by Andrea Kane
She’s also every bit the cunning huntress. If circumstances were different, she might even dig up enough suspicious information, connect enough dots, to point the investigation in my direction.
But circumstances aren’t different.
And there won’t be enough time.
Hunterdon County, New Jersey
10:30 P.M.
Sloane was fighting a losing battle.
For the past half hour, she’d been battling out a full-scale tug-of-war. She was tired, breathless, and losing big-time. The only thing that was in worse shape than she, was the item being tugged—which, in this case, was her sweat sock. Moe had already chewed three holes in it, Larry had stretched it beyond recognition, and Curly was yanking on it so hard, he was making little grunting sounds with each rhythmic pull.
“I give up.” Sloane let go of the sock and rolled over onto her back on the living-room rug, laughing as the three victorious hounds abandoned the sock to leap on her, licking her face and nibbling on her hair. “You’re way too strong for me. Although, for the record, three against one isn’t a fair fight.”
She sat up, frowning at the clock on the wall. It was almost ten-thirty at night, and still the messenger hadn’t arrived with the DVDs. She’d checked outside at least five times to see if the messenger had done a dump-and-run. Nothing. And to make matters worse, she couldn’t reach Derek to find out what was going on. She’d been trying him since ten o’clock this morning, and his cell phone was going straight to voice mail.
She was torn between being royally pissed and a little worried. Derek was on-the-dot punctual. He would have been at Stockton, in the campus police’s faces, at nine o’clock sharp. If they’d been running late, he’d have planted himself in their office like a drill sergeant. And if they’d been this late, he would have called to alert her.
Unless he was knee-deep in balancing the demands of the Bureau with the need to apply pressure on the college administrators to get what he wanted.
Any way you sliced it, Sloane wasn’t happy.
Moe barked in her face to protest the lack of attention she was receiving, and Sloane responded by scratching her ears and giving each pup a kiss on the snout. “Thanks for being the only dependable ones in my life,” she told them.
At that moment the doorbell rang.
“And thanks for being my good-luck charms,” she added, scrambling to her feet.
All three hounds were oblivious to the compliment. They were off on a single-minded mission—to find out who the visitor was.
They were delighted with who they found.
Sloane was not.
“Burt.” Her brows rose in surprise when she saw her next-door neighbor’s son standing on her doorstep, a covered casserole dish in his hands.
It was hard to miss the obvious disappointment in Sloane’s tone, and Burt gave her an inquisitive look. “Bad time? I realize it’s late, but you’re usually a night owl. I’m sorry. I should have called first.”
“Don’t be silly.” Sloane felt terrible. Burt had been a lifesaver these past weeks, taking care of the hounds, checking on the house for her. And here she was being rude to him for a reason that had nothing to do with him.
“Please, come in,” she said, opening the door and trying to keep the hounds from leaping all over him in greeting. “I’m the one who should apologize. I was waiting for an important package that’s being messengered over. It relates to a case I’m consulting on—an urgent one. I thought you were the messenger.” She smiled. “But a friendly face is welcome, too. And not just by me.” Sloane gestured toward the hounds, who were battling one another for center stage with Burt. “You have quite a fan base in this house.”
“That’s good to know.” Burt squatted down to greet each dachshund individually. Simultaneously, he reached out and handed Sloane the casserole dish he was holding. “My mother made this. A tuna casserole. She was afraid you weren’t eating.”
“No worries there. I polished off a quart of beef with scallions a little while ago. But Elsa is a sweetheart.” Sloane took the casserole dish. “This will be tomorrow night’s dinner.” She beckoned Burt inside and shut the door behind him. “I’ll pop this in the fridge. Can I get you something—soda, beer, wine?”
“Are you having something?”
“Root beer.” She gave him a rueful look. “But don’t go by me. I’m on painkillers, so alcohol is off-limits.”
“Actually, root beer would be great, thanks. I want to stay alert. I might have some more driving to do tonight.”
Sloane heard a strained note in Burt’s voice, and she studied him as he rose from tussling with the hounds. Something was bothering him. It was written all over his face. She was on the verge of asking, then checked herself. First, it was none of her business. And last, she didn’t want to mislead Burt into thinking there was anything more than friendship between them. She hadn’t forgotten the vibes he’d exuded when she’d had dinner at Elsa’s.
“I’ll be back in a sec,” she said instead. “Make yourself comfortable.”
She went into the kitchen, slid the casserole into the fridge, and grabbed two bottles of root beer. When she returned, Burt was perched at the edge of a barrel chair in the cozy den just opposite the front door. He was stroking Curly’s head absently, but his mind was a million miles away.
“Here you go.” Sloane offered him the bottle, then sat down on her favorite old sofa, settling onto the thick cushion and facing her guest. “You and Elsa have been amazing,” she began. “I don’t know what the hounds and I would do without you.”
“That’s what neighbors are for. I’m glad we could help.” Burt raised his head. “How’s your hand doing? It’s still bandaged. Is the wound raw?”
“A little. Although it’s much better than it was yesterday. I think my occupational therapist will remove the bandages tomorrow. She’s just playing it safe. I did a pretty good number on the area surrounding the scar tissue. Between that, and the nerves and tendons I aggravated—my therapist was pretty pissed. And my surgeon’s going to kill me when I meet with him in two weeks. He’s like an artiste; he doesn’t like his work tampered with.”
“I can relate to that. Art of any kind, including that of a surgeon, is a gift. It should be recognized and respected. I’m probably more fervent about that because I own a bookstore. Talent like that awes me.” Burt took a swallow of soda, then rolled the bottle pensively between his palms. “Beauty itself awes me. It’s rare. Innocence is rarer still. And decency, respect…” He gave a bewildered shake of his head. “Those are practically nonexistent. So when I see them devalued, it maddens me.”
Sloane was getting that uncomfortable feeling again. “Life has its ups and downs,” she said simply. “But there’s still plenty of goodness and beauty in the world. Sometimes they’re just hard to see.”
Burt’s head came up, and he grimaced at the expression on Sloane’s face. “I’m really sorry. I dropped by to cheer you up, and instead I’m a walking poster for depression.” He cleared his throat. “Today was a rough day. I had to meet with my ex-wife. We had some remaining personal items to divvy up. It was difficult, to say the least. Then I dropped by my mother’s, and found her slumped over the kitchen table, white as a sheet.”
Sloane started. “Is Elsa all right?”
“For now.” Burt took another swig of root beer. “Besides her usual cooking and cleaning, she’d spent the rest of the day gardening, trimming bushes, and pruning hedges. She pushed herself way too hard. She was weak, exhausted, depleted, and dehydrated. I called the doctor. He was kind enough to come over, rather than putting my mother through a trip to the emergency room.”
“And?”
“Her blood pressure had dropped way down. She needed potassium, a vitamin-B shot, and a dose of IV fluids.”
“Where is she now?”
“Sleeping. I hired a nurse’s aid to stay with her overnight. But that solution’s just temporary. It’s not feasible for the long term.”
“If the problem is financial, I’d be more than happy to help out,” Sloane offered instantly. “I’ve known your mother since I was a kid. She’s not only a neighbor, she’s a friend.”
“Thank you, but no.” Burt shook his head. “That’s incredibly kind of you. And, believe me, I’m not refusing out of some misplaced sense of pride. If money was the answer, I’d take you up on your generous offer without hesitation. But it’s not. The fact is, my mother’s getting weaker. I can see her deteriorating before my eyes. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”
A spark of realization struck Sloane. “That’s why you didn’t want a beer. And what you meant when you said you might need to do some more driving tonight. You’re afraid Elsa will need to be hospitalized.”
“I want to be prepared…just in case. If all is well and she’s stable in the morning, I’ll leave, make arrangements at the bookstore, and pack some things. That way I can move in and take care of her until that’s not enough.”
“When is the nurse’s aid leaving?”
“Tomorrow at one. That’ll give me enough time to take care of everything and get back here. I’m taking Princess Di with me so the nurse’s aid can concentrate on my mother.”
Sloane’s mind was racing. “My appointment with my hand therapist is at ten. I’ll be back here by early afternoon. If you run into any complications—traffic, getting someone to handle the bookstore—anything, give me a call. I’ll stay with Elsa until you get back. If necessary, I’ll bring the hounds and spend the night.”
“You’ve got enough on your plate.”
“Yes, and all of it is transportable. I can work just as easily at Elsa’s house as I can here. So, please, don’t hesitate to turn to me for help.”
Before Burt could reply, the telephone rang.
“Excuse me for just a minute,” Sloane requested. She picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“How’s the hand?”
“Connie.” Sloane was touched by her friend’s concern. But her reaction was tempered, given that her thoughts were still preoccupied with Elsa’s failing health. “My hand is doing much better. I’m following all your instructions. You’ll see that for yourself when you take a look at it tomorrow.” A quick glance at Burt’s troubled expression. “Listen, you’re a sweetheart for calling. But it’s a bad time to talk. I’ve got company. So I’ll see you tomorrow at ten, okay? Thanks for checking up on me.”
“Not so fast,” Connie interrupted. “Who’s your company? It’s Derek, right? I knew it. The other night wasn’t a fluke. And it wasn’t a one-night rekindling either. It was a new beginning. I could see it written all over your face.”
“Like I said, this is a bad time.” Sloane ground her teeth to keep from saying more than she wanted to right now. “We’ll get into this tomorrow. Right now my neighbor’s here. He was kind enough to drop by to see how I feel and to bring me a delicious casserole his mother made. I’m being spoiled by all of you.”
As she spoke, the doorbell rang again.
“Sounds like you’re even more popular than you thought,” Connie commented at the other end of the phone.
“Not really.” Sloane waved away Burt’s gesture of offering to answer the door, and mouthed the words: That’s okay; I’ll get it. “That doorbell means that the messenger I’ve been waiting for with the material I need for my case has finally showed up,” she informed Connie. “I’d better run, before he decides no one’s home and I have to wait another day for my package.”
“Okay. But we will talk about this tomorrow. And this time I want every juicy detail.”
“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?”
