Twisted (22 page)

“Good night, Connie.” Sloane hung up and hurried to the door. “Finally,” she muttered to Burt, who was managing to keep the hounds from attacking the front door. “I was beginning to think he’d never get here.”

She pulled open the door, simultaneously reaching into her pocket for a few dollars to tip the messenger—and froze.

Derek was standing on the doorstep.

“Hey,” he greeted her, waving a padded pouch in the air. “Special delivery.”

“
You
brought it—why?” she asked bluntly. “Also, where have you been all day? What happened to your cell phone? And what took so long for the DVDs to be burned?”

“I’ve been breathing down people’s necks and playing political Ping-Pong all day. It turns out that four separate cameras cover the full section of campus between the parking lot and Lake Fred, which is the route we assume Penelope walked—and I wanted the surveillance footage from all of them. That caused a bit of an uproar, and added a shitload of time to the process. As for my cell—dead battery, forgot my charger. And I couldn’t get a messenger who’d drive up here this late, so I brought the DVDs myself. Anything else?”

Sloane drew a slow breath. “Come on in.” She stepped aside so he could comply. “How did you find this place? It doesn’t show up on any
GPS
I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m smart. And I’ve got a good sense of direction. Hey, fellas—and lady.” He squatted down and greeted the hounds as they broke free and raced over to jump all over him. A broad smile spread across his face as he scruffled and tussled with each of them. “Looks like you haven’t forgotten your old pal Derek. Well, I haven’t forgotten you either.” He pulled three little kongs filled with peanut butter out of his jacket pocket. “Still your favorites?” He chuckled as the dogs tripped over one another to get to the kongs. “Is it okay?” He tilted back his head, glancing quizzically up at Sloane.

“By all means.” She made a wide sweep with her arm. “They’d never forgive me if I said no.”

“Hear that, gang? They’re yours.” He distributed the kongs, and each dachshund snatched his or hers, then hurried off to a separate corner of the den to enjoy the treat in private.

“I think they call that bribery,” Sloane commented, shutting the door behind Derek.

“Not in this case. In this case it was long-time-no-see gifts.” Derek came to a halt as he spotted Burt for the first time. “Am I intruding?”

Burt rose. “Actually, I’m the one who intruded. Sloane was expecting the package. She wasn’t expecting me.”

“Derek, this is Burt Wagner, my next-door neighbor Elsa’s son,” Sloane said. “Elsa and Burt are the lifesavers who took the hounds when I got hurt yesterday, and who care for them whenever I travel or when my work keeps me away for insane hours. I’d be lost without them. Burt, this is Special Agent Derek Parker of the
FBI
. He’s a colleague and, in this case, the messenger who brought me the package I’ve been waiting for.”

The two men shook hands.

“An
FBI
agent. That’s pretty exciting,” Burt said. “Do you work in the Newark office?”

“No. New York,” Derek replied. “But the New York and Newark field offices often work together, if it becomes necessary.”

“Clearly, this is one of those times.” Burt turned to Sloane. “I’ll get going now. I want to check and see how my mother’s doing.”

Nodding, Sloane walked him to the door. “Remember what I said. If Elsa needs me, I’m there. Just call. Either way, I’ll check on her tomorrow. In the meantime, tell her to rest and get her strength back. And please, thank her for the casserole.”

“I will. And, Sloane—I appreciate your support.” Burt touched her arm lightly. “At times like this, it’s good to know someone cares.” He raised his head and met Derek’s gaze. “Nice to meet you, Agent Parker.”

“Derek,” he corrected. “And same here.”

Sloane had barely shut the door behind Burt and turned around, when Derek—who’d already plopped down on the sofa, crossed his ankles on the hassock in front of him, and folded his arms behind his head—commented, “That guy’s dying to hook up with you.”

“Excuse me?” Sloane’s brows rose.

“You heard me. He might as well be wearing a sign that says ‘I want to get into Sloane Burbank’s pants.’”

“His mother’s not well. He thinks she’s slipping away. I doubt he’s thinking about sex.”

“I’m sorry to hear about his mother, but he’s definitely thinking about sex—specifically with you.”

Sloane made an exasperated sound. “Fine. He wants to have sex with me. I appreciate the tip.”

“What about you?”

“What about me what?”

“Do you want to have sex with him?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, first you assume the role of my bodyguard, and now you’re monitoring my sex life? I thought I made it clear that—”

“Good,” Derek interrupted with a look of smug satisfaction. “You don’t want to sleep with the guy. Wise choice. He’s not your type. Too needy. Too ordinary. And a little weird; lots of questionable baggage beneath the surface.”

“Thank you, Dr. Ruth. You’re pretty impressive—you got all that from a two-minute introduction?”

“Am I wrong?”

Silence.

“I rest my case.” His teeth gleamed as he gave her that sexy, lopsided grin.

“You are
so
arrogant, it’s astounding,” Sloane muttered. “I’m surprised no one in C-6 has killed you yet.”

“They’re a tolerant bunch.”

“Obviously.” Sloane glanced thoughtfully toward the door. “I feel sorry for Burt. He’s alone, making life-altering decisions about his mother with no guidance whatsoever.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting that you’ll be providing that guidance.”

“No, I don’t think that would be wise. Besides, I’m not qualified. I’m thinking of a friend of mine. He might be able to help. He’s the steady, calm type. He also has a medical background, and he’s going through something similar to what Burt is.”

“He?”
Derek’s brows rose. “Does this
he
want to sleep with you, too?”

Sloane rolled her eyes. “Hardly. I’ve mentioned him to you in the past. Luke Doyle. He’s a medical assistant at Bellevue Hospital.”

“He’s the guy you went through 9/11 with, isn’t he?”

Sloane nodded soberly. “There’s something binding about sharing an experience like that. We touch base every so often. He’s a good, decent person. The more I think about it, the more I think that talking to Luke would be good for Burt.”

“Doyle,” Derek repeated, his eyes narrowed as he searched his memory. “Why does that name ring a bell?”

“Because Luke’s mother is Dr. Lillian Doyle—the John Jay sociology professor who spoke at the Crimes Against Women seminar with me. We’ve done quite a few panels together.” Sloane sighed. “Unfortunately, she has cancer, and, from what I gather, not a lot of time. Luke is caring for her. I think it would be very cathartic if he spoke to Burt.”

“It sounds like a good idea,” Derek agreed. “Give him a call—
tomorrow
.”

It was impossible to miss Derek’s implication. Sloane folded her arms across her breasts and eyed the hassock where Derek had propped his feet. “You seem to have made yourself comfortable. I take it you’re planning to watch the DVDs with me? Or have you already watched them?”

Derek shook his head. “I barely had time to get them, much less watch them. I saw enough to make sure the footage covered the right date and the right part of campus. Then I grabbed the DVDs and took off. We can go through the first batch of footage together.”

“That works. I’ll grab a couple of sodas—unless you’d rather have a beer?” She paused, knowing full well what his answer would be.

“Not when I’m working,” he confirmed. “That hasn’t changed.”

“Okay, then I’ll get the drinks. You set things up. The TV and the
DVD
player are over there.” She pointed.

“Done. Sloane—wait.” He halted her in her tracks. “Any more phone calls?”

“No,” she replied in as casual a tone as she could muster. “Not a one.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed on her face. “But something’s bothering you. What is it? And don’t bother telling me nothing. I know otherwise.”

Sloane gave up. Whether it pissed her off or not, he read her too well. “No phone calls, but a prolonged surveillance—I think. I don’t have any proof to support that. Just gut instinct. I didn’t see or hear him, not inside the house or on the grounds. And I’ve been in and out a bunch of times. I was looking for the messenger, but I was also scouting the area for my stalker. He was out there, watching me. I could feel it.”

“He’s studying your routine, figuring out the right time to act. No problem. He won’t be getting it. I’ll make sure of that.” Sloane opened her mouth to protest, but Derek shut her down fast. “Don’t waste time arguing. I’m not backing off, and we have hours of footage to watch. And, by the way, take a Vicodin. You’ve been rubbing your wrist since I walked in, and you wince every time you do. You’re also white as a sheet, and you’ve got that drawn, pinched look between your eyes. That means you’re in pain.”

Sloane wasn’t sure whether to tell him he was way off base, or to tell him to butt out. In the end, she opted for neither, and went for the truth.

“You’re right, I am in pain. But if I take a Vicodin, I’ll conk out.”

“So? You’ll watch the footage as long as you can. If you doze off, I’ll pause the
DVD
until you wake up. I’ll make myself a sandwich and take the hounds out for their late-night constitutional. If I remember right, they’ll do an excellent job of waking you up when they burst back in here like three attention-starved toddlers.”

“That’s true.” Sloane couldn’t argue with that. Still, she hated the idea of relinquishing even a teeny fragment of control over her life, especially to Derek.

“It’s a nap, Sloane.” He addressed her ambivalence as clearly as if she’d spoken it aloud. “It doesn’t mean you’re leaning on me, or that you’re letting me back in. You drew the line. I get it. But there’s nothing acquiescent or emotionally binding about what I’m describing. We’re partners, supporting each other in order to solve a case.”

“Nice explanation,” she returned drily. “But you forgot one thing in your textbook description—the amazing sex part. Most partners don’t sleep together.”

“Okay, partners with benefits.” He grinned. “Does that description work better for you?”

Despite her best intentions, a smile curved Sloane’s lips. “Yes,” she said, acknowledging the fact that she was going to need that Vicodin-induced nap for more than just the all-night
DVD
watching. “That works just fine.”

Eickhoff Hall, the College of New Jersey

Trenton, New Jersey

April 4, 12 P.M.

Tina was psyched.

She’d finished her philosophy paper earlier than expected and delivered it to her professor’s office. The rest of her work could be done over the weekend.

Which meant she wouldn’t miss her all-night poker game after all.

She was feeling very lucky. She’d been on a winning streak these past few weeks. If it continued, she’d be able to pay for the Krav Maga fight gear she’d had her eye on at the academy. As things stood, she got her classes free, in exchange for being a part-time office manager. But, as her skills increased, she found herself loving the adrenaline rush and aggression release that came with the accelerated training. She wanted to increase the number of classes she took. She also wanted to start participating in the one-on-one fight sessions that were offered several times a week to expose the students to real-life street fighting. For the latter, she had to buy fight gear. And that meant big bucks.

What better way to earn them than at the poker table?

Pulling on some comfortable sweats, Tina snapped open her cell phone and pressed a number on speed dial. “Hey,” she said, greeting one of her poker friends. “The game’s at your apartment tonight, right? Good. I’ll pick up some munchies and a six-pack on my way over. Prepare to take a huge beating.”

Bellevue Park South

New York City

April 4, 12:15 P.M.

“Thanks for meeting me.” Sloane took a bite of her hot dog and settled herself on the park bench overlooking the playground, and directly across the street from the medical center.

“No problem,” Luke replied, removing his white medical coat so he wouldn’t drip mustard on it. “I’m sorry for the one-star food. But I could only get away for an hour.”

“Hey, don’t knock one of New York’s great traditions,” Sloane said with a grin, taking another bite of her frank. “What respectable New Yorker hasn’t dined alfresco with one of these babies? It’s a rite of passage. Besides,” she added in a more serious tone, “I appreciate your meeting me on such short notice.”

“It was no big deal for me. I walked across the street. But you drove all the way from New Jersey, which means this is important. Is everything okay?”

Sloane nodded. “It wasn’t that much out of my way. I had to see my hand therapist for a follow-up visit. She’s at Cornell Medical Center today—and, as a result, so was I.”

Luke gestured toward her hand. “I was going to comment on the bandage. What happened? I hope not a setback.”

“A minor one. Would you believe I aggravated the scar tissue by trying to change a flat tire on my own, and had a huge battle with a lug-nut wrench?”

He chuckled. “Knowing you? Yes. How is it healing?”

She sighed. “I’ve got some inflammation and tenderness. But I’m fighting the good fight, following doctor’s orders and all that. So I’m on my way to recovery. Someday, when I stop being an impulsive idiot, I’ll be as good as new.”

“It’ll happen sooner than you think. Have patience.”

“Me? That’s a lost cause.” Sloane inclined her head in Luke’s direction. “How’s your mother? I’ve been at John Jay several times in the past week, and I haven’t run into her. That’s unusual.”

An expression of sad resignation flashed across Luke’s face. “She goes in to work more sporadically these days. She’s tired. As for the pain, some days are better than others. I try to make her as comfortable as possible. She’s a trouper; never complains. But it’s difficult to watch.”