Twisted (7 page)

“Can I get you something?” the bartender interrupted to ask.

“Scotch. Neat.” Doug waited for his drink, then walked over to Sloane and perched on the stool beside her.

“You’re obviously surprised,” Sloane noted. “What were you expecting?”

Doug put down his briefcase. “Let’s put it this way. There are five women in this bar. I’d narrowed down the possibilities to three. You weren’t even on the list of candidates.”

Sloane’s lips twitched. “And why would that be?”

“You’re kidding, right? You said you were an ex–
FBI
agent. I figured you were solid, muscular, and intimidating.”

“I am.”

“Right. What are you—five foot two? A hundred pounds?”

“Five three and one-ten. And if you want proof that I’m intimidating, let’s step over there.” Sloane pointed to a deserted, semidarkened corner of the lounge. “This way you won’t have to suffer the embarrassment of people seeing me toss you on your ass. Or worse, if you’re still not convinced.”

His brows rose, and he gave a quiet chuckle. “Never mind. I believe you. Plus I wouldn’t be much of a challenge. I’m about to fall on my ass anyway. I just worked forty hours straight.”

He wasn’t lying. Sloane could see that. He looked haggard, with dark circles under his eyes and a five o’clock shadow that said he hadn’t shaved since at least yesterday. So he hadn’t been blowing her off. He’d really been putting together some major deal.

“I appreciate your meeting me,” she said. “I’ll make this brief so you can go home and get some sleep.”

“Sleep? Right.” He grimaced. “Three hours tops. I’ve got to be back at my desk by seven.” He drank some of his scotch. “You said you were a friend of Penny’s and that her parents hired you to conduct a last-ditch investigation on her disappearance. But you also said there were no new developments. And Penny’s been missing for a year. So how do I factor into your investigation? I’ve already told the police and the
FBI
everything I know.”

“I realize that.” Sloane nodded. She took an intentional sip of her drink, then crossed her legs and propped an elbow on the counter, conveying a relaxed, informal demeanor. “This isn’t an interrogation, Doug. It’s a review of facts. You and Penny were very close right before her disappearance. I just want to make sure there isn’t some nuance—something she might have said or done—that you didn’t stress to the authorities that I’ll pick up on because of how well I knew Penny. No hidden agenda. No accusatory tone. You have an alibi. I’m not questioning it—or your motives. I’m just looking for a miracle to give to Penny’s parents.”

Her soft-pedaling paid off.

Doug visibly relaxed, downing a little more of his scotch. “Penny’s a terrific person. We were good together for a long time. But two ambitious workaholics can’t last indefinitely as a couple unless one of them is ready to take a backseat to the other’s career. Neither of us was willing to do that. So we broke things off. The decision was mutual, and it was amicable. No fighting, screaming, throwing things. Just a mature parting.”

“Your alibi—the woman you were in Hawaii with—was that a new relationship?”

A muscle worked in Doug’s jaw. “If you’re asking if I was being unfaithful to Penny, the answer is yes. I’m not proud of it. Nor was it going on for long. Things were unraveling between Penny and me. I work round the clock. So does my new girlfriend, Sandy. We’re both at Merrill Lynch, so we’re together all the time. It just happened. And, for the record, Penny knew. I told her about it around a month before we ended things.”

“How did she take it?”

“She wasn’t surprised. But she was hurt and angry. We were a couple. She felt betrayed. I think that’s pretty normal.”

If Doug was looking for Sloane’s opinion, he wasn’t getting it. Any sign that she was judging him negatively would mark the end of this interview.

Instead, she stuck with the facts. “You say she felt angry and betrayed. But she didn’t end things then.”

“Not officially. But, like I said, the breakup was gradual, not sudden. We were already in the talking phases. My relationship with Sandy just accelerated things. Penny and I called it quits a few weeks later.”

“Yet she called you the day before she disappeared.”

“Mm-hmm, around four o’clock,” Doug confirmed. “And before you ask, I’ll give you the same explanation I gave the
FBI
, because it’s the truth. The reason Penny called was to make arrangements for a mutual swap of our belongings. I’d left some things at her place, and she’d done the same at mine.”

“She called to set up a time for you to meet.” Sloane took a sip of her drink, intentionally knitting her brows in puzzlement. “That doesn’t sound to me like someone who was planning to vanish into thin air.”

“Nor to me. She sounded a little down, or maybe introspective’s a better word. But nothing dire. Plus, Penny’s not the impulsive type. I can’t imagine her just taking off and leaving her entire life behind.”

“You told that to the FBI?”

“Twice. Special Agent Parker grilled the hell out of me. Believe me, if I had the slightest clue that that call from Penny was a prelude to this, I would have said or done something. I certainly wouldn’t have hung up and boarded an evening flight to Hawaii.”

“Did you work out a time and place to get together once you got back from your trip?”

“I wasn’t sure of my schedule. We left it that I’d call her a week from Monday and we’d work out the details.”

“Penny liked things nailed down,” Sloane murmured. “She wasn’t a hang-loose kind of person.”

Doug gave a half smile. “You did know her well. No, she was anything but hang loose. She was decisive and get it done now. If it wasn’t for my vacation and her weekend plans, she would have pushed to get it done
ASAP
.”

Sloane’s head came up. “How do you know Penny had weekend plans? Did she mention she had something on tap?”

“Hmm?” Doug looked startled, as though the conversation had jolted a thought he’d long since forgotten. “Not during that phone call she didn’t. But she didn’t have to. I knew about that seminar since she registered for it a couple of months earlier.”

“What seminar?”

“I don’t remember the topic. But it was part of a Classical Humanities lecture series. They were held one Saturday afternoon a month. Penny went to several of them. She was really into the whole academic scene.”

“Did you tell this to Special Agent Parker?”

“I doubt it. To be frank, it slipped my mind until now. The lecture series was Penny’s thing, not mine. I never went with her. I worked most Saturdays. Special Agent Parker was focused on my alibi and my recollections of Penny’s state of mind. So was I. A lecture that she might or might not have attended just didn’t seem important.” Doug paused, studied Sloane’s face. “Why? Does it mean something?”

“That depends. Where were the lectures held?”

“Richard Stockton College.”

Sloane set down her glass with a thud. Did that mean something? Hell, yes.

He’s crazy.

I can see the madness in his eyes.

God, I’m so terrified. I’ve begged, pleaded, struggled to break his hold. But it’s futile. When that insanity glitters in his dark stare, he doesn’t hear me. If I keep fighting, he hits me.

I know what’s coming next—the only thing that stops my struggles entirely.

The sting of the hypodermic needle. I feel it pierce my skin. Then the room starts spinning around me. I hate that sense of slipping away, of losing touch with reality. And I hate the sick and disoriented way I come to—groggy, nauseated, and with no clue about how much time has passed.

He visits me soon after I come to. On those visits, he’s different.

The rage in his eyes is gone. He looks almost normal. He’s polite, even considerate. He’ll bring me a meal, sit silently and read while I eat. His reading material is scholarly—classics, philosophy, mythology. I look around while I force down the food. I don’t comprehend anything I see. There’s a fabricated gold shield hanging on the wall, statuettes of an owl and an olive tree flanking it on either side, and a photocopied story of Athena—complete with illustrations, like a chapter out of a children’s book—that he’s placed at the foot of my mattress. I don’t understand any of it, but I don’t dare ask questions.

Once I’ve finished eating, he escorts me to the bathroom. The dichotomy is bizarre. He keeps a combat knife at my throat to assert his domination, yet holds my arm while we walk, since I’m so unsteady on my feet. That’s the only time he touches me. And he never intrudes on my privacy. He waits outside the bathroom until I come out.

Escape is impossible.

Beneath the curtains, there are bars on the window, and he’s fitted it with a heavily tinted glass pane so I can’t see outside my prison.

Earlier, I requested fresh air. He refused. I then requested a bath. He surprised me by agreeing. He’s agreed to pick up some toiletries and have them for me tonight.

It’s a luxury to anticipate.

I so want to meet the other women. I hear their voices, their weeping. Maybe they can explain to me why we’re here.

Or maybe I don’t want to know.

March 26

12:05 P.M.

Richard Stockton College was about a twenty-minute ride from Atlantic City, and a little over two hours from Sloane’s house.

She didn’t have the time to drive there and back. Not today.

She did it anyway.

One thing she’d learned years ago is that you got a lot more out of people when you talked to them in person than you did when you talked to them over the phone.

She arrived on campus around eleven, and was directed to the office of special affairs. She waited at the desk for Doris Hayden, who administered the lecture series. Her instincts told her that she was on the verge of finding the first new and viable lead in this case.

That meant forward motion. It didn’t mean a happy ending.

Sloane was a realist. If her theory was correct, she’d leave with a new venue to explore, and more ammunition to support her belief that Penny’s disappearance involved foul play rather than free will.

Which meant she’d be one step closer to giving Hope Truman the closure she needed. However, it also suggested that that closure would involve facing the loss of her daughter.

On that sober thought, Sloane conducted her business. After seeing Sloane’s credentials and hearing why she was there, Doris had cooperated fully. She’d pulled up the online registration forms of all twenty-five attendees. Only four, including Penny, were from Manhattan—the rest were locals.

Doris had immediately e-mailed everyone on the list with a brief explanation of the situation and an electronic photo of Penny that Sloane provided via her laptop.

Sloane had thanked her profusely. Then, time being of the essence, she began her follow-up on campus, tracking down five Stockton students who’d attended the seminar. All of them had received Doris’s e-mail. None of them recognized Penny’s photo, or remembered seeing anyone who matched her description at the seminar that day.

Not a good sign.

Next, Sloane left urgent voice-mail messages on the cell phones of the other six Stockton undergrads who were on the registration sheet, asking them to check their e-mails and get back to her ASAP—within the hour if possible. Since college students were notorious for having their cell phones glued to their ears, Sloane crossed her fingers that she’d hear back from them before she had to take off.

She used the waiting time to call the other three New Yorkers. Two were
NYU
roommates, one of whom answered the phone, and, as soon as Sloane mentioned last April’s lecture at Richard Stockton, said that she and her friend had registered, but ultimately blown off the lecture.

The third New Yorker, Deanna Frost, worked in the communications department of the New York Public Library in midtown Manhattan. Sloane got her voice mail as well, and left an equally urgent message.

Frustrated, she punched off her phone. Her growling stomach reminded her that all the people she was trying to reach were probably at lunch. She bought herself a grilled chicken panini and a Diet Coke, and ate them in the car. The weather was still too nippy to sit outside, and her hand was feeling the chill.

That reminded her she had an appointment with her hand therapist at four-thirty. It was already after one. She’d better get some results here soon, or she’d have to cut the information gathering short and do the rest long distance.

Two more Richard Stockton students called in the next half hour, both to say they’d gotten Sloane’s message, checked out the e-mail, but were drawing a blank when it came to the woman in the photo.

Disappointed and time-stressed, Sloane was just thanking the last guy for his promptness and cooperation when the beep that signified her call waiting sounded.

It was Deanna Frost.

“Your message said you needed information about a particular woman who attended the seminar at Richard Stockton last April, that her safety could be at stake.” Deanna was frank and to the point. “How can I help?”

“You were registered for the seminar,” Sloane replied. “Did you attend?”

“Yes. I took an express bus from the Port Authority.”

It was a long shot. Express buses ran from New York City to AC all the time. Still, Sloane had to try. “I see you registered using your personal Yahoo account. Are you at home now or at the library?”

“The library. Why?”

“Because Doris Hayden forwarded you an e-mail and a photo. Can you access your personal e-mail from there?”

“Of course. Just give me a minute.” Some clicking sounds on a computer keyboard, then a pause. “Here’s the e-mail from Richard Stockton. Let me open it.”

A few more clicks. “Missing?” she murmured in distress. Clearly, she was reading Doris’s e-mail. “How terrible. Was she kidnapped?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Would you open the attachment and take a look at the photo?”

“Right now.” A minute passed, then a slight gasp. “Penny.”

Sloane’s head snapped up. “You know her?”