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Of course there had been some shady characters, along with violent ones, whom she’d helped convict when she’d worked at the D.A.’s office. Larry was checking into any of them that might have been recently paroled. As for her FBI career, it had been brief. Plus, she’d been working white-collar crimes, not violent ones. So unless one of the offenders she’d talked into surrendering during a hostage negotiation crisis was out of prison, that seemed like a dead end.
Her current life as a consultant was no more fruitful when it came to producing likely suspects. The clients who retained her services were either corporations or law enforcement—and, in the case of the latter, her assignments were in a teaching or investigative capacity. She was no longer a special agent, nor did she have the strength and dexterity to pull the trigger of her gun with enough speed and accuracy to suit her. So actively assisting in the apprehension of criminals was out.
From there, Larry had questioned her about her male friends, both longstanding and new, about guys she’d been involved with and dumped, as well as about the men enrolled in her Krav Maga class. They talked about colleagues, acquaintances, and neighbors from A to Z in New York, in Cleveland, and here. Everyone from Andy Zarelli her hairstylist to Luke Doyle, her friend from 9/11, had been added then crossed off the list.
That brought up the subject of Burt. Larry put an asterisk next to his name. He was single, a little eccentric, able to come and go with relative ease, and overtly interested in Sloane.
Sloane was so overwhelmed by the whole procedure, she didn’t know what to believe.
What she did know was that, when they touched on Elliot, she realized how long it had been since they’d talked. She’d been at John Jay a host of times this past week, but she’d been totally focused on the investigation. So she hadn’t thought to drop in on Elliot. He was doubtless at his desk—where he was a permanent fixture—working on the software program he was so diligently developing to help stop cybercrime. And in between, he was probably looking out his office window at the police presence on campus, cringing at the invasion of privacy, and fraught with anxiety over what had happened to Cynthia Alexander.
He might be a geek, but he was a kindhearted guy. Fine, so he wasn’t James Bond. A violent crime like this—one that struck so close to home—threw him and, yes, scared him. He felt vulnerable to the attacker, and claustrophobic from the press. But, most of all, he was worried about Cynthia. Elliot truly cared about people, particularly his students.
Initially, it was that caring, coupled with Sloane’s genuine affection for Elliot, that prompted her to pick up the phone and make an appointment to see him. But as she was about to dial his number, an interesting idea occurred to her.
Elliot was a genius at what he did. Always had been, always would be. He was committed to his work, with a fervent sense of responsibility to the financial institutions bankrolling his research. Add to that his great and longstanding aspirations to utilize his talents in ways that could truly benefit society.
The sum total of that thought process got Sloane wondering if the program Elliot was developing—albeit focused on subtle patterns in financial transactions—was robust enough to be utilized in other ways.
Eager to explore the possibility, Sloane had set up an appointment with Elliot for later that day. The plan was for her to come by his office around three, after which they’d catch a drink together.
Pacing around the kitchen, Sloane refilled the hounds’ water bowls and—for the tenth time—looked out the window toward Elsa’s house. She’d been hoping to see Burt’s car so she could chat with him. He’d called her the night of the break-in, asked if everything was okay. Since then, nothing. Which was odd, since he was taking constant care of Elsa these days.
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Maybe it was time to go over there and check things out.
She was just about to leave the house when her phone rang. She ran back in and picked it up. “Hello?”
“Sloane? It’s Gary.”
“Gary.” She felt a surge of guilt. She’d been meaning to call her friend for the past two days to thank him for rushing over at the drop of a hat and at 11 P.M., no less. But she’d been so busy and preoccupied working with Larry that she’d literally forgotten.
“I’m so glad you called,” she told him sincerely. “Although I’m the one who should be calling you. I’m so sorry. I’ve been crazed by this case, and I let the time get away from me. But that’s no excuse. I can’t thank you enough for what you did the other night.”
“No apology necessary. It’s obvious you have your hands full. But the thanks I’ll accept, especially since you’re about to have even more to thank me for.”
Sloane’s ears perked up. “Go on.”
“Your hounds are off the hook,” Gary informed her lightly. “The strands of hair I plucked off your pillow were definitely human.”
“What a relief.” Sloane smiled. “Now I won’t have to revoke their bedtime privileges.”
Gary sobered, relaying the information Sloane had been waiting for. “I’ve got results from the DNA analysis. There was no match to existing offenders in CODIS. However, I ran it through the forensic index, as you requested. There were three hits. One NYPD case, and two local New Jersey cases.”
Sloane bit her lip. A serial killer had been in her house, on her bed. That fact was more than a little unsettling. Still, on a purely professional level, this was a lucky break. The offender who was committing these heinous crimes was now officially identified—through DNA evidence—as the same man who was stalking her and who’d invaded her home. It provided another factual piece in this puzzle, one more link that could result in finding and convicting their Unsub.
“You’re right, I do have more to thank you for,” Sloane replied. “Originally, I planned to spring for drinks. Now it’s dinner. Your choice of restaurants.”
“Sounds great. Give me a day to check out Zagat’s and pick the most expensive restaurant in New Jersey.”
“Take all the time you need. Oh, and Gary? With regard to the matching profile you found on that NYPD case, I know it probably referenced the Fifth Precinct. But could you also send the results to Sergeant Bob Erwin at Midtown North, and Special Agent Derek Parker at the New York field office’s C-6 squad? These crimes are all tied to their cases as well.”
“Not a problem. I’ll take care of it right away.”
“After you e-mail everything to me first, of course.”
“Of course.” A dry chuckle. “I’m not pissing off the Queen of Krav Maga.”
