Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

There was a light knock on his semi-opened door. He swung his chair around to see who was invading his space now.

“Hey, stranger.” Sloane stepped in, glancing around to see if they were alone. “Can you spare a few minutes for a pal? I know your next class doesn’t start for an hour.” She waved a brown bag in the air. “Fresh bagels with cream cheese.”

Elliot’s relief at seeing her was blatant. “Sloane. Thank God.” He beckoned her in, then rose and walked over to shut the door behind her. “I’d be thrilled to see you even without the bagels. I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat.” Sloane’s practiced glance swept the office, noting the dust-free rectangular spots on Elliot’s numerous tabletops that told her his PCs had been removed. Even his laptop was nowhere in sight. The only computer in the room was an outdated desktop. As for the file cabinet, it was half open and in disarray, files poking out here and there as if they’d been rifled.

The cops had clearly been here.

Picking up on her scrutiny, Elliot waved his arm agitatedly at the desktop that was clearly a substitute for his state-of-the-art workstation. “Look at that dinosaur. How can they expect me to work on it? It can’t handle any of my programs. I can’t run any of my software. And my confidential research is now public property.”

“It’s not public property,” Sloane reassured him. “It’s with the NYPD. Once they’ve checked it out for any leads in the Alexander case, they’ll return it.”

“Yeah, after their experts have either ripped off my work or trashed it. What ever happened to the First Amendment? They took everything, including all my servers, claiming they needed to look for artifacts of Cynthia’s e-mails, forum postings, chat sessions, and assignments from Comp 201.”

“They’re not interested in violating your rights. They’re interested in finding a kidnapper. And Cynthia’s communications with other students and faculty may point them in the right direction. The NYPD had a warrant. That means they convinced a judge that seizure of your equipment was justified. In addition, the warrant only authorized them to extract material related to Cynthia and Comp 201. They weren’t given carte blanche.”

“I get it. But I could have extracted what they needed without exposing my life’s work and my highly sophisticated equipment to some cretin they call a computer tech, or, worse, to one with enough brainpower to see my software’s potential and rip it off. You may trust everyone in law enforcement, but I don’t. My research is cutting-edge, and close to completion. But I haven’t unveiled it to a soul. Now I might as well have auctioned it off on eBay.”

Elliot might be overreacting, but Sloane understood why. From what she’d gleaned, he wasn’t exaggerating the scope of his work. That was why John Jay’s forensic computer department was funding his research big-time. Although modest in comparison to major universities, the budget they were giving him was large for a city college. The rest, Sloane suspected, was being subsidized by grants from law enforcement organizations, private security companies, and perhaps even the NSA. Elliot’s software program had the potential to provide early warning of cybercrimes in progress by discerning unusual patterns in financial data—everything from credit-card purchases and banking transactions to sophisticated money-laundering practices employed by organized criminal enterprises and terrorists. His work was significant. And it was pretty damned sensitive.

To Elliot, that made the NYPD’s actions the ultimate invasion.

Blowing out a breath, Sloane placed the bag of bagels on Elliot’s desk and shrugged out of her coat. “I’m doing Sergeant Erwin a favor today. I’ll see if, in return, he can expedite his analysis of your equipment and get it back to you ASAP.” She turned, giving Elliot’s forearm a gentle squeeze. “Trust me. Bob Erwin is a good man. All he’s interested in is extracting information about Cynthia, her friends, and her potential enemies.”

Sloane opened the bag and handed Elliot a bagel and cream cheese, neatly wrapped in wax paper. “Now sit down and eat.”

Elliot stared at the bagel, then sank down in his chair. “I sound like a heartless bastard,” he muttered. “The poor girl’s been kidnapped. God only knows what the wack job who took her has in mind. And here I am worrying about my research. You must think I’m as shallow as they come.”

“I think you’re human.” Sloane perched at the edge of another chair, unwrapped her bagel, and began munching. “And I think you’d better eat that bagel before I do. I was up all night working, took a three-mile run with the hounds, and then did some serious damage on the archery course. I haven’t eaten a solid meal in two days. So consider yourself forewarned.”

A hint of a grin. “Yes, ma’am.” Elliot unwrapped his breakfast and took a bite. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “For the bagel, the pep talk, and the sensitivity. I realize you drove down here because of me. You’re a good friend.”

“I have my moments.” Sloane reached over and grabbed a bottle of water from the small fridge against the office wall. “I assume you heard about Cynthia’s hair band being found?”

“Yeah, with blood on it and near it. Is that true?”

A nod. “The DNA results came in. The blood on the hair band and on the grass where it was found is Cynthia’s.”

Elliot leaned forward. “What about prints? Were there any others besides Cynthia’s?”

“Partials. They were smudged. The lab is seeing what they can come up with. But it doesn’t look too promising.”

“The poor kid.”

“And her poor parents.” Sloane wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “I’m talking to Mrs. Alexander today. My fingers are crossed that she’ll say something, anything, that I can give to Bob.”

“Wouldn’t she have told him everything she knows already?”

“Everything she realizes she knows,” Sloane corrected. “You’d be surprised by the number of details we all store in our brains that never register in our consciousness without being prompted.”

“Yeah. I guess I would.” Elliot fiddled with the edge of the wax paper. “So it’s your job to coax out some of those details?”

“One of my jobs, yes.” Sloane resumed eating her bagel, choosing her next words carefully. “Hang tough these next few days, Elliot. Everyone’s working at maximum speed and efficiency. But until the investigation’s wrapped up, life at John Jay won’t return to normal. I saw the press converged at the edge of campus.”

“They’re vultures,” he replied bitterly.

“You don’t have to speak to them. If you’re approached by a reporter, just keep walking and say nothing. Stay holed up in here as much as possible. Teach your classes. Do whatever research you can. I’ll make sure you get your computers back quickly, so it’ll be business as usual. Just keep it together.”