The Stranger You Know (19 page)

“In Tribeca?” Casey demanded.

Claire shook her head. “No. Not close to the office. Close to me.”

“He dumped the body near Claire’s apartment,” Hutch concluded. “Think about it. The killer already left bodies in both Ryan’s and Patrick’s neck of the woods, and one body in Tribeca, as well. All that’s left of the FI team’s neighborhoods are Claire’s and Marc’s. NYU isn’t far from Claire’s apartment. Following the killer’s pattern, I think we should concentrate our search in the East Village.”

Abruptly, he broke off, a flicker of realization dawning in his eyes.

“You already know where the body is,” Casey deduced.

Hutch met Casey’s gaze. “He told you that you’d come full circle. We thought he meant it emotionally. But he meant it in a real sense—full circle from where Glen Fisher first attacked you.”

“Which was in the East Village,” Casey breathed. “He put Deirdre’s body in that alley near Tompkins Square Park.”

Chapter Nineteen

Tim Grant peered up and down the prison corridor. It was nighttime. No one in sight. And all the prisoners were confined until morning.

He approached Glen Fisher’s cell and glanced inside. Fisher was visibly impatient, pacing back and forth, pausing only long enough to finger the lock of hair Tim had brought him the day before.

That damned lock of hair had made Fisher terrifyingly happy. It was as if he was a predator, and the hair was a trophy from one of his quarries. Tim didn’t know the details. And he didn’t want to. He just shut them out and did his job.

Tonight he had another delivery that would brighten Fisher’s night, thanks to some help from Bob Farrell, his NYPD contact.

“Fisher,” he muttered, his lips close to the bars.

Glen’s head whipped around. “You have something for me?”

“The iPhone you asked for.” As always, Tim felt a wave of relief when he satisfied Fisher’s demands. The alternative wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate.

“Excellent,” Fisher said, a victorious smile curving his lips. He reached through the bars and took the slim cell phone. “This is precisely what I needed. You can go now.”

Tim didn’t need to be told twice.

He turned around and retraced his steps, getting as far from Fisher as he could.

Glen waited until the sound of the prison guard’s steps faded away and disappeared. Then he went to the far side of his cot and squatted down, where he couldn’t be seen. He huddled over the iPhone and turned on the power. Waiting only until it was ready to go, he punched out a text message. It read:
Is “Find iPhone location” visible?

He waited, knowing that an answer would be forthcoming.

He wasn’t disappointed. A few minutes later, a return text arrived.
Auburn State NW
, it said.

Those were just the words Glen Fisher wanted to see.

He leaned back against the bed frame, taking out the lock of Casey Woods’s hair and rubbing each silky red strand between his fingers.

The contact felt good.

The real thing would feel better.

* * *

Casey lay quietly in Hutch’s arms, listening to the sounds of the city outside her window, yet hearing only the cries of pain that her mind conjured up—cries that Deirdre Grimes must have made before they were choked into silence.

For reasons she couldn’t explain, Casey had insisted on visiting the crime scene. Hutch had gone with her. The crime scene unit was still at the dorm room, as was Robbie the pizza guy, who looked green at the gills. He’d answered the detectives’ questions, but had agreed to hang around for a while, just in case something else turned up that he might be able to help with. The poor guy was a wreck. He couldn’t pull it together, nor could he stop staring at the bloodstain.

Casey didn’t blame him. The image was horrible. What it implied was worse.

Sure enough, Deirdre’s body was found in the exact alley near Tompkins Square Park where Glen Fisher had attacked Casey last year. She’d been posed just the same as the others, right down to the red ribbon, lipstick and the lock of hair. The hair would be checked for DNA. They all knew that the DNA would belong to the killer’s previous victim. The only difference between Deirdre’s murder and the previous murders was the evidence of blood at the crime scene. The police were certain the bloodstain they’d found on Deirdre’s dorm room rug would match the bloodstain on the tarp she’d been wrapped in and the clumps of blood that were matted in her hair. She’d put up one hell of a fight, and it was clear that the killer had had to slam her head against the floor repeatedly to gain control of the situation.

In the end, her brave struggles hadn’t mattered. The killer had won. Deirdre was dead.

Casey closed her eyes, bombarded by feelings of rage, anguish and guilt.

“It’s not your fault,” Hutch murmured. “You’re on his victim list, too.”

“How did you know what I was thinking?”

Hutch reached for her hand, which was on his chest, her fingernails digging into his skin. “Because you’re stabbing me. You only do that when you’re angry at yourself.”

She smiled faintly. “Sorry.” Casey relaxed her hand. “But how can I
not
blame myself? Deirdre—as well as the others—they were all killed because of me.”

“You did everything in your power to stop it. Deirdre was on the list of redheads you know that you made up for Marc,” Hutch reminded her. “In fact, almost all the victims were on that list. And we ran checks on every one of those young women—to see if they were being followed, harassed, even in a bad relationship. They all came up clean.”

“Yet they all wound up dead,” Casey said. “How many more of them are there going to be?”

“My guess? One. Someone to dump near Marc’s place and complete the circle. After that...”

“After that, it’s my turn.” Casey finished his thought.

“It’s not going to happen.” Hutch had that hard edge to his voice.

“We don’t know, Hutch.” Casey spoke softly. “He’s good. And between his skill and Fisher’s direction—we might not be able to stop it.”

Hutch rolled Casey onto her back, gazing down at her with fire in his eyes. “We’ll stop it.
I’ll
stop it. However good he is, I’m better. And I’m not going to lose you. So don’t even think of going down that path.”

Casey smiled and gave a sarcastic salute. “Yes, sir, Supervisory Special Agent Hutchinson. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Hutch didn’t smile back. “You threw Fisher off his game when you got in his face. He’ll make a mistake.”

“He’s not the one doing the killing—at least not currently.”

“But he’s the lynch pin. If he screws up, his partner will screw up.”

“We still don’t know the connection between them—or even who this supposed partner is.”

“We will. In the meantime, you’re never alone. No one can get at you.”

Casey gave a small nod.

“It’s okay to be scared.” Hutch’s tone grew gentle. “I know you keep your emotions locked up tight, but when you’re with me, you can let down your guard.”

“Look who’s talking. You, who are always in total control.”

“Not always.”

“True,” Casey conceded. “Not when we’re in bed.”

The intense look was back on Hutch’s face. “No,” he agreed. “Not when we’re in bed. Maybe that should tell us something.”

He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his, passion laced with tenderness.

That poignant tenderness dominated their lovemaking—each kiss, each caress, each movement, of their joined bodies speaking volumes and overshadowing all else.

When it was over, they lay quietly together, their fingers intertwined. There was a very new, very raw emotion that permeated the room, speaking volumes about what just happened between them, what was still happening in the aftermath.

Hutch found his voice first.

“Don’t you think it’s time we acknowledged what we have?” He spoke roughly into Casey’s hair. “We dance around it. We exert boundless energy and maximum effort to avoid giving it a name—even though we both know it’s there.”

“I’m not afraid of saying it.” Casey put her hands on Hutch’s shoulders and pushed him slightly away so she could gaze straight into his eyes. “I’m afraid of what happens once it’s been said. What do we do with it? Where do we go from there? Our lives are so complicated. Our worlds are so different and so far apart. How do we reconcile that?”

“The same way we reconcile it when we avoid saying the words—day by day, need by need.”

Casey swallowed. “Okay. Here it is. I’m insanely in love with you. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

Hutch’s knuckles caressed her cheek, an incredibly intimate expression crossing his face. “I’ve been in love with you since I first laid eyes on you. You’re as impossible as our situation. But I wouldn’t change you or the way I feel about you. This will be hard work. But we’re both die-hard perfectionists. We’ll make it right.”

“I’m too stubborn to accept anything less. And so are you.” Casey’s lashes were damp. “This killer doesn’t stand a chance, does he?”

“Nope. Not with us closing in on him. He’s as good as done.”

* * *

Hutch visited both crime scenes the next day—the dorm room where Deirdre was killed and the alleyway where her body was left. Patrick—who was a trained pro at this after three decades of FBI investigative work—joined him.

The dorm room yielded nothing. From there, the two men searched every inch of the alley, hoping one of them would find the tiniest something that might have escaped the crime scene unit.

No such luck.

“This murder was more violent than the others,” Patrick commented, hunkering down beside the trail of blood that ran across the cracked concrete. “Based on what I got from the police, he really brutalized her.”

“Sexually, as well,” Hutch said. “The details were pretty gruesome. I kept them from Casey. She’s got enough to deal with. The killer is getting angrier and more violent. Something is provoking him. The question is what?”

“Casey’s visit with Fisher?” Patrick suggested. “Couldn’t that have set him off?”

“It definitely set
Fisher
off,” Hutch responded. “But there’s a disconnect here. If it was Fisher who’d committed this crime, your theory would make a world of sense. But it wasn’t. It was our unsub.” Hitch resorted to FBI-speak, using the common term for Unknown Subject. “And even if that unsub is taking orders directly from Fisher, this is the kind of rage that’s personal. It’s not a third party delivering a message.”

Patrick’s expression was grim. “So this lunatic is either furious at Casey or furious at law enforcement.”

“That would be my guess.”

“Hey.” A male voice from the sidewalk summoned them. “Are you the police?”

Both Hutch and Patrick turned to see a well-dressed guy in his mid-to-late twenties hovering just outside the alley. His hand was wrapped around a leash with a Boston terrier at the end of it. The dog sat patiently while his owner talked.

“Why?” Hutch asked, taking the lead on this one. “Do you need the police?”

The guy shrugged. “I don’t know. I just read that a dead body was found in this alley. I figured if you were the cops, I’d talk to you. I might have some information.”

Hutch pulled out his ID. “Supervisory Special Agent Hutchinson, FBI,” he said. “What can you tell us?”

The guy blinked. “The Feds. Wow. This must be a big deal.”

“What’s your name?” Patrick asked.

“Jason. Jason Franklin. I live in that apartment over there.” He leaned over and pointed past the canopied overhang on Avenue B to one of the apartment buildings down the street.

“And what information do you think you have for us, Jason?”

“Maybe nothing. But I was out walking Rocco last night—” Jason indicated his dog “—and there was a big silver pickup truck blocking the sidewalk right where I’m standing now. There’s construction being done in the area, so I figured that’s why the truck was there—either to load or unload. Or maybe it had broken down, because there was no one in it. Either way, I didn’t give it much thought. Then I read about the body they found in this alley and I decided I should tell someone what I saw. I planned on calling the cops right after I walked Rocco. But now I’m telling you in person.” He looked at them. “Do you think the truck was here to dump the body?”

“I don’t know,” Hutch replied, pulling out his iPhone, ready to type in the information. “But you did the right thing, telling us what you saw. Do you remember anything about the truck, other than the fact that it was silver? A make? Model? License plate number?”

The guy shook his head. “I take the subway. I don’t know anything about cars or trucks. So I’m the wrong person to ask about specifics. The only reason I noticed the truck at all was because Rocco and I had to squeeze by it to take our walk.”

“Understood.” Hutch’s finger was poised over his phone’s touch screen. “Give me your address and phone number, Jason. That way a detective can contact you and ask any further questions.”

“Sure.” Jason provided the details they needed. “It’s creepy to have something like this happen in my own neighborhood. I hope you find the psycho soon.”

“We intend to.”

* * *

At seven o’clock that evening, Ryan’s basement lair became a flurry of activity.

Having set up his audio equipment, Ryan planted himself at his desk, swiveled his chair around and played back the voice recordings of each and every customer who’d been at the meat market that day. Leilah perched on the edge of the desk beside him, listening carefully to every verbal exchange. With each new customer, she indicated with a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down whether or not the customer was engaged in illegal money transfers using hawala—an international operation often used for money laundering. Ryan made copies of the thumbs-up recordings, along with the date/time stamp, and skipped over the others.

His work was meticulous, and not only for FI’s purposes. When this case was over, his intention was for the FBI’s New York field office to receive an anonymous email containing the audio files and a suggestion that they investigate the meat market on West 116th Street. That would take care of the illegal activities going on there.