by Andrea Kane
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 tr
ouper; never complains. But it’s difficult to watch.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sloane replied softly. Instinctively, she continued. “How are you doing?”
“Not well. She’s all I have—” Luke broke off, fighting to keep his emotions under control. “Nothing in life prepares you for this. Not even 9/11.” He exhaled sharply. “Let’s talk about something else. What did you want to see me about?”
Sloane hesitated. “I had a personal favor to ask. But seeing how much you’re hurting—maybe it isn’t such a good idea.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
Sloane nodded, then proceeded to tell Luke all about Burt and Elsa, and the idea she’d had for Luke to reach out to Burt. “Having said that, I don’t want to put you in the position of having to cope with your own trauma firsthand and make it worse by helping a stranger through a similar experience. Not to mention the fact that Elsa’s condition pales in comparison to Lillian’s. So why don’t we shelve this?”
“No.” Luke gave an adamant shake of his head. “I’d like to help. Focusing on other people’s pain helps me put my own in perspective.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. Sitting around describing the loss I’m about to endure is one thing. Applying my experience to get someone through a similar crisis is another matter entirely.”
Sloane squeezed his arm. “You haven’t changed a bit. You’re still one of the most calming and empathetic people I know.”
“Right back at you.” Luke took a bite of his hot dog. “Tell me about your neighbor. I take it his father is out of the picture.”
“He passed away a number of years ago. Again, the situation wasn’t as traumatic as yours—at least not from Burt’s perspective. He was a grown man when his father died. You were a child. Elsa, though, was another story. She was pretty dependent on her husband. She’s transferred a lot of that dependence to Burt.”
“That’s not an unusual scenario. And, for the record, you’re giving me way too much credit. My father’s death wasn’t that big a blow. Truthfully, he wasn’t around much.”
“Traveling?”
“No, cheating.”
Sloane winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to put my foot in my mouth.”
“No problem.” Luke gave an offhand shrug. “It was a long time ago. My point was that Burt might have been more affected by losing his father than I was. And that definitely applies to Elsa. My mother’s a survivor. Until now, with her cancer taking over, she’s always been strong and independent. But for a traditional woman like Elsa, she probably felt lost when her husband died. So she turned to her son. Is Burt her only child?”
“Yes.” Sloane nodded.
“Does he have a family of his own—a wife, kids?”
“Neither. He just went through an ugly divorce. That compounds the problem. He’s angry and brooding. Not to mention alone way too much. He definitely needs someone to talk to.”
Luke’s gaze was steady but intuitive. “And you’ve been elected for the job. Which worries you because he’s starting to get attached.”
A half smile. “Like I said, you’re the same Luke. You pick up on everything. Yes, I’m a little concerned that he’s misinterpreting our friendship. Plus, you have medical training and a more intrinsic understanding on your side. I’m hoping that if you speak to him, make a few suggestions about concrete steps he can take, he’ll feel more useful and less at loose ends.”
“Give me his phone number.” Luke took out a scrap of paper and a pen, and jotted down the information Sloane recited. “I’ll give him a call. It’ll do me some good to concentrate on someone else’s problems for a change. Besides, there’s a lot I can suggest, things he can do to make a positive difference. I know from my own ordeal that it makes you feel a hell of a lot better to do something productive, rather than to sit around waiting for the inevitable. Especially since, from what you’re describing about Elsa’s condition, the inevitable could be a long way off.”
“I hope so. Elsa is a wonderful woman. She’s always been so strong. It’s creepy how she went downhill so fast.”
“What type of illness does she have?”
“That’s another thing. I don’t know. Burt never actually told me what’s wrong with her. All I know is that she’s weak, she’s on medication, and she needs to have someone with her. He had a nurse’s aid there yesterday, and I pitched in when she left, but I think she’s going to require a regular healthcare worker. And Burt won’t take money from me, not even as a loan.”
“I could look into some insurance angles,” Luke replied. “Sometimes it’s not what you say, but how you say it that can make a difference between covered and not covered. Give me a few days. Let me see what I can do on that front. In the meantime, I’ll give Burt a call, see if he wants to meet me for a beer. For obvious reasons, I don’t have much free time. But a beer and a talk, including some suggestions about how he can get more extensive in-house nursing care should do it. By then, I’ll have some referrals to pass along to him. I think we can get Burt in a better place.”
“That’s very generous of you. Thanks so much, Luke.”
“You’re very welcome.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get going. The hospital’s short-staffed.” He rose, exchanging a quick hug with Sloane. “Take care of that hand. And I’ll keep you posted.”
After Luke dashed off, Sloane tossed her napkin into the trash, then started the three block walk to her car. She was lucky to have found a lot with some space. Parking in Manhattan was a pain.
She was half a block away when she got that feeling again.
Stopping in her tracks, she ignored the pissed-off pedestrians who strode around her, muttering four-letter words and glaring in her direction. She plucked her sunglasses off her nose and scrutinized the area, feeling the presence of her stalker as vividly as if she could see him.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t.
But she knew damned well he was there.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
DATE: 5 April
TIME: 0530 hours
OBJECTIVE: Tyche
She’s rounding the southern corner of Lake Ceva. I can hear her familiar gait, coming closer with each rhythmic tread.
Soon she’ll come into view—right on schedule.
My anticipation is growing.
I can sense my grip on the combat knife tightening. It feels so natural in my hand. Adrenaline thrumming through my veins. My heart pounding. My entire body taut and ready to strike.
One quick scan of the area, just to be sure.
Thankfully, deserted.
I’d had an unexpected close call when a new, unknown jogger decided to take this route at this time—today of all days. It had thrown me, and compromised my plan. Predawn on a college campus meant most students were first turning in for the night. This kid was an anomaly.
I was devising the best plan to get rid of him, when he eliminated the problem for me. He stopped, glared at his iPod, and began tinkering with it. Apparently, it wasn’t functioning correctly, because he abandoned his jog and headed back to his dorm, shaking the iPod in annoyance as he left.
He shouldn’t be so angry. That broken iPod had saved his life.
Now Tyche was alone.
She came into view, ponytail swinging, her breath coming quickly as she neared her spot.
Closer.
Closer.
Now.
As always, Tina stopped beside the same knotted oak tree, and took a swig of water. Ten seconds to rehydrate and catch her breath, and she’d be off again.
He came out of nowhere, an ominous dark blur lunging out of the woods. He was pressed up behind her in a heartbeat, his right arm wrapped around her throat, a large blade glinting in his hand. She winced as the blade grazed her left shoulder.
“Don’t make a sound, Tai Kee,” he ordered in a low voice. “Just come with me. And don’t try to fight me. If you do, I’ll slit your throat.”
&
nbsp; No thought was necessary. Her Krav training took over.
Tina reached up with both hands and grabbed her assailant’s right wrist, pulling his arm out and away from her throat. She then flipped his knife-wielding hand palm side up. Gripping it with her left hand, she jammed down with her right, snapping his wrist. She heard the audible crack, followed by a sharp cry of pain, and a hiss of something that sounded like “Bow Za” followed by “Chao Ji Bei.”
The combat knife fell from his hand and dropped to the grass.
Tina was far from finished.
Still holding her assailant’s injured right wrist with her left hand, she whipped around to face him, striking him in the face with her elbow as she did. Her hair tumbled free as her hair clip flew off and fell to the ground. She ignored it. A split second’s view of her attacker told her he was tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed all in black. Wearing a black ski mask.
Her right hand wrapped around the back of his neck and she used her forearm to twist his face to the side. In one motion, she released his right arm, grabbed his right shoulder with her left hand, and jerked him down to deliver a knee strike to his groin. Along with his agonized groan, she heard a jangle, saw two silver tags topple out of his shirt, dangling from a chain she’d felt when she’d anchored his neck.
Before he could recover from the first knee strike, she yanked him down again, this time delivering a knee strike to his face. She connected squarely, and blood spurted from his nose, oozing through the ski mask. He folded over in pain, and she followed up with a right elbow strike to the back of his neck. He bent farther forward, and she used that to her advantage, standing up and delivering a round kick to the back of his right knee as she pushed him away.
He lost his balance and fell to the ground. Two items flew out of his pocket. One landed beside him. The other sailed off into the woods.
The item beside him was a hypodermic needle.
“Ta Ma De,” he screamed, clutching his groin and rolling around in agony.
That was Tina’s cue. She turned and broke into a dead run, getting as far away as fast as she could. She didn’t stop until she reached her room.
