The Stranger You Know (32 page)

“You don’t have to wait until tomorrow.” Ryan rose. “I’ll do a little digging before I head home, and see if I can come up with some names to add to your list of identity forgers.”

“And I’ll take the combined lists and pay every dirt bag on them a visit tomorrow,” Patrick said. “Fisher could be leaving alone, or he could be taking Jack and Suzanne with him. I’ll find that out, too.”

“Nice.” Marc nodded. “I’ll keep you company—in case a little extra persuasion is in order. Shut your eyes if you have to.”

“Not necessary. Not when it’s Casey we’re protecting. Screw the straight and narrow.”

Marc whistled. “You really are one of us now, Patrick. Impressive.”

“I shouldn’t be hearing this,” Hutch said.

“Hearing what?” Marc shot him an innocent look. “I didn’t say anything. Neither did Ryan. He’s just surfing the web and I’m just visiting some colleagues. Right, Ryan?”

“Right.”

Casey gave them a faint smile. “Thank you all,” she said, coming to her feet. “I’m going to grab something from the kitchen and then go up to bed. I’m exhausted.” As soon as Casey moved, Hero scrambled up, too, staying close to his mistress’s side. She reached down to stroke his head. Hero wasn’t the only one who bolted to his feet. Hutch was right behind them. “I’ll be joining you.”

“Sentry duty?” Casey asked.

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

“I’d say I’m a lucky girl. Two loyal men sleeping in my bed to make sure I’m safe.”

“You can’t have enough guard dogs.” Ryan glanced around the table. “Everyone else going home now?”

Patrick and Claire nodded.

“Good. Then I’ll wait and see that the security systems are fully engaged before I leave.” He waited until Claire was easing her way around the table before catching her arm and speaking in a quiet voice that only she could hear. “Want company?”

“Not tonight.” She shook her head, her troubled gaze asking him to understand. “It’s not that I don’t want you there. I just need to be alone. I need to concentrate all my energy on one single focus—Casey.”

“Understood.” His knuckles brushed her cheek. “Just call if you need me.”

“I will.”

* * *

Claire took the subway home.

She was so damned wired. It seemed to take forever for the train to reach her stop. Her mind was on overdrive, but not in a controlled way. More like a wild stallion at a rodeo. The images in her mind were flashing wildly and randomly, and the tension pounding at her temples was heightening.

Talk about energy. Its intensity was nearly paralyzing.

She needed to find a way to calm down and channel it.

Stopping only long enough to pick up some Chinese takeout, she walked the block and a half to her apartment, trying to decide whether a hot bath or a hot shower would do her more good.

She relaxed more in a bath.

But she thought more in a shower.

It was a toss-up.

Still trying to decide which would yield the best result, she rounded the corner of her block.

Abruptly, a chill shot up her spine.

She sensed the man behind her a split second before the barrel of a gun was shoved into her back.

“Hello, Claire.” His voice was unfamiliar. But it was close—so close that it ruffled her hair. “Keep walking. Don’t make a sound. My car is right over here. Let’s hop into it like a couple bringing home Chinese takeout.”

“Who are you?” she managed.

“I think you know the answer to that. Now get in.”

He opened the backseat of the sedan, and pushed her in. Then he slid in beside her and locked the doors. There were no streetlights nearby, and the car’s windows were tinted, so it was virtually impossible to see inside. Using that to his advantage, he worked quickly, stuffing a handkerchief into her mouth and binding her wrists and ankles.

Claire struggled as hard as she could. It only made him tighten the ropes until they cut deep into her skin. He was wearing a ski mask, so she couldn’t make out any of his facial features. But his hands were that of a young man—probably in his twenties. And his build was lankier than Glen Fisher’s. So it definitely wasn’t him. It had to be Jack.

She would have tested her theory by using his name, but the gag crammed in her mouth made that impossible. She tried to focus on his energy, but her own fear overrode any metaphysical connection she might have established. So, instead, she concentrated on her breathing, keeping it slow and shallow, so she could conserve her energy and her oxygen. She had to remain as physically strong and mentally alert as possible.

She refused to allow herself to think ahead to what he had in store for her. The present. Just stay in the present.

Her assailant snatched the bag of Chinese food she’d been carrying. “I’ll take this,” he said, leaning forward to place it on the passenger seat. “I skipped dinner. I’ll eat while I drive.”

He pushed Claire down on her side, reaching over to grab a black sack he’d stashed on the floor. Something lying beside her on the leather seat tickled her nose, and Claire pulled her head back, trying to see past the empty junk-food bags scattered around her.

Suzanne’s red wig.

She looked at it and started.

He must have seen her reaction, because he glanced at the wig and chuckled. “I paid a visit to your apartment before I came to pick you up. Nice place. Didn’t have time to take the full tour. I just took what I needed and left. I’m looking forward to the blonde
and
the redhead.”

He yanked the sack over her head until she could see nothing but blackness.

“Stay down,” he warned, climbing over the console and into the driver’s seat. “It’s a short ride. Then the fun begins.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Suzanne wasn’t the one who was conducting surveillance—not this time.

The FBI and NYPD were crawling around her apartment building nonstop, and there was always one unmarked car parked at the fire hydrant across the street, where the pair of detectives could have a clear view of her apartment.

They weren’t even trying to hide the fact that they were keeping close tabs on her.

So, even though she usually handled things herself, this time was different. She and Glen had discussed the strategy he’d come up with. He’d had her contact Bob Farrell, the retired NYPD detective from the Twenty-sixth Precinct who’d provided Auburn State prisonguard Tim Grant with all the useful information Glen had required. Bob was well acquainted with Suzanne. She was the one who’d handed him his payments.

Given Glen’s escape and the high-profile attention it was receiving, Bob wasn’t thrilled to hear Suzanne’s voice—until he heard how much money she’d be paying him for a relatively simple assignment. Then, his tune had changed, and he’d happily accepted.

He used sophisticated binoculars to keep an eye on the Forensic Instincts brownstone. There were more security people there than he could count, and he wasn’t stupid enough to place himself in their line of vision. He kept his distance, just scrutinizing the fourth-floor window Suzanne had instructed him to. The blinds were all drawn, so he couldn’t make out people. But he could get brief glimpses of activity through the sliver of space between the blinds and the window moldings. Clearly, the room was a bathroom. And the hint of space was enough.

Bob watched, and waited patiently.

He got what he needed at around nine-fifteen.

A light went on. And the silhouette of a male figure filled the narrow sliver of space. The man was walking into the bathroom.

Bob remained as he was, staring intently. Sure enough, condensation began to build up on the windowpane.

He pulled out his burn phone and punched in a text to the phone number he’d been given.

He’s in the shower.

Glen Fisher smiled when he read the message. Agent Hutchinson was a creature of habit. Time to use that to his advantage.

He switched screens to his own text and attachment, which he’d readied for delivery an hour ago.

He gave it a quick glance. Then he hit Send.

* * *

Casey was thrashing around in her bed to the background noises of Hutch’s shower spray when her iPhone went “bing.” That meant she had a text message. Sitting up in bed, she scooted over to her nightstand and picked up the phone to check it out.

Unknown sender.
No message header.

With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she opened the text.

Your life for hers,
it read.
Find a way out of there now. Come alone to 55 Ludlow Street, south of Grand. Use the gray steel door. It’s unlocked. If you bring any company, your friend dies.

Casey’s entire body went rigid. Fingers trembling, she clicked on the attachment.

It was worse than she’d imagined.

Claire was lying on a concrete floor, nude. Her arms were tied over her head, and her legs were separated, each ankle bound to a different post. There was visible bruising around her neck, and a look of stark terror on her face. The red wig was carefully arranged on her head.

God only knew what they’d done to her.

Casey was already in motion, on her feet and dressed in less than two minutes. Hutch wouldn’t be a problem; he’d be in the shower another ten or so minutes. The problem was getting out of the building without cluing in a security guard, tripping the alarm system or—most difficult of all—alerting Yoda.

Clandestine wouldn’t cut it. She’d have to go for a direct strike.

Glancing over at Hero, who was watching her intently, Casey formulated a quick-and-doable plan.

“Time for a walk, boy,” she told him.

His head came up, his soulful eyes brightening with enthusiasm.

“Right answer,” she said. “You’re going to be my decoy.”

With a sideways look at the closed bathroom door, Casey slid her hand behind her nightstand and into the narrow space between the base and the floor. She pulled out her pistol, made sure it was loaded and tucked it in her purse. Then she grabbed Hero’s leash and called him over.

He scrambled to her side.

“Good boy,” Casey murmured, leashing him up. She paused only long enough to use her iPhone to forward the text message to Hutch. After that, she dropped her phone in her purse, wrapped Hero’s leash around her hand and left the bedroom.

By the time Hutch found the text, it would be too late for him to catch up with her. But if the unthinkable were to happen—if she failed in her plan to swap places with Claire, and Fisher decided to kill them both—then Hutch would know what was going on so he could do what needed to be done.

She couldn’t let herself think that way. There’d been enough bloodshed because of her. Claire was
not
going to be another notch on Glen Fisher’s belt.

Taking a deep breath, Casey forced away thoughts of the painful acts Fisher might already have inflicted on Claire. She walked down the three flights of stairs to the main level, Hero padding beside her. The two security guards looked up as she reached the door.

“Hero needs to go out,” she explained. “And I need some air. I thought one of you could keep us company.”

Both guards shook their heads. “No air for you, Ms. Woods,” one of them said. “You stay inside. I’ll walk your dog.”

“He’s kind of fussy,” Casey tried. “I’m not sure he’ll do his business with an unfamiliar hand holding his leash.”

The guard wasn’t budging. “I’m good with dogs. I’m sure I can get him to cooperate. You wait here.”

He transferred Hero’s leash from Casey’s hand to his. Casey wasn’t surprised by the refusal. Nor did she argue. She just tensed up, ready and waiting.

She moved the instant the door was open.

Shoving past the startled guards, she dashed down the front steps and took off at warp speed. She could hear Hero’s agitated barking and the yelling of the guards behind her. But she didn’t turn around and she didn’t slow down.

She had to get to Claire.

It was a good two miles away. It was also nine-thirty at night. The streets were quiet. A taxi could make it there faster than her feet.

She stopped a short distance from the office, waited until she spotted a familiar yellow car and then stepped off the curb, holding up her arm. “Taxi!”

The cab pulled over. Casey leaped inside, blurted out the address and begged the driver to hurry.

He took off, heading for Chinatown.

Casey perched at the edge of her seat, her heart racing a mile a minute.

And throughout the ride, she prayed.

* * *

Hutch knew something was wrong the moment he stepped out of the bathroom.

There was no sign of Casey. There was no sign of Hero. But he could hear the frenetic barking of the bloodhound coming from downstairs. Simultaneously, he could hear a few of the guards shouting back and forth.

Something had happened.

Hutch yanked on his jeans and a sweater, snatched up his Glock and his cell phone and took off down the stairs.

He nearly collided with a guard in the entranceway. The guy was gripping Hero’s leash and staring after his partner, who was racing down the street.

“What the hell is going on?” Hutch demanded.

“She took off,” the guard reported. “The minute we opened the door, she bolted.”

“Casey
left?
Of her own accord? No one forced her?”

The guard shook his head. “She said her dog needed a walk. She wanted to take him herself. We refused. I was all set to go, when she pushed me aside and ran that way.” He pointed.

Hutch shook his head. “That makes no sense. Why would she...” He didn’t know what made him do it, but he stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

The red message light was flashing.

Thirty seconds later, he knew exactly where Casey had gone and why.

“Shit.” He was out the door, waving his arm at the unmarked car that had already pulled over.

“Get in.” It was Hutch’s partner, Brian, at the wheel, with one of the NYPD task force detectives riding shotgun. Brian glanced from Hutch to the scene that was unfolding in front of him. “We just picked up a couple of burgers. This is what we came back to.”

Hutch jumped into the backseat and slammed the door shut. “Start driving. I’ll explain on the way. Fifty-five Ludow Street, south of Grand. Hurry. As it is, I’m sure we’ll miss her. Goddammit, Casey.” He punched his leg in frustration.

Brian didn’t ask questions. He just screeched off in the direction Hutch had indicated.

Hutch glanced at his cell phone. He had to let the rest of the FI team know. Especially Ryan. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

He texted all the team members, alerting them to a crisis situation and telling them he was about to forward them a text with an attachment.

I’m on my way,
he told them.
Go to the office. I’ll contact you as soon as I have something.

* * *

Casey instructed the cabdriver to stop a half block from her destination.

He pulled over, frowning as he did. “Are you sure you want me to leave you here, lady? This isn’t exactly a great place to be late at night.”

“I’m sure.” Casey stuffed a wad of bills in his hand. “Thanks.”

She got out and sprinted to the sidewalk, then strode off at a rapid pace. She anchored her purse against her side, her fingers gripping the barrel of her pistol. She slowed down as she neared the gray steel door, her gaze darting around.

The street was deserted.

She was just reaching for the handle when a dark hooded figure lunged up the cellar stairs adjacent to where Casey stood. He grabbed her, holding her in a vise-grip, while wrenching the pistol from her hand and yanking away her purse.

“Forget it, Red,” he muttered. “You lost.”

He clapped a chloroform-soaked cloth over her nose and mouth, locking her in place as she fought.

It was a fight not destined to be won.

Casey collapsed, unconscious, and Jack let her sink to the ground. He shoved her pistol in his jacket pocket. Then he rifled her purse to make sure her iPhone was inside. Yup. There it was.

Leaving the phone in her purse, he tossed the whole thing in a nearby Dumpster and returned to Casey’s crumpled body.

He scooped her up, carried her to his car and threw her inside.

Turning on the engine, he texted Glen.

Package on its way.