Twisted Page 6

  “How did she take it?”

  “She wasn’t surprised. But she was hurt and angry. We were a couple. She felt betrayed. I think that’s pretty normal.”

  If Doug was looking for Sloane’s opinion, he wasn’t getting it. Any sign that she was judging him negatively would mark the end of this interview.

  Instead, she stuck with the facts. “You say she felt angry and betrayed. But she didn’t end things then.”

  “Not officially. But, like I said, the breakup was gradual, not sudden. We were already in the talking phases. My relationship with Sandy just accelerated things. Penny and I called it quits a few weeks later.”

  “Yet she called you the day before she disappeared.”

  “Mm-hmm, around four o’clock,” Doug confirmed. “And before you ask, I’ll give you the same explanation I gave the FBI, because it’s the truth. The reason Penny called was to make arrangements for a mutual swap of our belongings. I’d left some things at her place, and she’d done the same at mine.”

  “She called to set up a time for you to meet.” Sloane took a sip of her drink, intentionally knitting her brows in puzzlement. “That doesn’t sound to me like someone who was planning to vanish into thin air.”

  “Nor to me. She sounded a little down, or maybe introspective’s a better word. But nothing dire. Plus, Penny’s not the impulsive type. I can’t imagine her just taking off and leaving her entire life behind.”

  “You told that to the FBI?”

  “Twice. Special Agent Parker grilled the hell out of me. Believe me, if I had the slightest clue that that call from Penny was a prelude to this, I would have said or done something. I certainly wouldn’t have hung up and boarded an evening flight to Hawaii.”

  “Did you work out a time and place to get together once you got back from your trip?”

  “I wasn’t sure of my schedule. We left it that I’d call her a week from Monday and we’d work out the details.”

  “Penny liked things nailed down,” Sloane murmured. “She wasn’t a hang-loose kind of person.”

  Doug gave a half smile. “You did know her well. No, she was anything but hang loose. She was decisive and get it done now. If it wasn’t for my vacation and her weekend plans, she would have pushed to get it done ASAP.”

  Sloane’s head came up. “How do you know Penny had weekend plans? Did she mention she had something on tap?”

  “Hmm?” Doug looked startled, as though the conversation had jolted a thought he’d long since forgotten. “Not during that phone call she didn’t. But she didn’t have to. I knew about that seminar since she registered for it a couple of months earlier.”

  “What seminar?”

  “I don’t remember the topic. But it was part of a Classical Humanities lecture series. They were held one Saturday afternoon a month. Penny went to several of them. She was really into the whole academic scene.”

  “Did you tell this to Special Agent Parker?”

  “I doubt it. To be frank, it slipped my mind until now. The lecture series was Penny’s thing, not mine. I never went with her. I worked most Saturdays. Special Agent Parker was focused on my alibi and my recollections of Penny’s state of mind. So was I. A lecture that she might or might not have attended just didn’t seem important.” Doug paused, studied Sloane’s face. “Why? Does it mean something?”

  “That depends. Where were the lectures held?”

  “Richard Stockton College.”

  Sloane set down her glass with a thud. Did that mean something? Hell, yes.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  He’s crazy.

  I can see the madness in his eyes.

  God, I’m so terrified. I’ve begged, pleaded, struggled to break his hold. But it’s futile. When that insanity glitters in his dark stare, he doesn’t hear me. If I keep fighting, he hits me.

  I know what’s coming next—the only thing that stops my struggles entirely.

  The sting of the hypodermic needle. I feel it pierce my skin. Then the room starts spinning around me. I hate that sense of slipping away, of losing touch with reality. And I hate the sick and disoriented way I come to—groggy, nauseated, and with no clue about how much time has passed.

  He visits me soon after I come to. On those visits, he’s different.

  The rage in his eyes is gone. He looks almost normal. He’s polite, even considerate. He’ll bring me a meal, sit silently and read while I eat. His reading material is scholarly—classics, philosophy, mythology. I look around while I force down the food. I don’t comprehend anything I see. There’s a fabricated gold shield hanging on the wall, statuettes of an owl and an olive tree flanking it on either side, and a photocopied story of Athena—complete with illustrations, like a chapter out of a children’s book—that he’s placed at the foot of my mattress. I don’t understand any of it, but I don’t dare ask questions.

  Once I’ve finished eating, he escorts me to the bathroom. The dichotomy is bizarre. He keeps a combat knife at my throat to assert his domination, yet holds my arm while we walk, since I’m so unsteady on my feet. That’s the only time he touches me. And he never intrudes on my privacy. He waits outside the bathroom until I come out.

  Escape is impossible.

  Beneath the curtains, there are bars on the window, and he’s fitted it with a heavily tinted glass pane so I can’t see outside my prison.

  Earlier, I requested fresh air. He refused. I then requested a bath. He surprised me by agreeing. He’s agreed to pick up some toiletries and have them for me tonight.

  It’s a luxury to anticipate.

  I so want to meet the other women. I hear their voices, their weeping. Maybe they can explain to me why we’re here.

  Or maybe I don’t want to know.

  March 26

  12:05 P.M.

  Richard Stockton College was about a twenty-minute ride from Atlantic City, and a little over two hours from Sloane’s house.

  She didn’t have the time to drive there and back. Not today.

  She did it anyway.

  One thing she’d learned years ago is that you got a lot more out of people when you talked to them in person than you did when you talked to them over the phone.

  She arrived on campus around eleven, and was directed to the office of special affairs. She waited at the desk for Doris Hayden, who administered the lecture series. Her instincts told her that she was on the verge of finding the first new and viable lead in this case.

  That meant forward motion. It didn’t mean a happy ending.

  Sloane was a realist. If her theory was correct, she’d leave with a new venue to explore, and more ammunition to support her belief that Penny’s disappearance involved foul play rather than free will.

  Which meant she’d be one step closer to giving Hope Truman the closure she needed. However, it also suggested that that closure would involve facing the loss of her daughter.

  On that sober thought, Sloane conducted her business. After seeing Sloane’s credentials and hearing why she was there, Doris had cooperated fully. She’d pulled up the online registration forms of all twenty-five attendees. Only four, including Penny, were from Manhattan—the rest were locals.

  Doris had immediately e-mailed everyone on the list with a brief explanation of the situation and an electronic photo of Penny that Sloane provided via her laptop.

  Sloane had thanked her profusely. Then, time being of the essence, she began her follow-up on campus, tracking down five Stockton students who’d attended the seminar. All of them had received Doris’s e-mail. None of them recognized Penny’s photo, or remembered seeing anyone who matched her description at the seminar that day.

  Not a good sign.

  Next, Sloane left urgent voice-mail messages on the cell phones of the other six Stockton undergrads who were on the registration sheet, asking them to check their e-mails and get back to her ASAP—within the hour if possible. Since college students were notorious for having their cell phones glued to their ears, Sloane
crossed her fingers that she’d hear back from them before she had to take off.

  She used the waiting time to call the other three New Yorkers. Two were NYU roommates, one of whom answered the phone, and, as soon as Sloane mentioned last April’s lecture at Richard Stockton, said that she and her friend had registered, but ultimately blown off the lecture.

  The third New Yorker, Deanna Frost, worked in the communications department of the New York Public Library in midtown Manhattan. Sloane got her voice mail as well, and left an equally urgent message.

  Frustrated, she punched off her phone. Her growling stomach reminded her that all the people she was trying to reach were probably at lunch. She bought herself a grilled chicken panini and a Diet Coke, and ate them in the car. The weather was still too nippy to sit outside, and her hand was feeling the chill.

  That reminded her she had an appointment with her hand therapist at four-thirty. It was already after one. She’d better get some results here soon, or she’d have to cut the information gathering short and do the rest long distance.

  Two more Richard Stockton students called in the next half hour, both to say they’d gotten Sloane’s message, checked out the e-mail, but were drawing a blank when it came to the woman in the photo.

  Disappointed and time-stressed, Sloane was just thanking the last guy for his promptness and cooperation when the beep that signified her call waiting sounded.

  It was Deanna Frost.

  “Your message said you needed information about a particular woman who attended the seminar at Richard Stockton last April, that her safety could be at stake.” Deanna was frank and to the point. “How can I help?”

  “You were registered for the seminar,” Sloane replied. “Did you attend?”

  “Yes. I took an express bus from the Port Authority.”

  It was a long shot. Express buses ran from New York City to AC all the time. Still, Sloane had to try. “I see you registered using your personal Yahoo account. Are you at home now or at the library?”

  “The library. Why?”

  “Because Doris Hayden forwarded you an e-mail and a photo. Can you access your personal e-mail from there?”

  “Of course. Just give me a minute.” Some clicking sounds on a computer keyboard, then a pause. “Here’s the e-mail from Richard Stockton. Let me open it.”

  A few more clicks. “Missing?” she murmured in distress. Clearly, she was reading Doris’s e-mail. “How terrible. Was she kidnapped?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Would you open the attachment and take a look at the photo?”

  “Right now.” A minute passed, then a slight gasp. “Penny.”

  Sloane’s head snapped up. “You know her?”

  “Only her name and that she works in fashion. We met the day of the seminar, at the Atlantic City bus terminal. It turned out we’d caught the same bus out of the Port Authority. When we realized we were both heading for the Richard Stockton campus, we shared a cab.”

  “So Penny did attend the lecture.”

  “That was the odd part. She didn’t. She seemed so enthused about it during our taxi drive. But she never showed up.”

  “I don’t understand. If you rode to campus together…”

  “We got there an hour early. I dashed off to grab a cup of coffee. Penny wanted to take a walk. We agreed to meet up at the lecture hall in forty-five minutes. She never came. I assumed she had an unexpected change in plans. Even though we were barely acquainted, I was surprised enough to want to contact her, and make sure everything was all right. But I had no idea how to reach her. I didn’t even know her last name.”

  “Truman,” Sloane said woodenly. “Her last name is Truman. And it’s possible you were the last person to have seen her before she disappeared.”

  “I don’t understand,” Deanna responded, clearly upset. “That seminar was almost a full year ago. Are you telling me she’s been missing for that long?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. The police and the FBI have been trying to determine her whereabouts. I have investigative experience, and I’m also a close childhood friend of Penny’s. Her parents hired me to see what I could find out. You just helped me narrow down where she vanished from.”

  “But not why, or by whose hand.”

  “No. Not yet. Deanna, I’m going to contact the FBI, and let them know about this development. Their resources are obviously far more vast than mine. I’m sure the agent who’s handling Penny’s case will want to contact you. Please tell him everything you remember, down to the slightest detail. His name is Special Agent Derek Parker.”

  “Of course. Anything I can do. Anything at all.”

  “You have my contact information in that e-mail Doris Hayden sent you. Use it. Anytime, day or night. If you have a question, or if you recall even a tidbit of related information, please call me. Penny is very dear to me. I plan to find out what happened to her.”

  FBI New York Field Office

  3:45 P.M.

  Derek was in a foul mood.

  He’d done a thorough job of prepping John Lee for tonight’s stakeout. The listening device he’d given Lee was concealed in a pen, so tiny and unobtrusive that no one would spot it. Lee was edgy but under control. He’d do what he had to, since the alternative was jail. The entire squad was prepared for a long night, and Tony had made up the surveillance schedule.

  With luck, they’d not only find out if Lo Ma really was responsible for the brutal killings of Xiao Long’s girls, but they’d get some solid evidence on both Dai Los to pass along to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.

  So everything was in place. And Derek was wound up and ready to go.

  Back in his Ranger days, he’d learned to eat when he could, since the next opportunity to do so might not come for a while. With that in mind, he wolfed down a sandwich, grabbed some bottled water and a bag of chips, and headed back to his desk, intending to type up his interviews and return his e-mails.

  That’s when his mood had gone south.

  At his desk, he’d found Sloane’s voice mail waiting for him.

  The message itself was pretty cryptic, saying only that she had a lead on the Penny Truman case, and she needed to talk to him as soon as possible.

  Its vagueness was irritating enough.

  But the fact that her voice still had the power to get to him the way it did—now, that really pissed him off.

  He leaned back in his chair, linked his arms behind his head, and grudgingly let his mind go where he’d avoided letting it go since Monday.

  When he’d walked into that conference room and she’d been standing there—it was like a punch in the gut. He’d written his reaction off as the result of being blindsided. After all, she’d been the last person he expected to see when he stepped through that door.

  But now there was no excuse. He knew she was working for the Trumans, and he knew she had a personal stake in the case, since she and Penelope Truman were childhood friends. He was the agent of record. It was natural she’d be calling him with any information she stumbled on.

  Derek was a hard, fast realist. He didn’t delude himself—not then, and not now. He wasn’t over Sloane. What they’d shared had been much more than an affair. Everything about it had been intense—the attraction, the connection, the sex. It had started—and ended—like an explosion, knocking them both on their asses, going up in fireworks and down in flames.

  There’d never been any closure. There hadn’t even been good-byes.

  She’d been a stubborn, stoic coward, who’d shut him out and then walked away when the going got tough.

  And he? He’d been a hotheaded, judgmental ass, who’d been too pissed off by her decision to see things rationally.

  Abruptly, it was over.

  That didn’t stop him from thinking about her. He did. A lot more often than he liked. That was bad enough. But his reaction to seeing her again, hearing her voice, that wasn’t just remembering. That was vulnerability. And vulnerability was not some
thing he could accept in himself.

  As if to challenge that weakness head-on, he picked up the phone and punched in her number.

  She answered on the second ring. “Sloane Burbank.” The road noise told him she was in the car.

  “It’s Derek.”

  “Oh, good.” Her relief was genuine. “Thanks for getting back to me so fast. I was afraid I’d miss you, and I’ll be out of town for the next two days working twenty-four/seven. Phone tag’s not an option. We need to jump on this right away.”

  “What is it we’re jumping on?” Derek asked drily.

  Sloane filled him in on what Doug Waters had told her, about her trip to Richard Stockton, and about her conversation with Deanna Frost.

  “So Penelope did buy that ticket to Atlantic City. It just wasn’t her final destination.” Derek scribbled down some notes.

  “She meant to attend that seminar. We know she got to the college campus. So she disappeared on or near there, sometime between eleven-fifteen and noon. We need to figure out who else she might have talked to, where the common walking paths are, if any other suspicious activities were reported during that time period. We need to interview campus security, local police—”

  “Hey, drill sergeant, stop.” Derek snapped out the interruption. “I don’t need an education in how to conduct a missing persons investigation. What I do need is some clarification. By we, I assume you mean me. And that’s not going to fly.”

  “Don’t tell me you still think Penny disappeared voluntarily,” Sloane responded in a tight voice.

  “I never thought that. But you’re not the only one working twenty-four/seven. I’m in the middle of a case that’s just escalated to front burner. I can’t divert my resources, not now. What I can do is call—”

  “Don’t turn the case over to someone else.” It was Sloane’s turn to interrupt. “It’ll take you just as much time to bring the new agent up to speed as it would for you to handle this on your own.” A pause, as if Sloane were forcing out her next words. “You’re the best there is, Derek. I need that for Penny.”