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In addition, Bob Erwin had called to tell her that it looked like her instincts were right. Lydia Halas’s “leaving home” was decidedly suspicious and fraught with holes. The police records did indeed indicate that Nick Halas had called in his wife’s disappearance and filed a missing persons report. The cops had followed up by interviewing Nick, as well as the neighbors in their apartment. The couples who lived on either side of them had reported hearing several heated arguments between Nick and Lydia—accompanied by slamming and thudding sounds that could have been anything from Nick punching walls to striking his wife—adding that they had no proof he’d been abusing her, but they weren’t surprised when she’d left. And since there was no evidence of foul play, and lots of signs that the Halases’ marriage was rocky enough for her to take off, the investigation had been dropped.
But now Bob had probed deeper. It was true that Lydia, who’d been a conscientious employee for twenty years, had given no notice to the hospital, nor had she discussed the possibility of resigning with Dr. Houghton or anyone on his team. She’d also left behind all her clothes, jewelry, and personal items—which could signify a frightened woman running from her husband, or an average woman who’d been taken against her will. In addition, none of her
credit cards had been used since her December disappearance—another detail that mirrored Penny’s disappearance.
The parallels had been strong enough to persuade Bob to contact Lydia’s relatives in Greece. Not a single one had heard from her.
Combining all that with the other links of Lydia’s disappearance—the college campus, the body of water, and the connection to Sloane—Bob was ready to add Lydia to the list of potential victims.
Sloane climbed out of her car, gathered her purse and her files, and shoved the car door shut with her knee. She paused to wave good night to her nighttime security guard, Hank Murphy, who’d been right on her tail and was now parked at the curb in his Ford Focus.
He flashed his headlights and waved back.
She headed up the front walk, fishing for her keys at the same time. She located them just as she reached the door. Jostling her files around, she fitted the key into the lock and elbowed open the door, simultaneously flicking on the hall light and plopping her files onto the hall table.
Instantly, she knew something was wrong.
Part of it was gut feeling. Part of it was the absence of the hounds rushing to the door to greet her.
Pure instinct took over.
Sloane inched her way over to the locked cabinet where she kept her personal weapon. Silently, she removed the key from its hiding place and slid open the cabinet drawer, pulling out the Glock 27. It was smaller and lighter than the 22 that was standard issue at the Bureau—but it did the job just fine.
By this time, she could hear the dogs whining, scratching to be released from whatever prison they’d been confined to. Gripping her pistol, she called out, “Moe, Larry, Curly—I’m home. Where are you?”
She was rewarded by a barrage of barking and scratching from the spare bedroom. Still holding her weapon poised and ready to fire, she eased over in that direction, twisted the doorknob, and pushed open the door.
The three dogs came flying out, jumping up and down, looking a little disoriented, but unharmed—and thrilled to see her.
She squatted down, hugged each of them fiercely, while never lowering her head or her gun. She was so relieved, she almost started to cry. The hounds were okay. That was the most important thing. Now she’d investigate who her visitor had been, and if he was still here.
The kitchen light was on, but she always left it on, so the hounds would never be in total darkness. Still, she started there. Slowly, room by room, she went through the house, gun raised, ready to fire if need be.
Nothing had been stolen, and nothing seemed to be disturbed.
Until she went into her bedroom.
He’d been here. She could sense it. Evidently, so could the hounds, because they shoved past her and began sniffing every square inch of the bedroom floor.
Flipping on the light, Sloane swept the room with her gaze and her pistol. No one was there—now.
But she quickly spotted that her picture frame was sitting at a different angle than it had been before, her hand-therapy tools had been rearranged, and one of the pillows on her bed was propped slightly higher than the other—not to mention that there was a faint, but distinct imprint of a person’s body on her comforter.
Still scrutinizing the room, she picked up the phone and dialed 911. Clearly and concisely, she reported the break-in, then provided the operator with her name, address, and phone number, as well as with the facts that no one had been injured and there was no sign that the intruder was still on the premises.
That call complete, she punched in the home phone number of Gary Lake, a special agent who’d graduated from Quantico with her, and who now worked in the Newark field office. One of his ancillary responsibilities was being part of the Evidence Response Team.
He answered the phone on the second ring.
“Gary?” she began. “It’s Sloane. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Hey.” He sounded surprised. “Nope, I have some work to do before I turn in. Ironic you should call. I was just talking about you to Tom McGraw. I told him the Bureau needs you back; you’re an awesome agent.”
“He mentioned it. Thanks for the praise. Listen, Gary, I need a favor. Someone broke into my house.”
“Are you okay?” All personal catch-up vanished as Gary immediately transformed into a hundred percent special agent and concerned colleague.
“I’m fine. Thankfully, no injuries, not to me or my dogs. I already called the local police. They’re on their way. But there are mitigating circumstances to this break-in. I have reason to believe that the offender is wanted by the FBI and the NYPD—and not for robbery. For drug theft, kidnapping, and multiple murders. I realize you live about twenty minutes away. But I need you to come over and see if you can find even a shred of evidence—a fingerprint, footprint, anything—to prove that this is the same offender. Can you possibly swing it?”
