Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

“Hey.” Jeff stopped him, and Derek turned, waiting while his partner walked over.

“What’s up? You look like shit,” Jeff stated, studying Derek’s ashen complexion.

“I feel like shit.” Briefly, Derek filled Jeff in. “I’m heading over to the crime scene now, and then to Sloane’s.”

“Anything I can do?” Jeff asked.

“Actually, yeah. Can you contact ERT for me? I need them at the crime scene ASAP.” Derek’s mind was racing, figuring out the fastest way to get his answers. And alerting the Bureau’s Evidence Response Team was definitely step one. Since the NYPD’s Crime Scene Unit had gone in first, the New York field office’s ERT would work with them to expedite things. Then they’d take all the bagged evidence, bar-code it, and chopper it straight to the lab at Quantico for immediate processing.

Jeff gave a tight nod. “You do what you have to. I’ll call ERT now. I’ll also tell Tony what’s going on. He’ll pitch in to coordinate things at this end. Between the FBI, the NYPD, and the locals who are involved in the hunt, this SOB doesn’t stand a chance. We’ll find him.”

“Yeah. I just hope we do it before his kill list gets any longer.”

Hunterdon County, New Jersey

11:25 A.M.

Sloane refilled the hounds’ bowls with fresh water. Then she made sure that all three of her “babies” were comfy and settled on the sofa w

ith their blankets and toys. She’d like nothing better than to curl up with them, go to sleep, and skip the whole damned meeting.

There’d been no new developments. If there had been, Elliot would have called. The FBI and NYPD would have done the same. So that meant this “follow-up” meeting was going to add up to a big zero.

In the meantime, she hadn’t slept in two nights. Between the ongoing emotional battle with Derek since the night of Lillian’s party, and the uneasy feeling that something was wrong, she’d tossed and turned both nights. She felt lousy. Nothing with Derek was resolved. And the uneasy feeling wouldn’t go away.

With a weary sigh, she looped her tote bag onto her shoulder, plucked her car keys off the kitchen counter, and left the house.

She locked the front door, turned around to head to the driveway—and promptly collided with Derek.

He caught her arm, which had automatically snapped into elbow-strike mode. “Back off, killer. It’s just me.”

“God, Derek, don’t sneak up on me like that. You know my training, and my instincts. I could have broken your nose.” Her muscles relaxed, and she raked a hand through her hair. “What are you doing here, anyway? Denny is right across the street, doing his job. The hounds are in constant attack mode, ready to tear out the throats of anyone who comes near me. I don’t need an escort to Manhattan. And I don’t want to charge into round three—or is it four?—of our argument over what an ass you made of yourself at Lillian’s party.”

“I’m not here for either of the above. The meeting’s been postponed.”

“Why?” Sloane demanded.

Derek drew a slow breath. “Can we go inside and talk? I’m limited on time, and I don’t want to have this conversation outside.”

Sloane took one look at his expression, heard the somber note in his voice, and her chest tightened. Whatever was going on, it was about to explain the uneasy feeling she’d been living with. She didn’t ask questions. She just turned around and unlocked the front door, pushing it open.

The hounds, who’d already been dozing on the sofa, leaped up, rushing out to greet Sloane as if she’d been gone for a week rather than for three minutes. Then they spied Derek, and raced over to jump all over him, demanding attention.

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.