“Ex–FBI agent,” she reminded him.
“For now. That’ll change.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll see.” Sloane’s jaw tightened in a way that declared the subject closed.
She finished her presentation, answered a slew of questions, and then chatted with her copresenters for a while after the seminar broke up. She knew the John Jay faculty participants from previous workshops they’d given here, and from her visits to Elliot. They’d known each other since her freshman year in high school when she’d tutored him in Spanish and he’d tutored her in computers. They’d stayed in touch afterward, and resumed their friendship when Sloane left the Bureau and moved back east.
An hour later, she was heading for her car, reflecting on the disparate opinions voiced by law enforcement professionals and academicians. Watching silver-haired Lillian Doyle explain the roots of violence in modern-day civilization to Jimmy O’Donnelly, a retired NYPD detective who’d seen every heinous form of violence imaginable, was like watching two people talking two different languages. The louder they spoke, the less they understood each other.
Still, the eclectic composition of the panel was good for the attendees. They’d gotten a varied perspective on the subject of crimes against women. It was also good for the speakers. Neither Jimmy O’Donnelly nor Larry Clark was the type to retire. As for the professors, they reveled in the debates. Especially Lillian Doyle, who, according to Elliot, needed the mental distraction. Her cancer was no longer in remission, and this semester had been a tough one on her.
Sloane herself enjoyed doing these workshops. They were good for her in more ways than one.
She turned up the collar of her coat as a stiff breeze blasted across her face, reminding her that winter wasn’t quite over. A throbbing pain shot through her palm, triggering the same vivid flashback as always. The knife, slicing through her flesh. The blood. The pain. It was an image she couldn’t escape. It had changed the course of her life.
It had changed her.
Now she winced, belatedly realizing she should have put on her street gloves before venturing outside. Her occupational therapist would be royally pissed if she knew. Well, no point in fishing for them now. She was practically at her car.
A few minutes later, she hopped into her Subaru Outback. It took her extra time to turn the key in the ignition, and she gritted her teeth against the discomfort.
The engine had just turned over when her cell phone rang.
The caller ID read private. Not unusual. Most of her clients chose to protect their privacy.
“Sloane Burbank,” she said into the mouthpiece.
“Sloane?” a women’s tentative voice replied. “This is Hope Truman. Penny’s mother. I don’t know if you remember me.”
“Mrs. Truman—hello—of course I remember you.” Sloane’s brows arched in surprise. It had been a dozen years since she’d spoken to the Trumans, although she and Penny had been inseparable friends in elementary and middle school. Even afterward, when Penny had gone on to attend a private high school, they’d still gotten together for shop-till-you-drop days and sleepovers. Then social lives, college applications, and life had kicked in, and they’d eventually grown apart and ultimately lost touch. But the memories of their antics, their secret codes, and shared adolescence were the kind that lasted forever, like cherished diaries.
“How are you?” Sloane asked. “And how’s Penny? Last I heard she was working her way up the editorial ladder at Harper’s Bazaar.”
“Then you don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“That’s why I’m calling.” Mrs. Truman took a deep breath. “Penny disappeared almost a year ago.”
Sloane’s spine straightened. “When you say disappeared…”
“I mean vanished into thin air. Without a trace. And without a word to Ronald and me. No contact whatsoever.”
“No contact from Penny—or from anyone?” Sloane’s trained mind kicked into gear. The Trumans were wealthy and high-visibility. Ronald Truman was a renowned cardiologist at Mount Sinai. He was always making medical headlines. And recently his self-help books on keeping your heart healthy had topped the bestseller lists.
Making the Trumans ideal candidates for extortion.
“No contact from anyone,” Mrs. Truman was answering.
“You never received a ransom call or note?”
“Never. And God knows, we waited. Trust me, Sloane, we went through every channel and considered every option. Including the unthinkable—that it was a kidnapping gone wrong. But Penny’s body was never found.” A shaky sigh. “I’m aware of how slim the odds are. It’s been eleven months. But she’s my daughter. I can’t let it go.”
“I understand.”
Sloane knew a lot more about the odds than Mrs. Truman did. And what she knew made her sick.
“I just read the newspaper article about you and the conference you’re speaking at,” Mrs. Truman continued. “I had no idea you were an FBI agent, or that you’d left to apply your skills as a private consultant. When I saw those words—it was the first glimmer of hope I’ve felt in months. We’ve exhausted all avenues. I remember what close friends you and Penny were. You were inseparable for years. I’m asking you—no, I’m begging you—before you leave Manhattan, would you stop by my apartment? I realize I’m asking a great deal, and with absolutely no notice. I’m willing to pay anything you ask—double or triple your normal rates. I’ll have my driver pick you up at the campus and drop you off there afterward. Whatever it takes to—”
“That’s not necessary,” Sloane interrupted. There were a hundred questions running through her mind. But this situation had to be probed in person. “Penny was a big part of my life. If there’s anything I can do, I’ll do it. The conference just ended. I’m in the parking lot with my motor running. I’ll swing by now, before I head home.”
“God bless you.” There were tears of gratitude in the older woman’s voice.
“What’s your address?”
“One twenty-five East Seventy-eighth, between Park and Lex. Apartment 640.”
“I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER
TWO
DATE: 20 March
TIME: 1800 hours
OBJECTIVE: Athena
Finally. She’s awake.
This time there’s awareness in her eyes. Not like the other times she came to, when she was groggy and disoriented. This time she sees me—really sees me. She’s quivering. Afraid.
She should be. She knows she’s mine.
I can feel that adrenaline rush begin. I’m used to it now, although the first time it caught me by surprise. Not anymore. Now I anticipate it. It feels good. Power. Control. She’s resisting, but her struggles are futile. This time I took extra precautions because of her strength and intelligence. Thicker ropes binding her wrists and ankles. Duct tape securing the ropes. The door of her room double-locked.
I didn’t gag her. I will when I go out. But no one can hear her. Not from this place.
Breaking her is going to be harder than the last one. But I’ll do what I must.
They demand it.
125 East Seventy-eighth Street, Apartment 640
Sloane perched at the edge of the Trumans’ elegant antique mahogany-and-damask sofa, sipping the tea that Penny’s mother had insisted on brewing. Setting down her cup, she adjusted her pen in a style she’d gotten used to—one that guarded her injury—and flipped open her notebook.
She waited patiently while Hope Truman fluttered about, arranging a plate of ladyfingers.
Ladyfingers. That brought back a slew of memories. Snack time at Penny’s, after they’d played Barbies for hours. Penny would stylize her Barbie, choosing fashionable outfits for her, then color-and style-coordinating all her accessories. Sloane would pretend her Barbie was She-ra, Princess of Power, and body parts would fly. It was lucky for Ken that he wasn’t anatomically correct.
Back then, ladyfingers had represented a treat. Now they
were Hope Truman’s way of releasing a burst of nervous energy—desperation and procrastination combined. Sloane recognized the signs. A loved one who wanted results, but was terrified of what they’d be. And after nearly a year? There was nothing to cling to but prayers, nothing to hope for but a miracle.
Sloane was supposed to be that miracle.
Subtly, she studied Penny’s mother. At fifty-seven, she’d aged gracefully. Still slender. Well put together. Hair and makeup perfect. Brown cashmere turtleneck sweater and camel slacks that made her a walking ad for Bergdorf.
But it was obvious that this crisis had taken a huge toll.
There were tight lines on her face that had nothing to do with age, and a haunted look in her eyes that Sloane had seen too many times to misread.
“So how are your parents?” Mrs. Truman asked, grasping for chitchat to accompany the normal motions of hostessing.
“They’re fine,” Sloane replied. “They retired and moved to Florida—although I use the word retired loosely. My mother still works with a few of her favorite authors who were clients at her literary agency, and my dad still handles an occasional art deal if he has an affinity for the piece involved.”
“Yes, I remember how much he used to travel abroad—and how often you went with him.”
“I loved it. That’s how I learned so many languages. It’s probably one of the main reasons the Bureau became so interested in recruiting me.” Sloane cleared her throat, and gently steered the conversation to where it needed to be. “Do you want to tell me about Penny?”
With an unsteady nod, Mrs. Truman stopped fussing over the refreshments and sank onto the edge of a wingback chair, her fingers tightly interlaced as she spoke. “I apologize for rambling.”
“Don’t. You’re frightened. Striking up ordinary conversation is a natural reaction under circumstances like these.”
“Thank you. And thank you for coming,” Mrs. Truman repeated. “I can’t tell you what it means to me.”
“You don’t have to.” Sloane leaned forward. “Mrs. Truman…”
“Hope,” the older woman corrected. Her lips curved ever so slightly. “You’re not a child anymore. I think we can dispense with the formalities.”
Sloane returned the faint smile. “Okay—Hope. I can only imagine what an ordeal this has been for you and your husband. You said Penny disappeared a year ago?”
“As of April fourteenth, yes, it will be a year. Although we didn’t find out she was missing until several days afterward.”
“Tell me all the details you can.”
Hope nodded, resorting to autopilot as she retold a story she’d probably told a dozen times before. “The fourteenth was a Saturday. She didn’t show up at work on the sixteenth or the seventeenth. She didn’t call in either day. Her assistant at the magazine tried to reach her at home and on her cell. No answer. The morning of the seventeenth, she was scheduled to meet her friend Amy for breakfast. Amy and Penny roomed together after college graduation for two or three years. Ronald and I have met Amy many times. She’s lovely. When Penny didn’t keep their breakfast date, and Amy had no luck finding her at her office or with any of her friends, she called us.”
“And you called the police.”
Hope nodded. “They ran down every lead they could. Eventually, they learned that a woman matching Penny’s description had bought a bus ticket to Atlantic City on April fourteenth. At that point, they brought in the FBI.”
“Which field office handled the case—New York or Newark?”
“New York, although they worked closely with Newark. It didn’t matter. Neither turned up anything. Either the woman they thought was Penny never arrived in Atlantic City or there were no witnesses who remembered seeing her.”
“What about a credit-card receipt for the ticket?”
“Another dead end. Whoever bought that ticket paid cash.”
Sloane’s brow furrowed. “This doesn’t sit right. I realize Penny and I hadn’t been in touch in ages, but she wanted to write for a fashion magazine since we were eleven. Plus, she was always conscientious. Unless she made a complete one-eighty—”
“She didn’t.”
“Then didn’t the fact that she missed work for two days without so much as a phone call raise any red flags at Harper’s Bazaar?”
“Yes…and no.” Hope took a shaky sip of tea. “It seems Penny was going through a rough patch at work. Something about being passed over for a promotion. It was a rocky time for her. Not just professionally, but personally. According to Penny’s assistant, Rosalinda, Penny had been seeing someone and the relationship had just broken up. So when Penny didn’t come in, Rosalinda covered for her. She told everyone at the magazine that Penny was working at home. When the FBI questioned her, she admitted that Penny had left the office the previous day in tears, saying something about what a mess her life was and how she was ready to pack it in.”
“At that point, did Penny get in touch with you?” Sloane asked carefully.
“No, not that day. We spoke about a week earlier.” Hope Truman cleared her throat. “If you’re asking if we were close, I’d say we were—as a mother and daughter. We weren’t girlfriends. She was a private person. She didn’t confide in me about her personal life. So if she went through a breakup, she didn’t mention it. But splitting up with a boyfriend can hardly be compared to dropping off the face of the earth. If Penny had planned on doing that, she would never have done so without a word to her father and me. Nor would she have done so without taking her personal belongings or making final arrangements with her landlord, her bank, and her utility companies. Plus, none of her credit cards has been used since her disappearance.”
“What was the FBI’s theory on all that?”
“That the combination of personal issues in her life might have overwhelmed her. That she might have become depressed. And that severe depression sometimes causes people to behave in ways that are inconsistent with their personalities.”
Sloane hid her skepticism. Translated, the investigators were saying that Penny either lost it and ran off to start a new life, severing all ties with her old one, or she committed suicide. Well, suicide would have produced a body and probably a note. And fleeing to start over? That theory was extreme. Especially since a year had passed. By now, Penny would have contacted her family, let them know she was okay.
None of that reasoning cheered Sloane up. Because the alternatives were far more gruesome.
“I know all the terrifying thoughts that are going through your mind right now,” Hope said. “I’ve agonized over every one of them for almost a year. None of this fits. But I have nowhere to turn. I check in with the FBI periodically. The agent at the New York field office who’s handling the case is always polite, always willing to check out anything Ronald and I come up with. But I’m not a fool. They’ve put this case on the back burner. Unless some new lead materializes…”
“Let me talk to them,” Sloane suggested. “I have contacts in the New York field office. I’ll explain the situation and tell them you’ve hired me. They’ll set up a meeting between me and the special agent in charge of your case. He or she will bring me up to speed. That’ll help me decide on the best course of action.” Sloane’s pen poised over the page. “What’s his or her name?”
“His. Special Agent Parker.”
Sloane’s chin came up. “Derek Parker?”
A nod. “Why? Do you know him?”
“Yes. I know him.” Sloane went back to writing. “We worked together in the Cleveland field office.” She shut her notebook and set aside her teacup. “I’ll contact New York first thing tomorrow and set up a meeting with him. I’ll call you right afterward and fill you in. We’ll take it from there.”
Mrs. Truman’s lips trembled. “Thank you, Sloane.”
“Thank me when I have some answers.” And pray that those answers aren’t what I expect.
Sloane rose. She wasn’t looking forward to this. The whole situation sucked. Her objectiv
ity was compromised on both sides. The odds that Penny was alive stunk. And given who the agent in charge was, the cooperation would stink, too.
She’d have to pull a few favors, set up this meeting without Derek knowing about it in advance. That would take away his home-court advantage and give her an edge—at least going in.
After that, all bets were off.
CHAPTER
THREE
Where am I?
Oh my God. Where is he?
It’s been hours since he left. Or does it just feel that way? He gagged me. I begged him not to. I promised not to scream. I couldn’t if I tried. My mouth is so dry. My throat is raw. But he said the gag was a test. A test for what?
My mind is fuzzy. I can’t remember how I got here or how long it’s been. Snatches of memory flicker, then scatter like dust. It must be the drugs.
What does he want?
He won’t tell me. All he says is that I’ll know when the time is right, and that if I’m good, he’ll leave off the gag and untie the ropes.
The mattress I’m on smells stale. So does the blanket. It’s scratchy, but at least it’s something to wrap myself in to stave off the chill. I thanked him when he gave it to me. He looked pleased.
Still, I’m so cold. My whole body aches. A rough blanket and a musty mattress do little to cushion this hard, bare floor. It feels like concrete. The room’s small, like a child’s bedroom. I can’t see much. He keeps it dimly lit. There’s a tiny window, but the curtains are drawn. It’s like I’m locked in some kind of a cage. By myself. Earlier today, I heard another voice through the wall. A woman’s voice. At least I thought I did. Maybe I was hallucinating. I can’t focus.
What is he going to do to me?
I’m not sure what’s more terrifying—finding out his plan, or lying here, helpless and waiting.
Footsteps. Coming toward the room. A key turning.
Please, God, let someone have found me. Let this nightmare end.
No. Oh no. It’s him. He’s back.