by Andrea Kane
Sloane pressed her lips together, then finished in a less composed tone: “I don’t fall easily. But when it came to Derek, I fell hard. The forever kind of hard. I believed in him, and I trusted him with my heart. He let me down big-time. So that’s why my loving him can never amount to anything. We’re just too different.”
“Or too much alike.”
“In some ways, yes. And neither of us is going to back down. So the affair is spectacular, but anything more is out.”
“If you say so.” Connie sounded decidedly unconvinced.
“I do. And now I’d like to drop the subject.” Sloane extended her hand to Connie, palm up. “We have a hand to fix.”
Connie gripped Sloane’s wrist and examined the palm. “The inflammation is significantly improved and the swelling has gone down. I think we can resume some of our less strenuous exercises. But I’m going to start with some scar massage.” With that, she put lotion on the scar-tissue massage tool and began a light, gentle motion with the roller ball. “Any pain?”
“So far, so good,” Sloane replied, trying not to recoil instinctively or tense up. She hated that she was doing that again. Right after the stabbing, it had been a reflexive action the instant her palm was touched. But over the months she’d worked with Connie, trust had begun to build, until finally the defensive reactions had subsided. Until now. Now she was regressing, and all because she’d been stupid enough to wrestle with a lug-nut wrench and inflame her palm all over again.
“It’s okay,” Connie said, reading Sloane’s expression. “The trust is still there. Self-protection is a natural instinct in situations like this. So relax. We’ll regain the ground we lost.”
The door flew open, and Dr. Houghton barged in, wearing his surgical scrubs, totally oblivious to anything except his own agenda. “I just finished that emergency surgery,” he informed Connie. “It was even more complicated and intricate than I originally anticipated. The damage is extensive. On the plus side, I was able to control the bleeding and save all his fingers. But he has extensive nerve, bone, and tendon damage. That’s what you get when you stick your hand in a running lawn mower. He’s in recovery now. I need to review the preliminary occupational-therapy plan with you. Since you’re working late, now is as good a time as any.”
Connie cleared her throat, and tipped her head in Sloane’s direction.
Dr. Houghton’s brows drew together, then arched in surprise as he got Connie’s message, and became aware that someone else was in the room with them. His probing stare flickered to Sloane. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were here.” His tone was icy. “Speaking of reckless actions, it’s lucky for you that Constance is as skilled as she is. Otherwise, you might be back in surgery yourself.”
Sloane blinked, uncertain what to say.
Connie took care of it for her. “Fortunately, it won’t come to that. Sloane’s been following your instructions to the letter. Her palm is healing nicely. We’ve resumed using the medium-resistance therapy putty. So it’s a moot point.”
“Not if she continues to risk her well-being by doing careless things like trying to change flat tires.” Dr. Houghton approached the table and glared down at Sloane’s palm. He gave a tight nod, clearly pleased with what he saw. “Try to remember you haven’t rejoined the FBI yet. And if you want to heal to the point where that’s possible, you’ll have to use some common sense.” He turned away, fired a look at Connie. “I’ll need a half hour of your time before you leave tonight.”
“Not a problem.” Connie stayed calm and patient. “Sloane and I will be wrapping up by six-thirty. I’ll come directly to your office.”
“If I’m not there, I’ll be in post-op. Page me.”
“I will.”
Without so much as a good-bye, Dr. Houghton left, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Sloane looked at Connie, totally bewildered. “What was that all about? Dr. Houghton isn’t known for his charm, but he’s never blatantly rude either. Is he that furious about my aggravating the injury?”
“It isn’t that.” Connie sighed, resumed her work on Sloane’s hand. “He’s just on overload. He’s a brilliant surgeon, and he won’t do anything half measure. That man he just operated on, by all rights, should have lost at least two of his fingers, that’s how mangled his hand was when he was rushed in. Dr. Houghton spent hours in the operating room, saving those fingers. He’s a one-of-a-kind surgeon. His personality is another story. And he’s particularly on edge these days. He’s really short-staffed, and that’s requiring him to take on more than a surgical role. Recovery-room procedures, IV drips, and the administration of antibiotics are usually handled by the nursing staff. Well, there are very few nurses left that he trusts enough to delegate responsibility to. So he’s feeling—and showing—the stress. As you pointed out, he’s not exactly a people person.”
Sloane digested that. “Is he impossible to work with? Is that why so many nurses have quit?”
“Nope.” Connie shook her head. “His nurses and hand therapists have been with him for years. Like I said, he’s tough, but he’s brilliant. Watching him work is like watching a master sculptor. It’s just been a big relocation year for HSS in general, and our department in particular. In the past six months, Dr. Houghton has lost two of his most experienced nurses. Marsha Brown, who’d been with him for a decade, left this week. Her husband got an amazing promotion in California. So they moved to Palo Alto. Marsha accepted a position at Stanford University Hospital—thanks to a glowing reference from Dr. Houghton. So Marsha’s gone. And you know about Lydia. She left in December. So we’re now down two top-notch nurses.”
“Aren’t they interviewing potential candidates?”
“Yes, but the problem is, any potential candidate has to get Dr. Houghton’s seal of approval. And his standards are beyond high. He still hasn’t been impressed by any of the nurses interviewing for Lydia’s position, and we’ve been interviewing for four months. So I’m not holding my breath that we’ll be seeing a substitute for Marsha anytime soon.”
Sloane considered the situation and nodded. “As a fellow perfectionist, I can understand Dr. Houghton’s frustration. I didn’t know Marsha, but Lydia was the best nurse I ever had. By the way, how is she doing?”
“Not a clue.” Connie’s forehead creased as she did some passive resistance exercises with Sloane’s fingers. “None of us has heard from her. Which is so unlike Lydia. She’s such a warm person, and our department is like a family. Especially Lydia and me. We both worked so closely with Dr. Houghton that our jobs overlapped. So we saw a lot of each other. We might not have socialized outside of work, but I considered her a friend. Marital problems or not, I’m pretty upset that she still hasn’t contacted me, or anyone else, for that matter. I even checked with the hospital administrator. He said Lydia never gave notice or left a forwarding address for her final paycheck. He seemed as surprised by her departure as we were. Her husband must have done quite a number on her to make her take off like that.”
“Even so, that’s a pretty drastic step. Lydia never struck me as being rash. Just the opposite, in fact.” The investigator in Sloane kicked in. “What about her husband? Did any of you talk to him?”
“Michael, one of our male nurses, did, just recently as a matter of fact. Lydia’s husband, Nick, is a very traditional guy. So we figured it would be easier to approach him man-to-man, rather than via what he’d perceive as a nosy broad. It didn’t matter. Michael got nowhere. Nick became very defensive. He insisted that he and Lydia were resolving their marital problems. He claimed that one day she just went to work and never came home. According to him, he was worried, so he drove around the hospital looking for her. He even checked around Rockefeller University, where she liked to watch the East River ferries come in and dock at the Sixty-third Street ferry landing. So he was either lying, or the rumors of spousal abuse that were floating around the hospital were true, and things were bad enough for Lydia to take off without telling Nick she was leaving.�
�
The details of this story were beginning to sound way too familiar, and Sloane’s stomach knotted. She wasn’t going to jump to any hasty conclusions. On the other hand, she wasn’t going to overlook anything either. “Rockefeller University? Lydia liked to hang out there?”
“Not hang out.” Connie shot her a strange look. “She just went there for a closer view of the ferry landing. The university’s right at Sixty-third Street. She probably went to an upper floor to peer out a window, or walked over to one of the nearby parks.”
“Right. To see the East River.”
“No, to watch the ferries. And I didn’t supply this information, Nick did.” Connie put down Sloane’s hand and inclined her head quizzically. “Why are you acting so weird? And why are you asking such strange questions?”
It’s a coincidence, Sloane reassured herself. It has to be.
“What else did Nick say?” she asked.
“Nothing of significance, at least not according to Michael. Then again, Michael had some trouble understanding Nick’s English. He’s got a pretty thick Greek accent. Oh, he said he’d called the cops, which we already knew, but that they didn’t turn up anything.”
“I want to talk to Michael,” Sloane announced, coming to her feet. “Is he in the hospital now?”
“He’s down the hall.” Connie rose as well, putting aside her therapy tools. “But you’re not talking to him until you tell me what’s going on, and why we’re cutting your therapy session in half.”
“One last question, since you and Lydia were friends.” Sloane blew right by Connie’s demand. “Does Lydia have any family here? Not just in New York, but in the States?”
“No. She has two sisters and both her parents, but they’re all living in Greece.”
“What about friends outside the hospital? Who did she stay with during the separation?”
“That one I can answer. Lydia’s family is very religious. She was afraid they might call and find out that she and Nick were separated. So she moved into the spare bedroom.”
“So she never left. And there’s no one who can account for her whereabouts.” Sloane raked a hand through her hair, forcing herself to stay calm. “Connie, I promise I’ll explain everything to you. But first, I have to speak to Michael. In the meantime, I need you to get me Nick Halas’s contact information.”
Twenty minutes later, Sloane left the hospital. Making this phone call was essential before she met with Larry. Because it was possible she’d have even more to discuss with him than she’d had an hour ago.
She checked her cell phone. Good—three bars. She finally had the reception she needed.
She punched in Bob’s direct number at Midtown North.
“Sergeant Erwin,” he answered.
“Bob, it’s Sloane Burbank. I’m so glad you’re at your desk.”
“Yeah, well, my wife’s not. But since the media got hold of the information that Cynthia Alexander’s disappearance could be part of serial kidnappings, I practically sleep here.”
“I’m afraid I’m not about to help cut back on your hours,” Sloane said ruefully. “I need you to do me a favor. Check out a missing persons report that was called into your precinct on December fifth of last year. The woman’s name is Lydia Halas. The call would have been initiated by her husband, Nick Halas.” She gave Bob their address and telephone number as well as the facts Connie and Michael had just provided.
“I don’t think I like where you’re going with this.”
“Neither do I. Look, this could be a total waste of time. I don’t want to press the panic button—yet. On the other hand, the profile fits. In which case, Lydia Halas could be another victim of our serial killer.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
DATE: 14 April
TIME: 1600 hours
At last. Her bedroom.
I cross the threshold with all the respect due a goddess, especially this most significant one. I inhale deeply. I can smell her fragrance. Not perfume, just the pure, natural scent of her skin.
The room is simple, tasteful. Exactly as I expected. The only objects on display are the very personal things that make her Artemis.
I need to be part of those things. The gloves allow me to immerse myself in her life without worrying about leaving fingerprints in a room I should never enter, on items I should never touch.
I pick up a photo from her dresser, smile as I see her standing between two people who are obviously her parents. She’s petite like her mother—has the same smile, delicate features, and bone structure. Her coloring she inherited from her father—the chestnut hair and golden-brown eyes. And the stubborn chin as well. Yet she emanates a strength and fire that’s hers and hers alone.
The three of them are holding up an archery trophy she won in college. How fitting for my Artemis. Her parents are beaming with pride. They’ll be even prouder when they realize where their daughter has been chosen to spend eternity.
I put down the picture frame and walk over to her night table. There are several rubberlike balls and a few hard plastic implements. I recognize the healing tools for her hand.
With a wave of compassion, I pick up each tool, study it. There have been so many times I’ve wanted to reach out to her, let her know that on Mount Olympus, her injury will be nonexistent. She’ll feel only reverence and joy—no pain, no suffering. Only the sanctity of eternal life.
I replace the tools and stare at her neatly made bed.
The urge to be close to her is too great. I can’t deny myself this one earthly pleasure.
My shoes are already off. I’d removed them as soon as I’d stepped into the house. This way there’d be no footprints, and no dirt tracked in from the outside to soil her personal space.
I gingerly lower myself onto the bed, inch over to the center. The mattress is soft, and I sink into it. The pillow beneath my head has the scent of her hair. I could lie here forever. It feels so right.
I indulge myself for a half hour. I might have stayed longer, but I can feel myself starting to doze off. I can’t risk falling asleep. Discovery at this point would be a disaster. I haven’t had the chance to show her the shrine I’ve built in her honor. Once I do that, she’ll understand.
She’s not coming home anytime soon. It doesn’t take a psychic to predict that. Whenever she’s home or almost home, either the black Ford Focus or the silver Toyota Corolla is parked nearby. Inside is one of her two bodyguards. They’re like homing devices, going wherever she goes. The Corolla by day, the Focus by night: 8 A.M. to 8 P.M.; 8 P.M. to 8 A.M., like clockwork.
Still, I’m not taking any chances. Mr. Corolla could reappear at any time.
I climb off the bed. I’m ready to go now. I linger in the bedroom doorway for one moment longer, savoring every detail.
I leave the same way I came.
As I slip out, I can hear the hounds whining.
FBI New York Field Office
26 Federal Plaza, New York City
4:35 P.M.
Derek was convinced he now knew what the term dead on your feet meant.
Slumped over his desk, his stomach growling and his mouth parched, he tried to remember the last time he’d eaten. He couldn’t. He also wondered if he had the strength to go get a bottle of water, since he knew how badly dehydrated he was. But the fatigue was winning the battle. It seemed he needed the rest more than he needed the fluids.
He and everyone at C-6 had lived at the field office all weekend. They’d needed every agent and every minute to defuse the time bomb that would go off if Xiao Long decided to ignore the information being strategically leaked that a psychopath, and not Lo Ma’s gang, was responsible for killing his girls.
There was only so far he’d trust his informants. Especially since all they were giving him were words. There was nothing concrete to back up their claims. Derek was quite sure Xiao Long had his enforcer on speed dial. Somehow, some way, they had to give him solid proof. Thus far, none had been forthcoming.
>
The weekend had been a real joyride. C-6’s entire squad had been out on the streets, meeting with their contacts, striving to keep the lid on this explosion. At the same time, precautions had been taken and safeguards initiated—just in case all their efforts failed.
The NYPD had posted cops on virtually every street corner in Chinatown. As a result, the streets were empty, and Chinatown was a ghost town. The restaurant owners were screaming, the shop owners were screaming, the produce-store owners were screaming. Everyone who owned a business in the district was screaming—and demanding answers, first from the NYPD’s Fifth Precinct, then from Puzzle Palace and the mayor’s office. All they got was the stock phrase orders from the top from the precinct, and the infamous no comment from the NYPD higher-ups and the PR folks at the mayor’s office.
Derek felt like a rat racing through an endless maze that kept leading him back to his starting point.
The phone on his desk rang. He was half tempted to ignore it. The last thing he needed was someone else blasting his eardrum.
Responsibility took over, and Derek fumbled for the phone, shoving it under his chin. “Parker.”
A second later, his head popped up, his exhaustion forgotten. It was the M.E.’s office.
“You have something for me?”
“Yeah,” the medical analyst at the other end replied.
“Tell me it’s significant.”
“Significant enough for you to send my wife and me on vacation—and not to the Jersey shore; to a Caribbean island.”
Derek’s pulse began to pick up. “Go on.”
“Our offender is getting careless. Either that, or this mangled woman put up a hell of a fight. We found his saliva on what was left of her face, and skin and tissue underneath her nails.”
“And it took you this long to—”
“Easy. We wanted to finish the autopsy and the lab analysis before we called you. The drug panel shows high levels of ketamine in her blood, and the type of wounds inflicted are identical to the other murdered prostitutes. The difference is, this one was far more brutal. He sliced her up almost beyond recognition.”
