“In the car, en route to the city. I’ve got the rest of your list to check out.”
“Don’t bother. Come straight here.”
Sloane stiffened. “Are you okay? Is Dad?”
“We’re both fine. This is about the break-in.”
“Did you find out something new?”
“I’ll tell you everything when you get here.” A pause, as Rosalyn’s maternal instinct kicked in. “Should you be driving?”
“Yes,” Sloane replied firmly. “I’m off the Percocet, and my arm is more than capable of joining the other on the steering wheel. If you want to worry about an arm, worry about yours. You take lousy care of yourself.”
“I’m your mother. Not the other way around. No lectures. Just drive to our place.”
Sloane was both puzzled and uneasy as she stepped out of the elevator and headed down to her parents’ apartment. Her mother was in full powerhouse mode. And whatever new information was causing her energy surge was critical, or she wouldn’t have practically ordered Sloane to drop her investigation and come over ASAP.
“Good. You’re here,” she greeted her daughter, having whipped open the door when she heard the approaching footsteps.
“As summoned.” Sloane slipped off her coat and walked into the foyer. She called out a quick hello to Special Agent Carter, who was having a cup of coffee in the breakfast nook. She was about to ask her mother if her father was home when the vroom of a vacuum cleaner interrupted her.
Turning, she spotted Anna, her parents’ cleaning woman, manipulating the upright around the living room.
Anna had been in the Burbanks’ employ for as long as Sloane could remember, coming every Monday morning since she’d immigrated to the U.S. from Poland, until the Burbanks moved to Florida. She was very good at her job and was treated with the utmost respect by the Burbanks. As a result, she’d been happy to come back when they’d returned to New York.
“Did you want to talk privately?” Sloane murmured to her mother.
“Definitely not.” Rosalyn was already steering Sloane toward the living room. “In fact, I’m not going to be talking at all. Anna,” she called over the noise of the vacuum. “Sloane’s here.”
Anna looked up, and turned off the vacuum immediately. She gave Sloane a warm, if nervous, smile of greeting.
“Hi, Anna. How are you?” At this point, Sloane was so baffled, she hardly knew what to say.
“Fine, thank you,” Anna replied, her Polish accent still prominent, but her English drastically improved from years ago. “How are you?” She frowned, spotting Sloane’s injury. “You got hurt, too?”
“Yes, but I’m fine now.”
“Let’s sit down,” Rosalyn instructed. She turned to Sloane as they did. “Anna’s been on vacation for the past two weeks. She went home to Poland to visit her family. Today is her first day back.”
“That must have been a wonderful trip,” Sloane responded.
Anna nodded. “It was. But now I find out about your parents being robbed, and your mother being hurt. I feel terrible.” A nervous pause. “And responsible.”
“Responsible?” Sloane’s antenna shot up. “Why?”
The poor cleaning woman looked positively green. “The week before I left for Poland, I was at McDonald’s. I went to the ladies’ room. Two men came in, locked the door, and grabbed me. One of them held me. The other took my purse. He emptied it out on the countertop. I saw him take the money out of my wallet. Then he turned his back on me. I couldn’t see what he was doing anymore. I thought maybe he was taking my credit cards. But he had something with him he was using. All I saw was that it was little”—Anna made a rectangular shape with her fingers—“and silver—like foil you cover food with.”
“Aluminum,” Sloane supplied.
“Yes.” Anna nodded adamantly. “I don’t understand what it was or what he did. They told me to shut up. I was so scared. Then they let me go, unlocked the door, and went away.”
“Did you report this to the police?” Sloane asked.
Anna shook her head. “I didn’t know what to say. I don’t know the men. They took nothing but forty dollars. No credit cards. No checkbook. I could give police no information to catch them. I was so happy they didn’t hurt me. So I told no one but my husband.”
She swallowed. “Then today I come back to work. Your mother and father were out. I let myself in. I use the key your mother gave me. I see little pieces on it. Like…” She waved her arm in frustration. “Like bread dough, only not white. My children play with it when they make things.”
“Clay,” Sloane filled in. She turned to her mother. “They used a key-impression kit. They made a copy of your key. That’s how they broke in here.”