Twisted (37 page)

Sloane had been fighting traffic for a while now. She was very relieved to emerge from the other end of the tunnel and finally be in Manhattan. Now she just had to crawl her way up to John Jay.

Twenty minutes and two blocks later, her cell phone rang.

Using her hands-free, she answered. “Sloane Burbank.”

“When were you planning on telling me that our serial killer had broken into your house and tried out your bed?” Derek demanded without preamble.

The last thing Sloane was up for was one of Derek’s macho tirades.

“I didn’t realize I was subject to house rules,” she replied. “I handled the problem. I also made sure you got a copy of the report—which you obviously did. By the way, don’t blast Hank. I told him not to contact you. I can take care of myself—as I always have. And it’s not as if the
DNA
results are any great revelation. You’re the one who’s been suspicious of my stalker from the start, dead set on the fact that I’m at the heart of his crime spree. This proves you were right. I figured you’d be gloating, not biting my head off.”

“Well, you figured wrong.” Derek still sounded miffed. “Are you okay?”

“Except for the fact that I had to wash the comforter and the rug three times each so the hounds would stop their incessant sniffing, I’m unscathed.”

“Good.” Derek blew out a breath. “Sloane, I know we’ve beaten this conversation to death, but you don’t seem to get the fact that this psycho’s ultimate target is
you
. I want you out of that house. Move to a hotel or to a friend’s place. Move in with me. Stop being so damned stubborn.”

“Moving in with you would guarantee violence,” Sloane returned drily. “The minute you started ironing my bras, we’d kill each other.” She maneuvered her car around a
BMW
, simultaneously trying to put an end to this ongoing debate. “As for the rest, I told you, I’m not letting this Unsub scare me off. I won’t turn my whole life
and
my dogs’ lives upside down to move somewhere that’s no safer than home. This psycho’s not interested in my house; he’s interested in me. Wherever I go, he’ll find me. At least I know my own turf. I sensed someone had broken in the instant I opened the front door. I grabbed my pistol—and, yes, I would have used it.”

“I believe you. But you don’t carry your pistol when you go for your daily run. Don’t you think the Unsub’s memorized your route?”

“I’m sure he has. And, if I changed it, he’d memorize the new one. I have to keep things business as usual. He’s fixated on me. We’ve already cut off his ability to reach me by phone—which I’m sure he’s figured out. I don’t want to do anything else to rock the boat and push him even further over the edge.”

“Yeah, right. And if you happen to draw him out of hiding while you’re keeping things business as usual, all the better.”

“If it results in us capturing him, I’d be thrilled.” Sloane rushed on, nipping the rest of Derek’s argument in the bud. “Tell you what. From now on, I’ll have Hank check out the house before I go inside. He already follows me with binoculars during my run. Now, do you have any news for me?”

Derek’s grunt indicated he knew she was placating him, that he didn’t like it a bit, and that this conversation was far from over. But he let it go—for now. “This Unsub of ours is a real Houdini. He diverts attention from himself so no one notices when he strikes. I headed down to Eldridge Street on the Lower East Side and questioned a few people. The victim’s roommates barely speak a word of English. Hell, they wouldn’t talk to me even if they were fluent. They’re way too scared. After that, I ran into a couple of teenage junkies, who think they remember a guy in a hooded sweatshirt hanging around the resting house. Of course they never saw his face. Plus, they were high as a kite. So I took what they said with a grain of salt.”

“Wise decision.” Sloane honked her horn as a taxi driver cut her off. “I’m on my way over to John Jay. I’ve got an idea I want to pursue. Then I’m off to Larry’s hotel for the next round of ‘Sloane Burbank, this is your life.’”

“What’s the idea you’re pursuing?”

Sloane’s lips curved. Trust Derek to never miss anything, no matter how casually it was mentioned. “I’ll tell you if and when it becomes a reality. In fact, given this particular idea, you’ll be the first one I call.”

“Ah, I sense I’m being used.”

“Maybe a little. Then again, if you come through for me, I could arrange to use you in ways you’ll really, really like.” Sloane could almost hear Derek’s body react.

“Now,
that
got my attention,” he announced. “Although you do know that you’re blackmailing and sexually harassing a federal agent.”

“True. But I’m also giving him an amazing fantasy to savor. And, trust me, the reality will far exceed it.”

“Promise?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“Then I’m putty in your hands.”

It was just before three when Sloane knocked on Elliot’s office door.

“Come on in,” he called in his usual distracted, working voice.

Sloane walked in. “Hey, stranger.”

“Hey, Skippy.” Elliot swiveled around in his chair, folding his hands behind his head.

Sloane made a face at the reference to her old high school nickname. Always on the run, always attuned to an athlete’s need for protein and electrolytes, she’d been a big fan of peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches. Elliot and his braniac friends had found this hilarious. They’d nicknamed her “Skippy” as a poke at her peanut butter of choice.

“Very funny,” she retorted now. “News flash—maybe if you’d eaten more peanut butter and less Dunkin’ Donuts, you wouldn’t have been such a weenie at our Krav demonstration.”

“Point taken—although, for the record, I’ve switched to Krispy Kremes. They’re high in endorphins. I’m never happier than when I’m eating them.” Elliot took her retaliatory barb right in stride. “Actually, I feel honored that Nancy Drew took off a few minutes to see me.”

“I
like
seeing you—usually,” Sloane added wryly, her lips twitching at the old familiar banter. “As for Nancy Drew, she had it easy. She handled one case at a time. I’ve been flung into a snake pit.”

“Sounds appealing.”

“It’s exhausting. I wouldn’t mind if I were seeing results. But each day seems to provoke new questions, and yield no answers.” All humor having vanished, Sloane shot Elliot a quizzical look. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” Elliot assured her. “Honestly. I’ve gotten used to reporters jabbering outside. As for Cynthia, I realize it looks bleak, but I’m not giving up. I’ve said a few prayers for her. I still believe in those, you know. Weird for a tech guy, huh?”

“Nope. I believe in them, too. And I’m an ex–
FBI
agent. Prayers are sometimes all we’ve got.” Sloane shut the door behind her with a firm
click,
and sat down in the chair across from Elliot’s desk.

“Uh-oh.” A wary expression crossed his face. “We’re not talking about prayers anymore. And you’re not just here to say hi. What’s up?”

“What does that mean? I told you the truth—I’ve been thinking about you, and worrying about how you were doing. Plus, I miss hanging out with you and trying to understand ‘geek speak.’”

“I’m sure that’s true. And, for the record, I missed you, too. But those aren’t the only reasons you’re here. You never shut my door so emphatically. Not unless you have something confidential to discuss—which usually involves a topic I’m not going to like.”

Sloane began to laugh. “Nice observation,” she said. “Ever think of writing a software program to analyze body language?”

“Nope.” Elliot’s gaze flickered briefly to his computer screen. “I’ll leave the people reading to you. I’ve got my hands full. Between my classes and my research, I’m toast.” He jiggled his mouse, and when the
LCD
monitor came to life, he clicked on the results window. Briefly, he glanced at it. “This project is turning out to be even more challenging then I expected. It’s literally taking over my life. I doubt I’d be good for much else.”

“How about expanding the scope of your project? Are you up for that? Because that’s why I shut the door.” Sloane grinned as she saw surprised interest glint in Elliot’s eyes. “See? When I shut the door
emphatically,
it’s not always to bring up a topic you don’t like.”

“You win. What kind of expansion are you talking about?”

Sloane inhaled sharply. “First, I need your word that this conversation is confidential. Everything that’s said
must
stay between us.”

“Done.”

“Next, I want you to understand that this whole idea I’m about to broach is mine and mine alone. For now, it’s also strictly hypothetical. I haven’t mentioned it to a soul, and when and if I do, we’ll need to get a lot of approvals to make it happen.
If
it’s feasible for it
to
happen. That’s the part only you can answer. Is my idea within the realm of possibility, or is it a great concept but a millennium away from becoming a reality?”

“I won’t know till I hear it. And I’m listening.” Elliot shifted in his seat, rife with surging adrenaline. He diffused it by getting up, grabbing two bottles of water from his minifridge, and handing one to Sloane as he sank back down.

“Thanks.” She twisted open the cap and took a swig. “I’m not privy to the details of your research. Partly because they’re sensitive and classified, and partly because I wouldn’t understand what you were talking about if you told me. But I do remember the project involves identifying traits of cybercrime in a sea of financial transactions. Your program is designed to recognize hard-to-detect patterns in seemingly unrelated data. I also remember a particular high school buddy of mine who had grand dreams of using his remarkable talents to contribute to society in a major way. I think saving lives would fill that bill, wouldn’t it?”

Sloane didn’t need Elliot’s response. It was written all over his face.

“So here’s my hypothetical question,” she concluded. “Could your system do the same thing for violent crimes that it’s doing for cybercrime? If I provided you with a slew of unrelated facts, could your program find patterns that we human investigators might miss? Patterns that could, say, lead us to a serial killer?”

Elliot stared at her for a moment, his eyes blinking rapidly as his mind raced. “Wow. When you think big, you really think big.” He rubbed his jaw. “In other words, you’d supply me with facts and hunches on all the cases, I’d feed them into my program, and we’d see what linkages emerge.”

“That’s the gist of it.”

“Obviously, we’re talking about the pig who kidnapped Cynthia Alexander.” Elliot rolled his pen between his fingers. “According to the information being leaked by the press, the daughter of that big-time cardiologist, Dr. Ronald Truman, was kidnapped last April by the same wack job who kidnapped Cynthia. I figured it was all hype. But now that you’re using terms like
serial killer
, I have to wonder. Is it true? Is Dr. Truman’s daughter another one of this guy’s victims?”

“I believe so, yes.” Sloane nodded. “I’m very limited in what I can say—at least for now. But we do have circumstantial evidence linking the crimes.”

“We?”
Elliot echoed. “Are you involved in that investigation?”

“Penny Truman was my dearest childhood friend. You didn’t know her because she went to a different high school than we did. But I’ve known her since grade school. So, yes, I’m privy to certain aspects of the ongoing investigation.”

Elliot stopped rolling his pen. “In other words, you were hired by either her parents or the
FBI
to help find her.”

“No comment.”

“That’s all the comment I need.”

Sloane took another gulp of water, carefully weighing what she said. She was walking a fine line between relating what was publicly available and revealing privileged information.

“I’m sure you read about Tina Carroll,” she continued.

“That student at The College of New Jersey who was attacked on campus, but who kicked her assailant’s ass? You bet I did. Good the hell for her.”

“I agree. Well, thanks to that ass kicking, the offender’s
DNA
was found at the crime scene. It was recently matched to the
DNA
left at Southern New Jersey Medical Center by whoever killed the head nurse and stole drugs from her station.”

“Shit.” Elliot paled. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were talking about a serial killer. Are there other victims?”

Another nod. “Some actual, some potential.”

“Potential? You mean, you’ve identified women who could be next on his list?”

Sloane raised her hand. “Present and accounted for.”

“You?”
Elliot jolted upright.

“Me.” Briefly, Sloane told him about her stalker, about the cell phone found at Tina’s crime scene, and about the fact that someone had broken into her house—someone whose
DNA
matched the
DNA
found at the other crime scenes she’d just described.

“Shit,” Elliot repeated, sinking back into his chair.

“That’s about all I can ethically tell you—for now,” Sloane concluded.

Elliot’s jaw tightened, and he slid forward, elbows propped on the desk. Sloane could almost see the apprehensive geek transform into the determined scientist.

“What’s your theory on how the cases are related?” he asked.

“For starters, all the victims we’re trying to find or protect are somehow connected to me. And all in random ways—from a close friendship to a college junior whose interests and lifestyle up to this point closely mimic mine. How do you feed a piece of data like that into VICAP? You can’t. It’s too abstract. And here’s another equally abstract reality that
VICAP
wouldn’t know what to do with—all the victims were kidnapped in close proximity to bodies of water on or near college campuses. Whoopee. Seventy percent of the earth is water. So, real as that information is, it’s totally useless. We don’t have a way to take these obscure facts and do something with them. Do you?”

“Actually, yes.” Elliot didn’t miss a beat. “What you’re describing is exactly what my program aims to accomplish. In layperson’s terms, it combines the ability of the brain to find patterns in seemingly unrelated data with a computer’s ability to rapidly analyze mountains of data. The result is to uncover criminal activity long before its impact becomes devastating, either in monetary losses, damaged reputations, or empowerment of organized criminal enterprises—or, worst case scenario, terrorists.”