Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

“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.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest turning it over to another agent. I was going to suggest I call Newark and get Anderson involved. He was the agent who worked your friend’s case in the Newark field office. Richard Stockton is in his jurisdiction, not mine. He’ll call the Atlantic City RA. When we first ran down the AC lead, he worked with a good agent down there. Tom McGraw. He’s smart and he’s thorough. I’ll call Anderson now, see if McGraw can get started on the legwork right away.”

“Makes sense.” Sloane’s wheels were still turning. “One favor. I told Deanna Frost you’d be contacting her as the agent in charge. I’d appreciate if you’d meet with her, just for a cup of coffee. She works at the New York Public Library, so it’s your jurisdiction. It would take maybe an hour of your time. But I think you’d have the best shot of getting her to remember something.”

Derek’s brows rose. “Better than you? That’s one I never thought I’d hear.”

“It’s a question of chemistry, not skill. I only spoke with Deanna briefly. She’s inherently decent and cooperative. But my instincts tell me she’s also a reserved, intellectual loner. You’ll be bigger than life to her. Between your FBI status, your whole former Army Ranger macho aura, and that classic charm of yours—trust me, she’ll do handsprings to come through for you.”

Despite his best intentions, Derek found himself grinning. “Can I hear my résumé again?”

“No. Just tell me you’ll do it.”

“Consider it done.”

Sloane’s exhale of relief was audible. “Thank you.”

“I aim to please.”

A taut endless silence.

Derek broke it first. “You said you’d be out of town. Will you be reachable by cell?”

“I’ll make myself reachable. I’ll be in Boston conducting a two-day workshop. I’m leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow and I’ll be back Friday night. During that time, I’ll be on pretty much every minute. But I’ll keep checking my cell for messages. Tonight I’ll be home. Right now I’m heading into Manhattan for a session with my hand therapist, and I’m already running late. But I’ll leave my phone on vibrate.”

“Good enough. I’ve got an hour or two before people start heading home. I’ll make some calls and give you a status report as soon as I have it.”

“And since I’m sitting in the car fighting traffic, I’ll call Hope Truman now and let her know where things stand.”

“It’s a plan. Talk to you later.”

“Derek?” Sloane caught him just before he hung up. “I realize I’m the last person you want to work with. I’m no happier than you. Frankly, the whole situation sucks. But regardless of my personal feelings, or yours—or maybe because of them—I want you to know I really appreciate this. Penny was a big part of my childhood.”

For a long moment, Derek stared down at his desk, contemplating her words. He knew how much they’d cost her to say. His reaction to them was a mixed bag—one he didn’t care to analyze.

“No problem. Just doing my job.”

CHAPTER

SEVEN

Four-ten. It was 4:10.

Who ever thought that the simple act of telling time would matter so much?

And yet it gives me a tremendous sense of comfort. In my present world, day and night cease to matter. Time passes in a vague sense of nonreality. So when he paused outside the bathroom door, setting down the pail of toiletries and readying the key to lock me in, I’d looked around and spotted the wall clock for the first time.

A huge wave of relief swept through me. The tiniest awareness of something, anything, that related to life as I’d known it, was a gift.

What a fool I’ve been to take those gifts for granted.

Not anymore.

When he came to my room, announcing that I could have my bath, I almost wept with joy. Even the sight of the combat knife he was clutching didn’t make me flinch, nor did the pressure of it at my throat as he led me outside my prison. I was too focused on the items in the bucket he was carrying.

Soap. Shampoo. Lotion. Common, everyday products that were so familiar and yet so precious.