One dark brow rose.
“Yes, I’m aware the odds favor the latter,” Sloane responded. “That doesn’t mean I’m ready to call it quits—not without a fight.”
“I guess some things are worth fighting for. Others aren’t.”
Sloane gritted her teeth as the pointed barb found its mark. She’d throw it right back in his face, if his implication didn’t have merit. Plus, she wasn’t here to fight. She was here for Penny.
On that thought, she stuck to the case. “When you interviewed Penny’s friends, coworkers, ex-boyfriend, did your gut tell you anything the evidence couldn’t support?”
“Nope.” Derek’s reply was terse. “No red flags. I got the usual—apprehension over what happened to Penelope, jitters over talking to the FBI, and alibis that all checked out.”
“Including the one provided by Penny’s ex-boyfriend?”
“Yup. He was in Honolulu all week—with the colleague he dumped your friend for.” Derek slid the file across the table. “Read it for yourself. It’s all there. Copies of everything—a list of everyone Penelope knew, my interviews with each of them, details of her life during the months preceding her disappearance. Also, the names and phone numbers of the agents I worked with in the Newark field office. Take the file. Dig as deep as you want to. But after eleven months, I’d steel myself for the worst.”
“That’s par for the course these days. Steeling myself for the worst is the only way to survive.” Sloane picked up the file, pausing as she gazed down at it. “How long have you been in New York?” she heard herself ask.
“A year.”
“So you got the transfer right away?”
“We both knew I would. This field office was my first assignment out of Quantico. I spent seven years here before Cleveland. And with so many Bureau members transferring to counterterrorism since 9/11, and so few new agents requesting assignments in New York over the sunny south, a seasoned agent who’d worked Violent Crimes and kidnappings looked pretty damned good.”
“Still on SWAT?”
“Enhanced SWAT,” he corrected. “A bigger team. More sophisticated equipment. New York’s not Cleveland. Ten percent of the Bureau works here.”
“Including you now. You’ve also done some internal transferring since you got back. You moved from Violent Crimes to C-6.”
“My cases shifted. The subjects were into narcotics and gangs. So my transfer to C-6 was a logical step.”
“Tony spoke highly of you. He also mentioned that you just got back from a CE training course at Quantico. You’re building quite a diverse résumé.”
“Diversity’s good. It keeps you challenged and in demand.” Derek leaned forward, and Sloane could feel his hard stare without looking up. “What about you—enjoying the life of a high-paid consultant?”
“It keeps me challenged and in demand,” she parroted back, her chin coming up. “Plus, being my own boss is gratifying—no red tape.” Inadvertently, she gripped the file folder more tightly, causing the edge to dig into her palm right where the scars were. She flinched, and released the file.
Derek’s glance flickered from her hand to her face. His expression didn’t change. “Still in pain?”
“Yeah, well, a two-inch knife slash will do that to you. So will three surgeries, and thirteen months of physical therapy.” Sloane wasn’t looking for sympathy, nor did she expect any—not from Derek. “That’s another reason being in my own business makes sense. I need the time flexibility. My hand therapist and I see a lot of each other.”
“Three surgeries?” Derek’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement. He’d only been in her life for the first—the emergency surgery that had been performed to stop her from bleeding to death. “Why?”
“Complications,” Sloane replied tersely. “Excess scarring, grafting a ruptured tendon, nerve damage—let’s just say it’s been a busy year.” Gathering up Penny’s file, Sloane rose, her body language declaring the subject closed. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. I appreciate your candor and your thoroughness. If I pick up the slightest lead on Penny’s whereabouts, I’ll advise you immediately.”
“Here’s my direct contact information.” Still scrutinizing her, Derek came to his feet, handing her the familiar Bureau card with the official FBI logo on it, along with his own private extension and cell-phone number.
“Thanks.” Sloane responded in kind, whipping out one of her business cards and passing it across the table. “There you go. I doubt you’ll have any cause to reach me, but just in case, everything you need is on there.”
Derek glanced down at the card, which had her office and cell-phone numbers on it, but was devoid of a street address, listing Sloane’s office only as a PO box in Hunterdon County, New Jersey. “You’re working out of your parents’ vacation h
ouse,” he surmised.
“Living there, too. My folks retired to Florida. I bought the house from them. It’s perfect for my needs. Small, airy, with an extra room for my office, and four country acres to explore. My hounds like that. So does my archery course.”
“You’re shooting again.”
“Just recently. And just a bow and arrow.”