Twisted

  He squatted down, scratching their ears absently and waiting until they’d calmed down enough for him to do what he had to do. Then he rose, urging Sloane into the living room, and gently tugging on her hand until she was seated beside him on the sofa.

  “What is it?” Sloane demanded, her body rigid as she faced him. “Whatever it is, it’s bad. Derek, tell me.”

  He didn’t mince words. It wouldn’t soften the impact, and it would only prolong her agony.

  “It’s Elliot. He didn’t show up at John Jay yesterday—not for his office hours, not for his shift monitoring the AI system, not even a phone call to check on its status. His grad students tried to reach him on his cell, but their calls went straight to voice mail. By dawn this morning, Deborah was worried enough to call the cops.”

  The color had already drained from Sloane’s face. “And?”

  “And I got a call from Bob Erwin. The Ninth Precinct in the East Village found Elliot in his apartment.”

  “Found him.” Sloane knew what that meant. “Was he beaten? Stabbed? Worse?”

  “I’m sorry,” Derek said quietly.

  Utter silence filled the room.

  “He’s dead?” Sloane finally managed.

  “The time of death was Tuesday morning, sometime around one A.M. There was no break-in. Either Elliot knew the killer, or he was half asleep, and just let the guy in.”

  Sloane’s throat was working as she fought back tears. “You went to the crime scene?”

  A nod. “I just came from there.”

  “The killer—was it our Unsub?”

  “There’s no doubt. The murder was committed using his signature style.”

  “Oh God.” Sloane squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingertips against her eyelids to try to block out the images already forming in her mind. “He carved Elliot up with a combat knife. Who knows how long he spent cutting him? Who knows how long it took Elliot to die? Did the son of a bitch make him beg for his life? Who am I kidding? By the end, he was probably begging to die, not to live.”

  She continued, speaking half to herself. “Elliot’s such a softie. He’s afraid of spiders and horror movies, and he turns sheet white every time I mention my work. Violence scares the crap out of him. He had to be panicked out of his mind. And the agonizing pain…being slashed like that…the sheer terror of knowing that death was inevitable…I can’t begin to imagine…”

  “Don’t try.” Derek hesitated, then reached for her, drawing her against him. “It was quick. And without prolonged suffering. Not the way you’re picturing it. There was no creative carving. The Unsub went directly for the jugular. He didn’t have the luxury of time. He had to get in and out of that apartment in a hurry. This wasn’t a show of power, it was the elimination of a threat. So he just did what he came to do, and took off.”

  “The jugular,” Sloane repeated. “How many slashes?”

  “A few.” Derek tried to hedge.

  Sloane wasn’t buying it. “In other words, at least three. He wanted to be sure that Elliot was very, very dead. Quick and brutal. Which means a roomful of blood, but less torture.” Sloane gave a humorless laugh. Then, abruptly, she slammed her fist against Derek’s chest—once, twice, before she forced herself to stop. “It’s not fair. Goddammit, it’s just not fair. Elliot was a good, decent man. He got involved in this project, in part because I asked him to, despite his personal apprehension, but especially because he wanted to save lives. And it ended up costing him his own. Why? Why the hell do things like this happen?”

  “I can’t answer that.” Derek gazed across the room, staring at nothing in particular. “I don’t understand it any more than you do. I’ve tortured myself with that question countless times, and every time I’ve come up empty.”

  “Empty. That’s a pretty good description of the way I feel. Empty and sick. And ridden with guilt.” Sloane’s tough veneer began to crack, and tears clogged her voice as she broke down and began to cry. “I brought Elliot on board. And now he’s dead. Dead. And that psycho is running around scot-free.”

  “You’re in shock.” Derek stated the obvious, his hands gliding up and down Sloane’s back in gentle, soothing motions. “Give it time. But start out knowing this was not your fault. Don’t go down that path. Yes, you approached Elliot with the idea. But he chose to do it—no, he was excited about doing it. His murder is an atrocity. But it’s the Unsub who’s responsible, not you.”

  “I know,” Sloane replied in a shattered tone, her body still shaking with sobs. “But we’ve known each other since high school. We studied together. We ragged on each other. He got me through Computer Programming. I got him through Spanish. He’s eccentric, and he’s goofy, and he’s got a heart of gold. And now he’s gone. I’m never going to see him again. Never. I just can’t wrap my mind around that.”

  Derek wished he had more of the right words to offer. But both he and Sloane knew those words didn’t exist. So he gave her the only ones he had. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

  She nodded against his shirt.

  No more words were said. For long, silent minutes, Sloane just wept, and Derek just held her.

  Abruptly, she jerked upright, her face streaked with tears that she dashed away. “Elliot deserves better than this. I’m not going to sit here and cry. I’m going to do something. No matter what it takes. I’m going to find this son of a bitch and skewer him with his own combat knife.”

  Derek’s gut clenched. He knew Sloane meant every word. And while he didn’t give a damn how violent this Unsub’s death was, he wasn’t going to let Sloane “go vigilante,” which would end up putting her life in danger.

  “You’re not alone in this,” he stated fervently. “Every single one of us is with you. None of us will rest until this bastard is caught.” Derek went on, purposely shifting from the emotional to the factual: “ERT processed the scene quickly. Between them and the Crime Scene Unit, they found and bagged quite a bit of evidence, including fingerprints, hair, and, obviously, blood and blood splatter. They even found two shoe prints in the blood. All the forensic evidence is at Quantico by now. The guys there will turn up something.”

  “The blood and fingerprints will be Elliot’s. You know that as well as I do. The same goes for the hair. The blood splatter will confirm that a main artery was severed. Even if the Unsub got careless, a DNA profile will take two days. We can’t wait that long.” Sloane stopped only long enough to take a breath. “What about neighbors? A doorman? Didn’t anyone see anything?” She jumped to her feet. “I want to go down to that apartment. I’ll interview every damn person in the building. Someone must have noticed something.”

  “Sloane, stop.” Derek rose and gripped her shoulders. “You can’t march into that apartment and start grilling people. You’re not FBI, and you’re not NYPD. If you cross the line, you could compromise the whole case.”

  Sloane gritted her teeth, knowing damn well that Derek was right. “You realize what this means,” she surmised aloud. “If the Unsub knew what Elliot was working on, it means he’s someone who hangs around John Jay. Maybe even someone who works there. He could be anything from a professor to an administrator to a maintenance worker.”

  “Or he could be someone who was at Lillian’s party the other night,” Derek reminded her. “If so, and if he heard that Elliot was working to analyze the abductions through his new computer program, he’d freak out.”

  “You’re right.” Sloane nodded. “We’ll have to question every John Jay employee, and every guest who was at that party. We’ll have to get DNA samples from each one of them, too.”

  “And we will. The arrangements to do so are already under way. So’s the list of people to interview, which is already being compiled. Larry and Bill have been apprised of the situation, too, so they’re on board. We’ll do it all—and then some. We will find this Unsub.”

  “Before he kidnaps or kills someone else?” Sloane shot Derek a probing look. “This isn’t like you. You’re the case agent in
charge. You have a ton of investigative work to do, and you’re aware that you’re racing the clock. So why are you sitting here, babysitting me, instead of doing something?”

  “I’m not babysitting you.” Derek answered her bluntly. “The truth is, I’m all for heading right down to John Jay and questioning everyone—starting with Elliot’s grad students, who were probably the last people to see him alive. But I asked Bob to hold off notifying the college so I could have time to get to you first.”

  “You lost me.”

  “One second.” Derek held up his index finger. As he spoke, he groped in his jacket pocket for his cell phone. “Let me call Bob right now. Once I do, he’ll take the gag order off Deborah and inform the college of what happened so they can notify the staff and students.”

  Sloane blinked. “No one at John Jay knows yet?”

  “No. I asked Bob to wait until I’d told you. I didn’t want you hearing this news from anyone else.”

  Abruptly, Sloane realized how much trouble Derek had gone to for her—from leaving the crime scene—and the investigation—to drive all the way out here, to sitting with her and absorbing some of her grief, to halting the red tape of bureaucracy in its tracks to give her time to absorb the shock. “I didn’t think about…” She blew out a slow breath. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You knew just what I needed.”

  “I usually do.” Derek found and whipped out his cell. “I know you, Sloane,” he informed her as he punched in Bob’s number. “Really know you. And, even though this isn’t the time to get into it, that’s the reason we’ve been fighting.” He waited while his call went through.

  Sloane’s brows rose, and she struggled for humor. “Really? I thought we were fighting because you were an overpossessive jerk.”

  “Were we?” Derek wasn’t laughing. “Or were we fighting because we’re living a pretense we can’t keep up anymore, but you can’t let go of because the outcome scares you to death?” His chin jerked down so he could speak into the mouthpiece. “Bob, it’s me. I’m at Sloane’s.” A pause. “Pretty much the way you’d expect. But she’s tough, just like I told you. She’s determined to come down there now to question some of the staff and students who were closest to Elliot. I think it’s a good idea. Right now we’ve got the element of surprise on our side. The less time people have to prepare themselves, the more likely they’ll be to say something they wished they hadn’t—assuming any of them has something to hide.”

  Another pause. “We’ll head down together—yes, in my car and with me at the wheel. My question is, if we leave now, does that give you enough time to alert the administration so they can inform the college community and get started doing any necessary damage control?” Derek listened for a minute or two. “Good. We’ll meet you there.” He glanced up as Sloane gestured for him to hand her the phone. “Bob, hang on a minute. Sloane wants to talk to you.” He passed his cell over to her.

  “Hi, Bob. Thanks for worrying about me, but I’m fine. I will let Derek drive us into the city, but not because I’m an emotional wreck who’ll fall apart at the wheel, but because it’s stupid to take two cars when we’re going to the same place.”

  She swallowed hard. “The reason I wanted to talk to you is to provide some personal information that will save you time, if not pain. Elliot’s family is small. He’s got a sister, Patty, who lives in Portland, Maine. And his parents moved from New York to Conway, South Carolina, when he left for college. They’re still living there, so you shouldn’t have any trouble finding them. You’re welcome. See you soon.”

  She hung up the phone, and looked at Derek. “Bob says you have news?”

  “Two detectives are already questioning the residents of Elliot’s apartment building. Also, Bob is going to press the decision makers at John Jay to allow mouth swabs to be conducted starting later today.”

  “Good. The sooner, the better.”

  Derek walked over, tipped up her chin. “I’m the case agent, as you pointed out. I can handle this part, and fill you in later. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m not sure of anything. But I am going to do it. So, let’s go.” Sloane was about to head for the door, when she paused, giving Derek a guarded, slightly baffled look. “What did you mean before—about us living a pretense that we can’t keep up anymore?”

  “That’s the prelude to a pretty heavy conversation. Maybe we should shelve it until later.”

  Sloane nodded. “You’re right. We’ve got to jump on this investigation.”

  “That’s not the reason. Impatient or not, we’ve got to give Bob a little time to alert the John Jay administration, and deal with the initial fallout. It’s you I was thinking about. You just lost a close friend. You’re in emotional shock.” Derek paused. “Or maybe that’s all the more reason for us not to shelve this talk. We’ve shelved it too damned long already.”

  “Fair enough,” Sloane replied, turning to face him. “Go for it.”

  “I plan to.” Derek’s midnight gaze held hers. “Only this time with no holds barred. The fact is, life is short—too short, as tragedies like Elliot’s murder remind us. We have to seize every moment, and not get bogged down in crap. The past is the past. The future is a big question mark. The present is all we’ve really got. So, yeah, you and I screwed up back in Cleveland. You were wrong. I was wrong. Whoever was the bigger jackass is irrelevant. We both paid the price. We lost over a year of time, and threw out a relationship that comes along once in a lifetime—if you’re lucky. So now that fate or circumstances has given us another shot to make it work, why are we throwing it away?”

  “We’re not…”

  “Yes, we are. We throw it away every time we pretend we’re nothing more than great sex partners with a little something extra and a steamy past. Why don’t we grow the hell up and call it what it is?”

  “Because, like you said, I’m scared to death,” Sloane answered flatly.

  “Get over it. Because if you don’t, you’re exactly the coward I accused you of being when you quit the Bureau.”

  “That’s low.”

  “No, it’s honest. Back then, I was wrong. Now—I don’t know. Let’s find out.” Derek framed her face between his palms. “I love you. I did then. I do now. You’re a high-maintenance pain in the ass who always needs the upper hand and never gives an inch when you think you’re right—which is always. Then again, the same applies to me. So we’re going to fight—a lot. We’re also going to make up—a lot. But no more of this pseudo-relationship crap. I want all of you, not just your incredibly hot body. These feelings are real, and they’re not going away, whether or not we talk about them. Maybe we took them for granted, or I would have spent more time understanding the trauma caused by what happened to your hand, and you would have forced me to listen instead of shutting the door in my face and then running away. But, like I said, that’s the past. Now’s the present. So you want me to stop acting like a jealous asshole when we’re at parties? Give me a reason to.”

  He spread his arms wide, as if to emphasize that he’d kept nothing hidden. “That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. I’ve laid all my cards out on the table. Now it’s your turn. So, tell me, are you a coward or not?”

  “Not.” Sloane stated her answer without so much as a flinch. Having just stared death in the face, life seemed all the more precious—far too precious for stupid insecurities to get in the way. “You want the words? You’ve got them. I love you. I’ll even tell you that you’re right—at least this once. The facade was a cop-out. I was terrified of ever again going through the hell I went through when you and I were over. But after being punched in the gut with a day like today, I realize there are no guarantees.” She blew out a long, slow breath. “Life is a gift. It’s also fleeting, so emotional self-protection is a waste of time. And life gives us choices. So I choose you, even if you do push every one of my buttons, and drive me bonkers.”

  Derek’s smile was slow, but it sp
oke wonders. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  DATE: 1 May

  TIME: 0623 hours

  OBJECTIVE: Artemis

  I have to admit I admire Artemis’s hounds. They wanted no part of Mr. Ford Focus. They growled whenever he started to jog beside them, until finally he’d agreed to keep a considerable distance away, and watch her through his binoculars.

  True, they’re small, not the formidable hounds always depicted with Artemis in my tomes of Greek mythology. But that doesn’t inhibit them. They’re loyal, fearless, and fiercely protective. They know who and what is right for their mistress.

  Someday, they, too, will join us at Mount Olympus. I’m convinced of it. And Artemis will welcome them home.

  She’s now on her last lap. Which means that Mr. Ford Focus is at his most relaxed.

  Today, that will prove to be his undoing.

  Sloane’s breath was coming in hard pants as she and the hounds took the final lap of their run. She’d run more aggressively today, a natural way to relieve some of the tension that was gripping her.

  Yesterday had been an endless day of nothingness. None of the other tenants in Elliot’s apartment had seen anything unusual. No one at John Jay had acted the least bit suspiciously. And no one the NYPD had approached had either refused or been reluctant to offer a DNA sample.

  Quantico would finish the DNA profile by tomorrow. Then they’d have proof of what Sloane already knew—that the same sick pervert was responsible for this entire crime spree.

  That was the easy part. Finding the Unsub himself was the ultimate challenge. And damn him to hell, she was going to do it.

  Mr. Ford Focus is in for the surprise of his life.

  I raise my tranquilizer gun, aim, and fire.