Twisted

  “It will—in time.” Connie turned to Dr. Houghton. “Sloane is determined to rejoin the FBI.”

  Connie’s gentle reminder found its mark, and Dr. Houghton’s attention expanded to a more holistic view of Sloane. “You’ll need the coordination and fine motor skills to qualify with your weapon. That’s a tall order. Plus, the scars from your three surgeries will have to heal enough for you to manage the grip, and you’ll need to be able to exert enough pressure to pull the trigger. When is our next follow-up appointment?”

  “In three weeks,” Sloane supplied.

  “Good. We’ll see the extent of your recuperation then.” He turned back to Connie. “Call my office when you’re finished. I have a few quick notes to pass on to you for tomorrow’s patients. I have an evening engagement, so I’ll be leaving within the hour.”

  “As will I,” Connie replied. “My babysitter has a date and needs me home by seven. So Sloane and I will be wrapping up soon. I’ll check in with you before I head off to catch the train.”

  “Fine. I’ll be expecting your call shortly.” His gaze flickered over to Sloane. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Dr. Houghton.” Once the door shut behind him, Sloane released the exerciser and gave her hand a rest. “He’s tough.”

  “The toughest,” Connie agreed. “And the most brilliant.”

  “Meanwhile, tough or not, he has evening plans.” Sloane blew out her breath. “My surgeon, your babysitter—it’s date night in the tristate area.”

  “Not for me. It’s time-to-be-mom night at my place.”

  “Yes, but Saturday you’re having dinner with Ken the lawyer. That relationship seems to be heating up.” Sloane’s eyes twinkled. “So your date night could be a scorcher.” A mock sigh. “While you’re having the time of your life, think of me recouping from a two-day seminar by working round the clock.”

  “If you’re looking for pity, forget it,” Connie retorted. “You’ve passed up more dates than I care to count. You’re married to your work.” A pause. “And maybe to the past.”

  “I’ll cop to the former, but not the latter. If anything, what happened between me and Derek is what made me swear off relationships. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

  Connie shot her a who-are-you-kidding look. “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  Sloane’s cell phone vibrated.

  “Go ahead and answer,” Connie said. “All we have left is the sensory reeducation wand and the Peg-Board. I’ll set them up.”

  “And I’ll make this quick.” Sloane punched on the phone. “Sloane Burbank.”

  “It’s me.” Derek’s familiar baritone grazed her ear. “Just wanted to bring you up to speed. Both the Newark field office and the Atlantic City RA are cooperating. They’ll cover the Stockton campus while you’re away. And I’ll be meeting Deanna Frost for coffee tomorrow morning. I’ll get ahold of you in Boston if any new information materializes on any front.”

  “Call me either way,” Sloane qualified.

  “Fine. Gotta go now. My squad’s waiting.”

  “Understood.” Sloane swallowed, grateful for the news, wishing it didn’t make her feel so damned indebted to him. “Thanks for the quick work. I hope something pans out from it.”

  “Me, too. So long.”

  “Bye.” Sloane was about to punch off when her call-waiting beep sounded. “Sloane Burbank.”

  “Sloane, it’s Bob Erwin. I just wanted to let you know that we found a blue hair band on the John Jay campus. We found it behind the building where the pool is. Two members of the swim team said that Cynthia Alexander has one just like it.”

  “Does it look like she accidentally dropped it?”

  “No way. The bushes in the area indicate signs of a struggle. Plus, there are spots of blood on the ground and on the hair band. Everything’s being tested for DNA. But if the report comes back the way I think it will, we’ve got an official crime scene.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  DATE: 27 March

  TIME: 0100 hours

  I saw her today. She’s a true goddess, the epitome of all the word conveys. I wish it were time. But it’s not.

  It’s them. I can feel their anger pulsing. They’re unrelenting tonight. I have no choice but to answer their call.

  Nom Wo Club

  1:55 A.M.

  The beat-up white van was parked on Mott Street, half a block from the target. Inside the van, the electronic surveillance was picking up every word being said around the table where John Lee was sitting. So far, there’d been an interesting exchange about pickup arrangements for a shipment arriving at the Canadian border next Tuesday night. That “shipment” would be another installment in Lo Ma’s human trafficking enterprise. Helpful advance notice for C-6. With the assistance of ICE, the transaction would help the Bureau build their case against Lo Ma and his international criminal activities.

  Other than that, it was a typical night at the gambling parlor. But if the information Lee had gotten was correct, all that was about to change.

  Derek sat in the rear of the van, legs sprawled out in front of him, listening intently and eating the last of his shrimp chow fun out of the carton.

  “This stuff is great, even cold,” he commented.

  “Yeah, one of the fine perks of the job,” Derek’s partner, Jeff Chiu, returned drily. “Great food and an imminent gang war. Who could ask for more?”

  “Can’t imagine.” Derek finished off the quart of food, and sat up straight as he heard the tone inside the gambling parlor change, become tense. “What are they saying?”

  “They’re making preparations.” Jeff was one of the few agents who was fluent in the complex Fukienese dialect. “Positioning themselves with their weapons. It sounds defensive, not offensive. They’re waiting to see what Xiao Long’s enforcer plans to do.”

  “Trash the place, or trash them,” Derek muttered. He peered out the window as two dark sedans pulled up to the curb outside the club. “It’s showtime. Let’s see how far things go before the NYPD has to go in and break up the fighting.”

  “What did they say when you clued them in?”

  “They sent over a couple of unmarked cars that are parked around the corner. The plan is to keep our presence here under wraps, and to give us as much time as possible to get something on the Dai Los. But as soon as violence or gunfire erupts, the cops will move in. At which point, they’ll put the fear of God in both gangs. Maybe that’ll make them think twice before they start an all-out turf war.”

  “Hope so.”

  Both agents fell silent as three men exited each car and strode purposefully into the club. Judging from his thick build, one of the men was definitely Jin Huang, Xiao Long’s enforcer.

  A staccato of angry voices immediately ensued, followed by crashing sounds.

  “What’s going on?” Derek demanded.

  “The Red Dragons are tearing up the place and making threats. ‘Stay away from our girls.’ ‘Our turf…hands off…’ That’s the gist of what I can hear over the uproar.” A pause. “The Black Tigers are denying any involvement. They’re accusing the Red Dragons of stirring up trouble to start a turf war.”

  “Any mention of the Dai Los? The local businesses being extorted? The illegal import of the electronic devices or the women?”

  “Nope. Nothing remotely coherent, much less specific. Just escalating threats, overturned tables, smashing plates and glasses.”

  In the midst of the turmoil, there was a loud thud and a cry of pain, followed by another.

  “Okay, things are getting dicey now. They’re throwing punches.”

  “Yeah, that much I figured out.” Derek frowned as he heard a sharp warning shout, followed by a burst of light that illuminated the first-floor window. Forceful words, then a gunshot. “What the…?”

  “A warning shot at the ceiling,” Jeff clarified. “And some torched drapes. Jin Huang is promising that next time, it will be the whole place.” r />
  As Jeff spoke, all six of Xiao Long’s men burst out of the club and jumped into their cars, where the drivers were waiting. They screeched off into the night. An instant later, a bunch of people who’d been gambling at the club—John Lee included—flew out the door, together with the girls who’d been serving them, probably in more ways than one.

  Derek flipped open his cell and made a call to one of the unmarked NYPD cars. “Gleason? It was a warning shot. No one’s down. And the fire’s restricted to a pair of drapes. So it’s all yours. Have fun making their lives miserable. Keep me posted.”

  He flipped off the phone. “Anything going on?”

  “Lee took off, so I can’t hear anything inside the club,” Jeff reported. “But the last sounds I heard were Lo Ma’s gang members cursing the Red Dragons and putting out the fire.” He sat back. “My opinion? If any of the Black Tigers is killing Xiao Long’s girls, he’s doing it on his own. Lo Ma’s guys are pissed as hell. But they seem totally baffled.”

  “Maybe it’s a rival gang trying to stir up trouble between the Red Dragons and the Black Tigers to strengthen their own position?”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” Jeff watched as a couple of uniformed cops rushed into the club, weapons raised. “Let’s check it out when we get into the office tomorrow.”

  “Agreed.” Derek glanced at his watch. “It’s three A.M. I doubt anything more’s going to happen tonight. So why don’t we eat the rest of the food I bought?”

  Jeff arched a dubious brow. “It was cold before. By now, it’s probably freezing.”

  “So? It’s still the best in Chinatown. I’ll take that over starving anytime.”

  “You’ve got a point.”

  A few blocks away, in an area devoid of streetlights, he sat in his car, waiting and sharpening his combat knife. He studied the girls as they scattered and headed in different directions.

  It took him less than a minute to make his choice.

  When she was isolated and far enough away from the others, he zipped up his jacket and pulled the thick down hood over his head, tugging it forward until his face was concealed. He fingered the coin in his pocket, made sure it was there. Then he seized his combat knife and stepped out into the night.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  DATE: 27 March

  TIME: 0900 hours

  Peace. After last night, I deserve it.

  This one was messier than the others. The drugs took longer. And she was stronger than I expected for someone so delicate. She broke my choke hold long enough to bite me and scream.

  One scream—that’s all she managed to get out. I cut her after that. Painful and nasty, but not lethal. Three deep slices across her throat. I was careful to avoid the major arteries. That part would come later. Right at the moment, I just needed her to know I meant business.

  She got the message, fast. Her body arched, then stiffened, and she opened her mouth to let out a shriek of agony. I anticipated that—and I stopped it. I clapped my hand over her mouth and told her to shut up or I’d chop her into little pieces. I meant it, too. I would have.

  She knew it. I saw it in her eyes.

  She choked back her scream, although she retched a few times. Then big tears started sliding down her cheeks.

  That didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. The real nuisance was the blood streaming down her neck and soaking into her jacket. The flow was intensifying. Soon it would pool at her feet.

  I was forced to change my plan. That infuriated me. I hate change. And I hated her for making me deal with it.

  I needed a different location. The abandoned warehouse I’d chosen was two blocks away. I couldn’t carry her that distance. There would be blood all over the streets. Worse, all over me. I never allowed their blood to touch me. They were filth. Disease carriers. I’d brought my cleaning and disinfecting supplies, of course, but they were set up—along with everything else—at the warehouse.

  I acted efficiently. Right down the street, I found an empty tenement. The basement door was open, the lock broken. Inside were a couple of rats and a rusted boiler. The place would do just fine.

  I dragged her inside and tied her to a pole. Then I duct-taped her mouth, and injected her with enough Nembutal to keep her unconscious while I ran down to the warehouse and retrieved my equipment. She was still out cold when I got back. It took a lot of work on my part to wake her up. She really was more trouble than she was worth. That got me angry all over again. I was tired and impatient, so I set up the tripod and video camera, and started taping without my usual precision and fine-tuning. She didn’t deserve the effort anyway.

  The demons were roaring to life. I turned my full attention to silencing them. It took a long time before they were sated. I didn’t mind. I liked hurting her. It appeased my anger. But it also felt good. Too good. That was wrong and dirty. I felt ashamed.

  It was her fault. Her and the others like her. They were the reason the demons wouldn’t go away.

  She needed to be punished. She needed to feel every ounce of pain before I let her die.

  I lingered until the shame faded and the triumph surged. Then I arranged her and the room as always, placed the coin beside her, and scoured away the evidence.

  I couldn’t wait to get home. I needed to scrub her off of me. I needed to cleanse the night from my body, and the demons from my mind. And I needed to sleep.

  March 28

  8:36 P.M.

  Sloane’s plane touched down in Newark Airport twenty minutes late. Then came the endless taxiing to the gate. Like Sloane, most of the passengers were business travelers. So they were used to delays. They glanced up, then continued scanning their newspapers or leaning back to relax against the headrests.

  That wasn’t going to cut it for Sloane.

  Given the nonstop pace of the past two days, she was way too pumped up to relax. Between the intensive, two-day seminar she’d just conducted, Derek’s phone call yesterday filling her in on the new leads that had resulted from his meeting with Deanna on Penny’s case, and the news from Bob Erwin that the DNA on the hair band found at the John Jay crime scene matched Cynthia’s, Sloane’s brain was racing on overdrive.

  She was ready to hit the ground running.

  She’d promised Bob Erwin she’d drop by Mrs. Alexander’s hotel tomorrow. Her goal there was to talk to the woman, to forge some emotional trust, and then maybe to glean a piece of information that Cynthia’s mother didn’t know she possessed.

  As for Penny’s case, Sloane planned to pay Hope Truman a visit. She wanted to be there when she provided Penny’s mother with the latest update. That way, she could help channel her expectations in a realistic direction, while offering her the comfort of her presence.

  Sloane frowned, surrendering to the realization that there’d be no sleep again tonight. She’d pick up the hounds, smother them with the attention she’d stored up for them all week long, then get on the computer and start doing some research into last year’s Richard Stockton graduating classes—both undergrad and grad—and departing faculty members. She’d coordinate her efforts with Derek’s and those of the Newark field office. There was more than enough work for all of them. Hundreds of the people who’d lived or worked at Stockton last year had since moved on to other endeavors. Any one of them could be a potential witness.

  On that thought, Sloane felt the Boeing 737 slow down and ease around to the terminal, where it stopped. A minute later, the “Fasten Your Seat Belts” sign chirped and went off. That was all the permission Sloane needed. She grabbed her suitcase from the overhead bin, and by the time the cabin door opened, she was making her way to the front of the plane.

  Before the other passengers had even stretched their legs and collected their things, Sloane was off the plane, down the ramp, and sprinting through Newark Airport.

  9:15 P.M.

  Derek was hoping for a quiet night.

  He was pretty wiped out from the week. He could count the number of hours he’d slept
since Monday on two hands. And, since he wasn’t assigned to tonight’s surveillance, he’d spent an entire day gathering information on rival gangs who might want to stir up trouble between the Red Dragons and the Black Tigers. He felt perfectly justified accepting Tony’s offer when his boss had told him to go home and have a weekend.

  He’d left about seven o’clock, picked up a couple of groceries, and driven home to his midtown east apartment. The high-rise he lived in was on Second Avenue, close enough to the noise of the Midtown Tunnel to make it affordable. That wasn’t a problem; Derek could sleep through anything—or stay awake through anything, whichever was required. As for the apartment itself, it was tiny—not even five hundred square feet including the bedroom, kitchenette, and bathroom.

  On the other hand, it had its perks. The place had just been renovated, there was a doorman around most of the time, and Derek had secured a parking space in the underground garage. And since he drove his Bureau car back and forth to work each day, that meant one less headache. Parking spaces in Manhattan were on the endangered species list. So, all in all, he had a good living arrangement, at least for the time being.

  He let himself in, changed his clothes, and cooked his dinner. He was sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying his pepper steak and scanning the local sports section to see when the Yanks’ opening game would be, when the phone rang.

  He groped for his cordless phone, and answered. “Hello.”

  “Hey,” Jeff greeted him.

  Derek made a grunting sound. “Aren’t you sick of me yet? We spend more nights together than a married couple.”

  “Actually, yeah, I’m very sick of you. So’s my wife. She’s glaring at me as I speak. But Gleason called right before I left. I wanted you to hear this ASAP.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “The NYPD found another one of Xiao Long’s girls, this time in an abandoned Chinatown tenement just a couple of blocks from the Nom Wo Club. Same MO—she was drugged, raped, throat slit with a combat knife, and one of those python coins left at the scene. Although evidently, this time the sexual assault and the murder were more graphic and more violent. I don’t have all the details. But Gleason’s description wasn’t pretty.”