The Stranger You Know (27 page)

Glen punched in the number on his burn phone and waited.

One ring. Then two.

“Yeah?” the gruff voice at the other end said.

“It’s Fisher. You’re expecting me.”

“I got word. What do you need?”

“Three new identities, including one for me. Full sets of papers for each.”

A low whistle. “That doesn’t come cheap.”

“I know. I’ve got twice your normal fee, since I need them twice as fast.”

“How fast?” Rand sounded much more amenable once he’d heard that.

“As quick as you can turn them over.”

“Then let’s get started. Be at my shop tonight at eight. Use the back door. Bring all the necessary information. I’ll take your picture. The other two will have to come in separately to get theirs.”

“Not a problem. I’ll arrange it.”

Glen disconnected the call, very pleased.

* * *

He wasn’t so pleased when Jack called him much later that night, as he was getting back from his meeting.

“We have a problem,” Jack said, leaning against his bicycle, which he’d tucked in a narrow alcove about two blocks from the Forensic Instincts office.

“I don’t want to hear that.” Glen shut the door to the apartment.

“I’m sure you don’t. But it’s true. I’ve spent the whole day checking out the Forensic Instincts building and the activities of Casey Woods—which, by the way, are nonexistent. She’s holed up in there with her army of guards and her FBI boyfriend. Even the rest of her team doesn’t come out too often—just for quick errands or to walk the dog. There’s no way we’re getting our hands on that bitch. I can’t even get close to the building, that’s how many video surveillance cameras there are. This sucks.”

Ingesting that information, Glen went into the kitchen and poured himself a drink. “Chill,” he instructed Jack. “Just keep watching and keep track of all the comings and goings. The rest you’ll leave to me. Trust me. I’ll get our firecrotch where we want her.”

“If you say so.” Jack sounded dubious.

“I do.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The FI team disbanded late that night, and everyone went home to get some much-needed rest.

Ryan had been eyeing Claire all night—her pallor, her tight expression—and he knew exactly what she was thinking. He wasn’t planning on letting her think it.

When she left the brownstone, he fell into step beside her. He hopped on the subway that went to her stop, exited along with her and walked her home.

They didn’t speak a word the entire way.

Once they were inside her apartment, Ryan marched her over to her wicker sofa, put his palms on her shoulders and pressed her down into a sitting position. Then he poured her a glass of wine and pushed the glass into her hands.

“Drink.”

Claire looked up at him, her eyes dazed. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

“I’m not. I’m trying to get you to stop beating yourself up. Clearly, what Casey said didn’t get through. So it’s my turn.”

She didn’t respond. She just stared into her glass as Ryan went to the kitchen and got himself a beer.

“We both know why I didn’t pick up on Casey’s cousin’s energy.” Claire finally stated her feelings when Ryan returned to the living room. “If you and I hadn’t been so caught up in each other...”

“Then you would probably have lived through the pain and suffering of Trish’s murder,” Ryan finished for her. “Just the way you did with the others. And, just like with the others, you would have prevented nothing. The only good you could’ve accomplished is speeding up the search for the body. Which means squat. Trish would still be dead.”

“Maybe. But maybe I would’ve seen something, heard something, that would have helped the next time—Casey’s time. What if that’s true? What if I could have saved her from what’s to come, but I blew it?”

“Then you’ll do it now.”

“I plan to. Before all this happened, I was going to pay Suzanne Fisher a visit. I’ll wait till she’s home from work tomorrow night. Then I’ll drop by. If there’s any telling energy I can get off her, I’ll get it.”

“Good idea,” Ryan said. “I’m sure she’ll be receptive to you. You have a very soothing nature. It’ll lower her defenses.”

“Let’s hope so. I’ve got to make some inroads, and fast. We’re running out of time.”

“There’s another way, too.”

“Which is?”

Ryan took a deep swallow from his bottle. “Look, we both know that I don’t understand your visions, or your energy-tapping, or any of that stuff. But I do know that you seem to do it really well when you’re holding something of the victim’s in your hands. We’ll get something of Trish’s—something that makes you sense whatever you sense off it—and then you’ll sit down in a dark, quiet room and do your thing.”

A flicker of hope flashed in Claire’s eyes. “I hadn’t thought of that. But you’re right. The cops can’t release anything from the crime scene, but that doesn’t mean I won’t find some object in Trish’s dorm room that she was deeply connected to. Maybe I can pick up some energy that’ll give me a glimpse into her mind. Maybe I can even sense a thought or an emotion from last night.”

“And if you do, it’s going to eat you alive,” Ryan warned.

“I’m sure it will. But if it brings us closer to the killer, it’ll be worth it.”

“Okay, then.” Ryan nodded, pulling out his iPhone. “I’ll call Casey. She’ll get us permission from Captain Sharp. We’ll drive down to Princeton in the morning.”

Claire picked up on Ryan’s use of the plural. “
We?
You don’t have to come with me, Ryan. This isn’t even your thing.”

“True. But you’ll need some moral support. I can do that.”

Claire found herself nodding in surprise. The softer side of Ryan McKay. She’d never thought she’d see the day.

“You’re right,” she told him. “You can.”

* * *

Casey didn’t shut an eye that night.

She’d gotten the necessary permission for Ryan and Claire to enter Trish’s dorm room so Claire could try to connect with Trish’s energy. Hopefully, that would yield some results.

It still didn’t help Casey sleep.

Finally, after staring at the ceiling for five hours, she rose and went into the kitchen to brew herself a cup of coffee.

Hero padded in after her, acutely aware of the tension that continued to permeate Casey’s apartment, as well as the office itself. He sat down on the kitchen floor, his huge eyes fixed on her.

“Whoever said men weren’t sensitive?” Casey murmured, walking over to scratch Hero’s ears. She poured some of his food into his bowl and placed it on the floor. “You’ve been up all night with me,” she acknowledged. “The least I can do is offer you a 5:00 a.m. meal.”

“Does that apply to me, too?” Hutch was leaning in the kitchen doorway, hair tousled, eyes almost as red as Casey’s.

She gave him a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. I know I was thrashing around all night. You should have grabbed your pillow and gone to sleep in the den.”

“It wasn’t a sleep night for me, either.” Hutch poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the counter beside Casey. “I was too busy putting pieces together.”

“That whole lipstick thing is really bothering me,” Casey said, gripping her coffee mug. “I hope we get the chemical analysis back soon. Because I know in my gut that it was my shade. And if it is...”

“Then it makes you question Suzanne Fisher’s role in all this.”

Casey angled her head toward Hutch. “Does that mean you were thinking along the same lines?”

“I was thinking about Suzanne Fisher as a whole. She’s an enabler, which makes her a perfect victim for Glen Fisher’s abuse. She’s a conduit to what he needs to get done. We knew that. But now we’re taking it a step further. Now we’re wondering if she actually has some input into the murders.”

“Creative input, in this case,” Casey clarified. “Men don’t come up with the idea of matching lipstick shades. That’s a female thing.”

Hutch nodded. “A man would think about the overall concept of dressing up a victim to make her look like a gift to satisfy his ego. He might even zero in on making her look like you. But a specific color or brand of lipstick? Doubtful.”

“So if that added touch belonged to Suzanne Fisher, what other contributions is she making?”

Hutch’s expression was grim. “Right now, I’m more concerned with how she knew what makeup you wear. Did she follow you when you bought it? Or did she somehow get her hands on your things?” His eyes narrowed. “Do you remember where and when you last bought your lipstick?”

Casey racked her brain. “About a month ago, I guess. I bought it in Macy’s.”

“That’s a huge store. It would be easy enough to eavesdrop on your purchase.” Hutch processed that piece of information. “Do you remember any time your lipstick was missing? When you dropped it or thought you’d misplaced it?”

“No. And I’d notice that. It’s always in my purse. I use it all the time.”

“Then I opt for the spying at Macy’s. Which, like we said, tweaks the profile on Suzanne Fisher. She might be much cleverer and less passive than we’ve been assuming. Obeying instructions, yes, but also coming up with her own ways to help.”

“Do you think she’s sick enough to have an actual hand in murdering these women?”

“Not directly, no.” Hutch shook his head. “She’s not dominant or vicious enough. More likely, she sees her husband as some kind of wronged hero. That would make it possible for her to justify his abusive behavior toward her. And, if she does view him in that light, she can also convince herself that he’s doing the world a service, ridding it of women he’s labeled as evil, including—no, especially—you.”

“That’s sick.”

“So is Glen Fisher.” The more Hutch considered that theory, the more sense it made. “It’s clear that Suzanne adores her husband, no matter how terrified of him she might be. He manipulates. She rushes to his aid. And if she’s smart and creative, she could be doing anything from scouting victims to researching your ties to people...”

“...to finding out what lip gloss I wear so she can add a special touch to the posing of the victims.” Casey shuddered. “How twisted.”

“Did any hatred come through when you interviewed her?” Hutch asked.

Casey considered that, and then wiggled her hand from side to side. “That’s a hard question to answer. There was definite anger and wariness. I had no doubt that she blamed me for her husband’s conviction. I played with her head a little, so she vacillated from livid to uncertain to vulnerable. Most of her attention was focused on Claire. She was fascinated with the whole psychic angle. That might have watered down any rage directed at me. The woman is a psychological and emotional wreck.” Casey paused. “Speaking of which, Claire is going back to visit Suzanne tonight. She’s not calling ahead. She wants to go for the element of surprise. That, combined with Suzanne’s open reaction to her last time, could pay off.”

“Smart move.” Hutch’s cell phone rang. “Hutchinson,” he answered. A lengthy silence. “Okay, thanks.” He disconnected the call. His expression was
not
happy.

“What is it?” Casey demanded. “It must have been pretty important for whoever it was to call you at 5:30 a.m.”

“It was.” Hutch took a belt of coffee. “The chemical and the DNA analyses are back. You were right. The lipstick
is
your shade. But that’s not all that’s yours. So is the hair.”

“The hair?” Casey stared. “You mean the second clump of hair tucked under the ribbon on Trish’s neck?”

“That’s the one. Now how the hell did the killer get it?”

Casey didn’t have to ponder that question. “I got a haircut the other day. There were pieces of my hair all over the floor. He could have taken it from the floor or the garbage or... Wait a minute.” She clutched Hutch’s arm. “There was a repairman in the salon that day. I didn’t give it a second thought until now. My view was obscured. But he walked by me. He could easily have picked up a piece of my hair.”

“That means the killer stood right beside you.” A muscle worked in Hutch’s jaw. “Shit. Even with our tight security, he got that close.”

Casey swallowed hard. “I’ll talk to the salon receptionist, and see what I can find out about the repairman. I doubt she’ll know much, though. He probably just walked in, did whatever he was there to do and left.”

“I’ll go with you.” That was Hutch’s no-choice tone.

Casey didn’t argue with it.

“Maybe the receptionist will remember something about the way he looked,” Hutch suggested. “Glen Fisher was still in prison at that time, so this was killer number two. Anything we can learn about him would be a plus.”

“The salon opens at nine.”

“We’ll be waiting at the door.”

* * *

Claire gazed around the Princeton dorm room that had been Trish’s home for the school year. The energy here was strong. Trish’s aura was everywhere. This room was her nest. That made it easier to connect with her.

Claire stood there for a long minute, immersing herself in the energy. Then she walked straight to the desk. Her fingers brushed over the textbooks lying there. She picked up one general psychology book and one small, well-worn copy of
Othello.

“What a sad, ironic choice,” Claire murmured, her tone hollow. “Of all Shakespeare’s works, this was Trish’s favorite—the play in which Othello suffocates Desdemona.” A shiver ran through her. “There’s a lot of Trish in this room. She spent hours studying, sitting right here at this desk. She was a good student. She pushed herself hard.”

A pained pause, during which Claire pressed her lips together. “More irony. She was working on something that involved psychology. She planned on calling Casey. She was thinking about that last night when she left the library. But it never happened.”

Ryan wasn’t sure whether or not he was supposed to comment. He had no idea what Claire was seeing, if it was fact or fiction, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a hundred questions. He was clueless about how psychic connections worked. And he didn’t want to break the chain of whatever Claire was feeling. So he kept quiet.

“The library...” A series of images flashed through Claire’s mind, and that faraway look came into her eyes. “Trish dropped her backpack when they grabbed her. It was still at the crime scene, which was between the library and the chapel. She tried to scream. They chloroformed her. She put up quite a fight. It took both of them to subdue her and get her off campus. The rest of it—the torture, the rape, the strangulation—that all happened in the alley where they found her body. What they did to her was barbaric.” Claire’s lashes were damp with tears.

Ryan couldn’t remain silent anymore. He touched Claire’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.” Claire’s breath was coming faster, and she switched to the present tense. “I can make out their forms. I want to see their faces, but I can’t. I can tell that one man is older, in good physical shape, solid. He’s the cruel one when it comes to mind games. The other guy is younger, leaner. He moves faster. And he hurts harder. God, the physical pain—it’s excruciating. Twice. First one man, then the other. Oh, God, Ryan, they’re tearing her apart.”