Twisted

  She squatted down, hugged each of them fiercely, while never lowering her head or her gun. She was so relieved, she almost started to cry. The hounds were okay. That was the most important thing. Now she’d investigate who her visitor had been, and if he was still here.

  The kitchen light was on, but she always left it on, so the hounds would never be in total darkness. Still, she started there. Slowly, room by room, she went through the house, gun raised, ready to fire if need be.

  Nothing had been stolen, and nothing seemed to be disturbed.

  Until she went into her bedroom.

  He’d been here. She could sense it. Evidently, so could the hounds, because they shoved past her and began sniffing every square inch of the bedroom floor.

  Flipping on the light, Sloane swept the room with her gaze and her pistol. No one was there—now.

  But she quickly spotted that her picture frame was sitting at a different angle than it had been before, her hand-therapy tools had been rearranged, and one of the pillows on her bed was propped slightly higher than the other—not to mention that there was a faint, but distinct imprint of a person’s body on her comforter.

  Still scrutinizing the room, she picked up the phone and dialed 911. Clearly and concisely, she reported the break-in, then provided the operator with her name, address, and phone number, as well as with the facts that no one had been injured and there was no sign that the intruder was still on the premises.

  That call complete, she punched in the home phone number of Gary Lake, a special agent who’d graduated from Quantico with her, and who now worked in the Newark field office. One of his ancillary responsibilities was being part of the Evidence Response Team.

  He answered the phone on the second ring.

  “Gary?” she began. “It’s Sloane. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Hey.” He sounded surprised. “Nope, I have some work to do before I turn in. Ironic you should call. I was just talking about you to Tom McGraw. I told him the Bureau needs you back; you’re an awesome agent.”

  “He mentioned it. Thanks for the praise. Listen, Gary, I need a favor. Someone broke into my house.”

  “Are you okay?” All personal catch-up vanished as Gary immediately transformed into a hundred percent special agent and concerned colleague.

  “I’m fine. Thankfully, no injuries, not to me or my dogs. I already called the local police. They’re on their way. But there are mitigating circumstances to this break-in. I have reason to believe that the offender is wanted by the FBI and the NYPD—and not for robbery. For drug theft, kidnapping, and multiple murders. I realize you live about twenty minutes away. But I need you to come over and see if you can find even a shred of evidence—a fingerprint, footprint, anything—to prove that this is the same offender. Can you possibly swing it?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Thanks, Gary.” Sloane felt another wave of relief. “I owe you one. I’ll leash up my dogs and take them outside so we don’t further contaminate the crime scene. And I’ll fill in the locals when they arrive.”

  “See you in twenty.” Gary hung up.

  The minute Sloane stepped out the front door with all three hounds in tow, Hank opened his car door to determine what was going on.

  “I’m fine, Hank,” Sloane called out to him. “Someone broke into my house while I was in the city.”

  He jumped out of the Focus, retrieved his weapon, and rushed up the driveway.

  “The intruder’s gone,” Sloane assured him as he bounded up the front steps and reached the door. “I called the police. There’s no cause for alarm. No one’s hurt and almost nothing was touched.”

  Hank scowled. “Why didn’t you come out and get me the minute you realized you’d had an intruder?”

  A rueful smile. “It’s the FBI agent in me. Trained to defuse a situation quickly and safely. I just grabbed my pistol and checked out the place. And I saw right away that whoever had broken in here was gone. Besides, I had to make sure my dogs were all right. Which they are.”

  “Next time, clue me in. That’s what I’m here for.” Hank whipped out his cell phone. “I’ll call Derek.”

  “No, don’t.” Sloane put her hand on his arm to stop him. “There’s nothing Derek can do, and no reason for him to freak out. Like I said, the intruder’s gone, and everything’s fine. Besides, look.” She pointed toward the road as a local police car sped up to her house and veered into the driveway. “The cops are here.”

  Simultaneous with her announcement, the hounds went into a barking frenzy.

  “Easy,” Sloane soothed them. “It’s okay.” She turned back to Hank. “I also called someone from the Newark field office’s ERT. Everything’s under control. We’ve got more than enough law enforcement here. Derek’s in the middle of a Bureau crisis. I’ll fill him in when I actually have information to pass on.”

  Hank hesitated, clearly ambivalent about Sloane’s request.

  “I’ll take full responsibility for this,” she assured him quietly. “Please, Hank. I’m a big girl. I’m also a trained FBI agent, even if I’m not with the Bureau now. I know what I’m doing. And you’re welcome to stay for the police questioning. In fact, I’d welcome it. You can fill in anything pertinent I omit. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you anyway.”

  “All right.” Hank relented as two uniformed police officers walked over, ready to take Sloane’s statement.

  At the same time, Gary’s car swung into the driveway.

  “That’s an FBI agent,” she explained to the cops. “I called him. He’s with the Bureau’s ERT.” She saw their miffed expressions and hurried on. “It’s possible that whoever broke into my house is wanted by the FBI and the NYPD. So Special Agent Lake will be searching my house for evidence. In the meantime, I’ll give you a full report of the break-in. And this is Hank Murphy, my security guard. He’s been with me all day, but he’ll gladly answer any of your questions as well.”

  That seemed to appease them. She said hi and thank you to Gary, and then told him to go in and do his thing. She and the hounds stayed outside with Hank and the cops, where she filled them in on what she had—and hadn’t—found upon arriving at her house tonight. There been no sign of the intruder. He’d come and gone when no one was home except her dogs, whom he’d locked in the spare bedroom. No one was hurt. Nothing was stolen. And nothing was damaged.

  Then the questioning had started. Sloane knew the rundown, and she responded as coherently as her dazed mind would allow. Hank filled in an occasional detail, which Sloane greatly appreciated. She felt like she was operating in slow motion, the adrenaline that had been pumping through her now plummeting and dropping her to earth with a thud. She had no idea how much time had passed, or how long she had stood outside answering the officers’ questions.

  No, she didn’t believe this could have been a prank. Yes, she kept her front door locked. Yes, she definitely believed this was personal. And, yes, she was convinced that the break-in was linked to the other crimes in question.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Gary stepped outside onto the front porch.

  Sloane’s head came up. “Did you find anything?”

  “Yup.” He held up a sealed Ziploc bag. “There were no fingerprints or footprints. But there were these few strands of hair on your pillow that weren’t your color or texture. I’ll have them analyzed as quickly as I can.”

  “Great. And after you do, run the DNA in CODIS and please be sure to cross-check against the forensic index.”

  Gary met her gaze and nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “And once you are, do we know who we’re arresting?” one of the officers asked.

  “Not yet,” Sloane replied. “But we will.”

  One by one, the law enforcement crowd left her house. Hank waited until she and the hounds were safely locked inside before he returned to keep vigil in his car.

  Sloane sank down on the carpet and hugged and scruffled each hound. They tolerated it for a
minute or two, then raced back to the bedroom to explore the strange, new smells.

  It was only then, when Sloane was sitting alone on the floor, that she felt the throbbing in her palm and the pain in her index finger. She looked down and realized she was still clutching her pistol.

  And she knew that, pain or no pain, she would have used it.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  DATE: 16 April

  TIME: 0900 hours

  I’d made a fine selection. The right goddess to replace Tyche.

  Linda Crowley. Professor of East Asian Studies at Princeton. Artemis had audited her Advanced Mandarin class last fall. Professor Crowley, who took brisk evening walks around Carnegie Lake, who enjoyed the simple wonders of nature. She would have been an ideal Demeter.

  But when I arrived, university cops were patrolling the streets and swarming the campus like ants on an anthill. Security was tight, and the entire community was on high alert.

  The grounds were deserted. No one was walking around Carnegie Lake or anywhere else. Success had escaped me.

  I left Princeton in a hurry, heading as fast as I could toward home.

  That’s when it struck me.

  The extended involvement of the FBI and police departments throughout New York and New Jersey had squeezed me out of my home turf. Campuses in both states would be like high-security prisons. Fulfilling my mission would be impossible.

  With that realization, I lost it entirely. I’m sure no one could blame me, not even the gods. I was trapped. Stuck in an immoral world, powerless to reach Mount Olympus.

  Filled with rage, I drove so recklessly that I was lucky to make it home alive. Once inside, I smashed whatever was in my path—chairs, tables, the vases I’d bought for Demeter’s flowers. I even put my fist through a wall, ignoring the cuts and lacerations. I actually considered going back to Queens and butchering every whore in the borough, just to spit in the cops’ faces.

  I pictured the whores. Their depraved bodies and faces after I slashed them to bits. I fell to my knees, dug my knife deep into the carpet, and tore it apart, visualizing their bleeding, severed bodies as I shouted obscenities. I grabbed the furniture that was in my way, hurled it against the walls. Pieces of wood shattered, like the bones and ribs of their bodies.

  Abruptly, I couldn’t breathe. The room started spinning, then fading, dark spots flashing before my eyes. I fell to the floor, gasping for air. For one horrifying minute, I thought I was dying, that this was the gods’ punishment for my falling short of their expectations. Death, followed by hell. No. Please, no. This couldn’t be what they intended.

  Comprehension dawned. I had to prove my worthiness. They were testing me. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, fail them.

  I crawled into the kitchen, grabbed a paper bag, and breathed into it until the hyperventilation subsided.

  I wasn’t going to die. I had to find another way to fulfill my mission.

  Seeking inspiration, I went into the room I’d crafted for Artemis, stopping to collect my precious childhood book. I sat on the floor, slowly turning the pages, starting, as always, by reading and rereading the loving inscription. I read on, pausing on the story of Demeter, then focusing on the illustrations of Artemis and Apollo. The archer god and goddess, both depicted with their bows and arrows.

  That’s when I remembered the photo I’d seen on her dresser.

  And suddenly there was hope.

  Again, the gods are smiling down upon me. My alternate plan for a substitute for Tyche exceeds the original by far. Professor Crowley had been an excellent choice. But this is a windfall.

  I smile as I think of the age-old sales pitch: “Buy one, get one free.” I wish I could let its creator know how far I’d surpassed it. My slogan would read: “Buy none, get two free.”

  Hunterdon County, New Jersey

  11 A.M.

  Sloane was frustrated and edgy.

  She and Larry still hadn’t finished a comprehensive list of everyone who’d crossed paths with her in her lifetime. Analyzing and reviewing it at least a dozen times hadn’t helped. She never realized how many people she knew. And the list just kept on growing. However, none of the individuals she’d come up with seemed to fit the profile of a serial killer.

  Of course there had been some shady characters, along with violent ones, whom she’d helped convict when she’d worked at the D.A.’s office. Larry was checking into any of them that might have been recently paroled. As for her FBI career, it had been brief. Plus, she’d been working white-collar crimes, not violent ones. So unless one of the offenders she’d talked into surrendering during a hostage negotiation crisis was out of prison, that seemed like a dead end.

  Her current life as a consultant was no more fruitful when it came to producing likely suspects. The clients who retained her services were either corporations or law enforcement—and, in the case of the latter, her assignments were in a teaching or investigative capacity. She was no longer a special agent, nor did she have the strength and dexterity to pull the trigger of her gun with enough speed and accuracy to suit her. So actively assisting in the apprehension of criminals was out.

  From there, Larry had questioned her about her male friends, both longstanding and new, about guys she’d been involved with and dumped, as well as about the men enrolled in her Krav Maga class. They talked about colleagues, acquaintances, and neighbors from A to Z in New York, in Cleveland, and here. Everyone from Andy Zarelli her hairstylist to Luke Doyle, her friend from 9/11, had been added then crossed off the list.

  That brought up the subject of Burt. Larry put an asterisk next to his name. He was single, a little eccentric, able to come and go with relative ease, and overtly interested in Sloane.

  Sloane was so overwhelmed by the whole procedure, she didn’t know what to believe.

  What she did know was that, when they touched on Elliot, she realized how long it had been since they’d talked. She’d been at John Jay a host of times this past week, but she’d been totally focused on the investigation. So she hadn’t thought to drop in on Elliot. He was doubtless at his desk—where he was a permanent fixture—working on the software program he was so diligently developing to help stop cybercrime. And in between, he was probably looking out his office window at the police presence on campus, cringing at the invasion of privacy, and fraught with anxiety over what had happened to Cynthia Alexander.

  He might be a geek, but he was a kindhearted guy. Fine, so he wasn’t James Bond. A violent crime like this—one that struck so close to home—threw him and, yes, scared him. He felt vulnerable to the attacker, and claustrophobic from the press. But, most of all, he was worried about Cynthia. Elliot truly cared about people, particularly his students.

  Initially, it was that caring, coupled with Sloane’s genuine affection for Elliot, that prompted her to pick up the phone and make an appointment to see him. But as she was about to dial his number, an interesting idea occurred to her.

  Elliot was a genius at what he did. Always had been, always would be. He was committed to his work, with a fervent sense of responsibility to the financial institutions bankrolling his research. Add to that his great and longstanding aspirations to utilize his talents in ways that could truly benefit society.

  The sum total of that thought process got Sloane wondering if the program Elliot was developing—albeit focused on subtle patterns in financial transactions—was robust enough to be utilized in other ways.

  Eager to explore the possibility, Sloane had set up an appointment with Elliot for later that day. The plan was for her to come by his office around three, after which they’d catch a drink together.

  Pacing around the kitchen, Sloane refilled the hounds’ water bowls and—for the tenth time—looked out the window toward Elsa’s house. She’d been hoping to see Burt’s car so she could chat with him. He’d called her the night of the break-in, asked if everything was okay. Since then, nothing. Which was odd, since he was taking constant care of Elsa these days.
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  Maybe it was time to go over there and check things out.

  She was just about to leave the house when her phone rang. She ran back in and picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Sloane? It’s Gary.”

  “Gary.” She felt a surge of guilt. She’d been meaning to call her friend for the past two days to thank him for rushing over at the drop of a hat and at 11 P.M., no less. But she’d been so busy and preoccupied working with Larry that she’d literally forgotten.

  “I’m so glad you called,” she told him sincerely. “Although I’m the one who should be calling you. I’m so sorry. I’ve been crazed by this case, and I let the time get away from me. But that’s no excuse. I can’t thank you enough for what you did the other night.”

  “No apology necessary. It’s obvious you have your hands full. But the thanks I’ll accept, especially since you’re about to have even more to thank me for.”

  Sloane’s ears perked up. “Go on.”

  “Your hounds are off the hook,” Gary informed her lightly. “The strands of hair I plucked off your pillow were definitely human.”

  “What a relief.” Sloane smiled. “Now I won’t have to revoke their bedtime privileges.”

  Gary sobered, relaying the information Sloane had been waiting for. “I’ve got results from the DNA analysis. There was no match to existing offenders in CODIS. However, I ran it through the forensic index, as you requested. There were three hits. One NYPD case, and two local New Jersey cases.”

  Sloane bit her lip. A serial killer had been in her house, on her bed. That fact was more than a little unsettling. Still, on a purely professional level, this was a lucky break. The offender who was committing these heinous crimes was now officially identified—through DNA evidence—as the same man who was stalking her and who’d invaded her home. It provided another factual piece in this puzzle, one more link that could result in finding and convicting their Unsub.

  “You’re right, I do have more to thank you for,” Sloane replied. “Originally, I planned to spring for drinks. Now it’s dinner. Your choice of restaurants.”