown a monkey wrench into her life—one she wasn’t ready to get into with her mother, or with herself, for that matter—it was best that she deferred calling Florida until she’d gotten a better grip on her emotions.

  As she entered the teaching hospital’s atrium, her thoughts were interrupted by a security guard asking where she was going.

  She gave him Dr. Truman’s name, then headed for the elevators, mentally switching gears from Cynthia’s case to Penny’s.

  Dr. Ronald Truman had aged a lifetime since Sloane had last seen him, although she suspected that much of that aging had occurred since Penny’s disappearance.

  “Sloane.” Hope Truman rose from her chair, gesturing for Sloane to take the seat next to her. “Thank you so much for coming to the hospital. Ronald couldn’t get away, and he wanted to be here for this meeting.”

  “Of course.” Sloane sank down into the leather chair that Dr. Truman held out for her, and waited until he and his wife were seated.

  Sloane proceeded to tell the Trumans what they didn’t know—the specifics of what Derek had learned from Deanna and the absence of details on the FBI’s investigative plan going forward. And, most of all, the fact that Penny’s state of mind had been upbeat.

  “So we know almost the precise spot on campus where Penny vanished.” Hope Truman sat up straight, her fingers tightly clasping her purse as a fresh surge of optimism coursed through her. “Surely that’s enough of a lead to act on.”

  “It is,” Sloane agreed. “I spoke to Special Agent Parker this morning. Based on this new information, agents will be visiting the campus to investigate.”

  “Why are there no details on this investigation?” Ronald demanded before Sloane could finish her answer. “Who are they interviewing? And when?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not sure?” Ronald leaned forward, his eyes blazing. “In other words, more smoke and mirrors, courtesy of the FBI.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, Dr. Truman.” Sloane chose her words carefully. “Just because the Bureau isn’t comfortable sharing procedural details with me doesn’t mean they don’t have a plan. I’m sure they do.”

  “The decision of whether to share case details with you isn’t the Bureau’s. It’s ours. We hired you.”

  “I understand your feelings. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.” Sloane had to bite her tongue to keep from elaborating and letting Dr. Truman know just how livid she was about the approach Derek was taking.

  It was bizarre to find herself in this position. Derek was always the cowboy, the one who made quick evaluations and then charged into the fray, the one who placed getting results over playing by the rules. She was the diplomat, the one who applied psychology and careful planning before she acted. He was the first-strike force. She was the crisis negotiator.

  This time the roles were totally reversed. Worse, she had to be PC about her reaction to that, since to do otherwise would bash the Bureau. Which meant she had to defend Derek for his abrupt one-eighty, and swallow the fact that he might be doing this just to make her life difficult.

  Maybe she was being completely irrational. Either way, it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t dis the Bureau, and she wouldn’t dis Derek. The former was out of loyalty and training, and the latter was out of respect. Whatever else he was, Derek was an outstanding agent.

  She had to handle this just right to achieve the desired results.

  “When I spoke to Special Agent Parker, I brought up several ideas,” she informed the Trumans. “How quickly and how thoroughly they’ll pursue them, I just don’t know. In all fairness, Special Agent Parker is working on a different squad now, with a new pile of high-priority cases. So he has a lot to juggle. Compounding that problem is the fact that so many Bureau resources have been reallocated to counterterrorism.”

  “In other words, they don’t have the resources for what they consider to be, at best, a long shot, and at worst, a cold case that will never be solved,” Ronald interrupted.

  “It’s not that black-and-white. I’m just not sure where in the gray zone it falls.” Sloane paused, then went for the gold. “Officially, the Bureau has the final say about how they handle things. Being an outsider, I have only so much latitude when it comes to making demands. I can’t order them to provide me with full disclosure, or to include me in their planning.”

  “But I can.” Ronald Truman responded just as Sloane had hoped. “The assistant director in charge of the New York field office is an old friend of mine. We attended Hopkins together. Plus, I have a former golf buddy who’s now at FBI Headquarters in D.C. He’s a supervisor in the Criminal Investigative Division. His father is one of my patients. When Penelope first disappeared, I made phone calls to both New York and D.C. Those conversations resulted in Penelope’s case remaining visible, active, and being assigned to Special Agent Parker, who I was told was the best.”

  “He is.” That much Sloane could say without hesitation.

  “Then I don’t give a damn what squad he’s working on now. He’s in charge of Penelope’s case. We have new information to act on. I want him driving this hard and fast, with you brought up to speed and in the loop. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “I appreciate that.” Dr. Truman’s Bureau connections were even better than Sloane had guessed. “Support like that will make a huge difference.”

  “Consider it done.” Ronald Truman was already reaching for the phone. “Expect to hear from the New York field office later today,” he announced, punching in a phone number. “When I’m finished twisting the right arms, you’ll be getting an urgent call from Special Agent Parker.”

  Sloane gritted her teeth as she envisioned that call. “I’m sure I will.”

  FBI New York Field Office

  26 Federal Plaza, New York City

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Derek stared across the desk at his squad leader, his jaw working furiously as the significance of Tony’s words sank in. When he’d answered his boss’s summons, walked into the corner office, and taken a seat, he’d assumed he was being summoned for an update on whether C-6’s attempts to prevent a gang war had been successful. Or maybe some information on whether the cops had tracked down the psycho who was butchering Xiao Long’s girls.

  But this? Never.

  “No, Derek, I’m not kidding. I’m dead serious.” Tony leaned forward, fingers interlaced, wearing that Supervisory Special Agent Antonio Sanchez look that said
there was no give in this situation. “Until further notice, the Truman case is your number one priority. Everything else is back burner. My orders came from the ADIC himself. My hands are tied. And so are yours.”

  Derek’s fist struck the arm of his chair. “This is insane. Penelope Truman’s been missing for a year. We got a few new leads, enough to warrant some follow-up from the Atlantic City RA. They’re working those leads. There’s not a damn thing I can add to the process, certainly not enough to yank me away from C-6 when we’re sitting on a potential time bomb.”

  Tony didn’t avert his gaze. “Time bomb defused,” he supplied. “Your informants did their jobs. Xiao Long is turning his attention away from Lo Ma and toward other rival gangs, and the patrons who frequent his brothels.”

  “For now. We both know that unless Xiao Long finds his psycho, and fast, détente will be a thing of the past.”

  “If that happens, I’ll have you back here with us in a heartbeat.” Tony paused a moment. “Look, if this were only about Dr. Truman’s connections, and his demands were baseless, I’d fight this decision. But if you put aside your anger long enough to be objective, you’ll have to admit that the Trumans have a point. We’re not just talking about a new lead here. We’re talking about confirmation that Penelope Truman didn’t just take off. She vanished from a college campus in broad daylight. Which not only points to foul play, but pinpoints a location for her disappearance. You were, and are, the case agent of record. You were initially assigned at the Trumans’ request, because they were told you were the best. For months, you were their lifeline. Do you blame them for insisting that you continue running things?”

  “No. What’s more, I intended to—from here. But to set up shop in AC? How do you think Tom McGraw’s going to feel with me breathing down his neck?”

  “He’s fine with it. We spoke ten minutes ago. He gets it that the Trumans feel a sense of security with you at the helm. He said you should check in to the Best Western tomorrow morning, then meet him at Richard Stockton at nine-thirty. Oh, and dinner at that pricey seafood place you liked last time. Your treat.”