The Stranger You Know

None of that impressed Claire. She was very much her own person, gentle and ethereal, yet strong and honest, unwilling to back down when she thought Ryan was wrong. They were, without a doubt, each other’s weak spot, and despite their best intentions to the contrary and the fact that the two of them were like day and night, they continued to wind up in bed together.

They’d fast become a habit each of them was finding impossible to break.

After months of being involved, they’d relegated their sexual relationship to its own inexplicable but inescapable niche.

That niche didn’t include spending the night together.

Still, what Ryan was saying now made complete pragmatic sense. It was hardly a romantic step forward. Just a time-saver and a few extra hours of comfort—hours Claire badly needed. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t have the energy to move. And she didn’t have the mental strength to battle her demons.

Ryan didn’t wait for Claire’s reply. He rolled onto his side and reached for the fleece throw he kept at the foot of the futon. He settled Claire against him and covered them both.

“Go to sleep, Claire-voyant,” he murmured. “Shut down that out-of-control mind of yours. You can pick up where you left off tomorrow.”

Claire would never admit how relieved Ryan’s words made her feel, or how grateful she was not to be alone. She commanded her mind and her body to release the negative energy, and they complied. “I’m so drained,” she heard herself whisper aloud.

“I know.” Ryan lay down beside her, wrapping one arm around her waist, pausing only long enough to set the alarm on his watch.

By the time he put down his head, Claire was fast asleep.

* * *

Upstairs in her apartment, Casey was having no such luck.

She’d taken a hot shower to relax the tension from her body, plumped her pillows about twelve times and now lay on her back, one arm folded beneath her head.

She wished that damned voice on the phone hadn’t been disguised. But the fact that it was—did that mean she knew the person at the other end? He wasn’t threatening Forensic Instincts. Even if this was a personal vendetta against Casey’s entire company, he was zeroing in on her as his target. That in itself was unnerving. But what unnerved her most was how detailed the offender’s planning had been. He’d plugged into her current investigation and where she stood on it. That took time, patience and connections. He obviously had all three. And with regard to tonight’s rape and murder? He’d carefully chosen a victim whose description matched Casey’s.

All those things together added up to a systematic mind and strategic planning—a lethal combination.

Last, but far from least, he’d made sure to call Casey either right before or, even more macabre, sometime during his horrific crime.

That added a perverse twist....

What was his motive? Was it personal? Professional? And if Casey was designated as the final target, what killing rampage did he have planned in the interim?

The questions bombarded Casey, growing more and more numerous as she lay there.

She had an impressive team in Forensic Instincts. They’d drop everything to work this crime and keep her safe. But there was only one person who had the expertise—and, yes, the personal investment—to get a handle on this case and solve it quickly.

She picked up her phone and punched in a number on speed dial.

Two rings, and then a sleepy voice answered. “Hutchinson.”

“It’s me. I need you.”

Chapter Eight

The FI team was exhausted, but vigilantly gathered around the conference table at 6:30 a.m. No single-cup Keurig today—they’d pulled out the big guns. There were two pots of coffee, neither of them decaf, already half-consumed within the first half hour of their meeting.

“I called Hutch last night,” Casey informed the rest of the group. “Unfortunately, he can’t get away from Quantico right away. But he’ll consult with us by phone and arrange to get to New York as soon as possible.”

“Good move,” Marc said with a nod. “No one’s better at profiling than Hutch. Although he’ll probably be less objective than even we are.”

“Probably.” Casey didn’t dispute that. “But it won’t stop him from getting inside this psychopath’s head.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “Let’s be blunt. We’ve been sitting here for almost an hour reviewing the details we know. We can continue ad nauseam, but we’re not going to come up with a concrete lead. There’s just not enough to go on.”

“We were invited in by the cops,” Marc said. “Or we will be once Tom speaks to his captain.”

“That’s not exactly the way it’s going to work,” Ryan corrected him. “We’ll be kept on a short leash, and told what they want us to know. This is still technically their investigation, not ours. And you know as well as I do that we can’t sit around waiting for them to toss us leads.”

“Which is why we’ll be making it our investigation.” Marc spoke for them all. “We’ll protect Casey. We’ll find the killer.”

“You can’t protect me around the clock,” Casey said.

“The hell we can’t.” Marc didn’t bat an eye. “I brought my stuff over this morning. I’ll be staying at the brownstone until we catch this son of a bitch. I’m the best qualified.”

No one argued with that decision. Marc was formidable with or without a gun. He had physical skills that scared the crap out of most people. He also had the hearing and dexterity of a cat.

“I put my stuff in the third-floor meeting room,” Marc informed Casey. “The couch in there is more comfortable than my bed. And I’ll be one floor below you. Not to mention that Hero will be in your room. Between us and the alarm system, this place will be like Fort Knox.”

“I’ll program Yoda to respond to the slightest noise,” Ryan said. “I’ll start poking into Casey’s cell phone records. And during the day, we’ll take shifts watching her.”

“That’s not necessary,” Patrick intervened. “Our efforts are needed in a proactive way. You know from our last case that I’ve got access to the best security guards in the business, all of whom are licensed to carry a gun. They’ll go everywhere Casey goes, and watch the outside of the brownstone at night. She’ll have 24/7 coverage. Ryan, that’ll free you up to run the technology and strategic end of things, and Claire to focus on her psychic connections.”

“I really appreciate all this.” Casey set down her coffee mug. “And I’d be lying if I said I won’t feel infinitely safer with all those plans set in motion.” She stroked Hero’s head. “But Patrick’s right. Running interference isn’t enough. Assuming the fingerprints turn up nothing, we have to put our efforts into figuring out who this guy is and why he has it in for me.”

“You need to make two sets of lists,” Marc told her. “One will be a list of everyone—both personal and professional—that you had even a slight disagreement with.”

“I’ll run all the FI case files,” Ryan said. “Plus any cases from your consulting days. That’ll give us the big-screen potential candidates.”

Casey nodded. “And I’ll dig into every nook and cranny of my life, every detail of my days, to add to that list.”

“The other list will be of the killer’s possible next target,” Marc continued. “I want you to write down every single person you interact with who’s a petite redhead.” He thought for a moment. “If you know whether they’re natural redheads, that would be better still. My guess is this killer wants the real thing if he can get it.”

“Makes sense,” Casey said. “I’ll have plenty of time to do this tonight, since I doubt I’ll be doing much sleeping.”

“Tonight?” Claire shot her a quizzical look. “What about today?”

Casey blew out her breath. “We still have Jan Olson’s case to pursue. I’m not being a martyr. I’m pretty fixated on what just happened. But there’s a dying man waiting for us to find his daughter’s body.”

“Let me talk to Tom,” Claire said. “I’ll see how much police assistance we can count on. We have to work on both cases simultaneously. But, Casey, your life is our priority.” She tapped the table thoughtfully. “I was connecting with Jan’s energy when Kendra’s murder took over. I sensed death. And fear. Fear that Jan wasn’t sharing with anyone. She knew she was in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Patrick asked.

“Someone was watching her. Following her. She didn’t know what to do.”

“Exactly like Holly,” Casey said at once.

“Yes.” Claire nodded. “Exactly like Holly. And the stalker was new to this. Jan was practice.” A deep breath as Claire let the recollections fill her mind. “I could see Jan running through a park. She was terrified. Stumbling. Looking over her shoulder. Her stalker wasn’t just looking anymore. He was chasing her.”

“Did he catch her?” Marc asked. “Rape her? Kill her? Could you make out his face?”

Claire shook her head in frustration. “I never got that far. Kendra’s energy took over. I was gripped with it. It eclipsed everything I was sensing before that. There was simply no room for anything else.”

At that moment, Claire’s cell phone rang. “It’s Tom,” she announced, after checking out caller ID. “I’ll put him on speaker.”

“Hi, Tom, you’ve got us all,” she greeted him.

“Good. Then I’ll write down the office number, since I’ll be dealing with the whole team from now on. After a lot of arm-twisting, my captain agreed to your request. He complained about getting some pressure from the captain of the Twenty-sixth.” Tom was referring to the precinct where Columbia was situated. “Apparently, Casey Woods has pull there.”

“I’ve consulted for them,” Casey explained. “They have a great squad.” No need to get into their ongoing partnership on the Jan Olson case.

“Well, we’ll be joining forces on this case, since Kendra could very well have been kidnapped or killed on the Columbia campus and her body disposed of at the Brooklyn warehouse.”

“What happened with the fingerprints?” Marc asked right away.

“Dead end. Whoever this scumbag is, he doesn’t have a record.” Tom sighed. “We were really hopeful on that score. Anyway, I also want you to know that, thanks to social media, word about Kendra’s murder has gotten out. None of the details I shared with you, just the rape and the murder. There are counselors on campus talking to whoever needs help. And our detectives are there interviewing Kendra’s friends.”

“Anything yet?”

“Only that she was a studious, quiet girl who spent most of her time in the library. Her major was philosophy, so we’ll be interviewing all her professors. As for her whereabouts last night, she was supposedly on her way to a fraternity party, but never showed up.”

Claire had tears in her eyes. “The students must be planning something.”

“Yeah, that’s the other thing I wanted to tell you. There’s a vigil being held on Morningside Campus at eight o’clock tonight. We’ll have plainclothes detectives and video surveillance there.”

“Since the killer will probably show up to get a firsthand look at the emotional devastation he caused.” Marc spoke from his BAU training.

“Exactly.”

“Our team will be there, too,” Patrick told Tom. “We’ll keep a low profile and let you do your thing.”

“I figured as much.” Tom’s tone was grim. “Sometimes this job really sucks. But it sure as hell makes you want to solve a case.” There was a pause. “Give me your office number. I’ll keep you posted as information turns up.”

Casey complied, giving him not only the office number, but each of their individual cell phone numbers, as well.

As soon as the call was disconnected, she glanced around the table, focusing specifically on Ryan. She knew what was coming.

And it did.

Ryan turned to Marc. “Our surveillance blows theirs out of the water.”

“No question.” Marc finished off his cup of coffee. “Looks like we’ll be treading into that gray area sooner than expected.”

* * *

It was 6:00 p.m. With two hours left before the vigil began, the area was deserted, except for Kendra’s photo and a small circle of flowers surrounding it.

Ryan glanced out the window of the van as he, Marc and Patrick approached the campus. “Tom’s right. This whole thing sucks.”

Marc said nothing, although he didn’t disagree. He’d seen some heinous things in his time. That didn’t make a brutal crime like this any easier to comprehend.

Security was tight, as the FI team had expected it to be. Patrick got out of the van a block away and walked toward the campus grounds. He was wearing business casual clothes and had left his gun at home. He’d been given the necessary law enforcement okay. He’d have no trouble getting in. And he’d look like any professor or father paying his respects.

That left Ryan and Marc to do their own jobs.

The FI van pulled up to the security guard. Ryan reached into his pocket and produced his ID from New York Sound, one of the many corporate aliases Forensic Instincts had created to allow them to conduct surveillance operations without raising suspicion. As expected, New York Sound was on the approved vendor list. Once the guard verified that, he handed Ryan back his ID and nodded.

Ryan paused long enough to gaze around the area on campus where the vigil was about to be held.

“Where’s the closest place for me to park?” he asked.

The guard pointed, uttering a series of lefts and rights, which Ryan memorized. Then he issued a mock salute and pulled slowly onto campus.

Situated where he wanted to be, Ryan turned and nodded at Marc. The two of them climbed out of the van, unloaded the tripod base speakers and positioned them strategically around the area where the vigil would soon commence. Next, Ryan connected the long cables to each speaker and attached the opposite ends to the special jacks protruding from the side of the van. He climbed inside and fired up the equipment.

Marc went from speaker to speaker, waiting to hear Ryan say, “Testing one, two, three,” before he waved to acknowledge that Ryan’s voice was coming through loud and clear. Next, Ryan gave Marc instructions at each speaker about how to position it. “Up five feet, turn left twenty degrees,” he directed the first time, his voice emanating from the elevated speaker. The two of them continued the process until it was done.

To a passerby, it would appear as if Marc was adjusting a sound system. But inside the truck, Ryan was checking the angles of security cameras he’d concealed inside the speakers. Once the process was complete, he’d have a three hundred and sixty degree view of the entire vigil area. The output from each video camera would be recorded, allowing Forensic Instincts to analyze the footage, and use facial recognition software if needed. Casey had instructed Ryan to make the video available to her on the FI server as soon as they returned to the office.

Marc opened the back door of the van and climbed in. The place looked like a mini TV production room.

“Ready?” he asked, glancing around.

Ryan sat back on his heels. “Show time.”

* * *

Kendra might have been a quiet and private girl. But the vigil was packed with students, some of them white with shock, some of them openly weeping. Whether or not Kendra was part of their individual social circles, her murder hit them all hard. She was one of their peers, one of their classmates. Any of them could just as easily have been the girl found in that warehouse. Knowing that, they hugged one another and stood in traumatized solidarity, overcome by the horror of the situation.

Patrick moved among the crowd, subtly but intently studying the vigil’s attendees. No one paid particular attention to him, since there were other people his age, most of them parents who lived locally. They, too, felt a fearful kinship with the other parents—and not only out of grief for Kendra, although that was a huge part of their reason for being there. But they were also well aware that if this psychopath was targeting Columbia students, their own children could be in danger. Kendra’s own parents were, understandably, absent. They were in no condition to be out in public when they were still utterly shattered and in shock.

Marie, Kendra’s closest friend and the last known person to have seen her alive, made a brief but heartbreaking speech. She spoke about Kendra’s kindness, her commitment to her family and friends, and her determination to graduate and make a difference in the world. When no more words would come, she wiped away her tears and bent down to place a bouquet of flowers at the foot of the pedestal holding the photo of Kendra.

After that, students all filed forward, placing everything on the grass from a single flower alongside Marie’s bouquet to Columbia notebooks and T-shirts. The “pizza crowd,” all of whom were among Kendra’s small number of close friends, were huddled together. They each put a yellow rose—Kendra’s favorite flower—on top of the pedestal, and then turned away, tears rolling down their cheeks. Even Robbie was there, squatting to place an empty pizza box near the flowers.

He walked over to Kendra’s friends. “I don’t know what to say,” he told them. “She was a terrific girl. This is a nightmare. I hope the cops find the motherfucker who did this to her and lock him up for life.” His voice got shaky. “The last time I saw her, she was trying to help me. Some car was blocking my delivery truck and I could barely get out. She would have gone up to the driver and blasted him if I let her.”

“She told us about that,” Amy said. “She went on and on about how miserably delivery people are treated.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve gotten used to that.” Robbie swallowed, obviously struggling to make mundane conversation. “I normally just let it roll off my back. But I would’ve been fired if the truck got dented. So I appreciated Kendra’s concern. I’d be screwed without that job. As it is, I just took on a second one. But this new one lets me deliver pizzas by bike.”

“That’s good.” Amy hadn’t really heard him and he knew it. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the senseless and brutal crime that had taken away their friend.

The candle-lighting aspect of the vigil got under way. Everyone had been handed a candle when they arrived. Now they all lit them, standing silently and bowing their heads in prayer.

Not far away, a dark sedan was parked. Its driver was scrutinizing the campus through a zoom lens, watching each attendee, one at a time.

Watching and planning.

Chapter Nine

Glen Fisher hadn’t felt this aroused in a long time.

Pacing back and forth in his cell, his erection hardened along with his thoughts. His juices were flowing. Blood was pumping through his veins. Pooling at his groin. The next attack—he could actually feel it. His hands were around her throat. His penis was throbbing. He stared into her eyes as he drove into her body, coming harder and harder as he choked away her life. He ground her into the concrete floor as the last spasm surged through him. He was triumphant. She was violated and dead. It was a power like no other. And the best was yet to be.

In the meantime, he needed release, and he needed it now.

Dropping down on his cot, he threw a blanket over himself and reached for his drawing tablet.

One hand went to his crotch. The other grabbed the red crayon. He began to draw furiously.

Each slash of crimson corresponded to a pulsing surge of his climax as it shuddered through him.

* * *

The next two days were long and tedious as the FI team worked with the police and on their own to identify the sick bastard who’d killed Kendra Mallery and was now threatening to extend his killing spree to Casey.

Having done her part—compiling the two lists Marc had asked for—Casey was going crazy. She’d watched the video of the campus vigil three times, and other than feeling sick to her stomach, she’d seen nothing incriminating. All that it had succeeded in doing was to bring back a flood of painful memories from the past as she relived the vigil she’d attended for Holly. Different victims. Same nightmare. Same sense of helpless frustration.

Casey’s existence was like being under house arrest. She was practically imprisoned in the brownstone, and when she went out, either Patrick or one of his hired bodyguards was glued to her side.

Her confinement only served to intensify the sense of responsibility she felt to solve the Jan Olson case. Jan’s father had called each day, several times a day, to see if there was any news, even a tiny lead, to tell them where his daughter or her body could be found.

Casey couldn’t ignore that. She’d made a commitment to this poor dying man. She intended to fulfill it.

She couldn’t just rely on Claire’s vision of seeing Jan racing terrified through a park, glancing fearfully over her shoulder. That was like looking for a needle in a haystack. There were countless parks in New York City, and that was assuming the attack had taken place here.

Holed up in one of the smaller conference rooms, Casey went through everything they had. She followed up on Brenda’s list, contacting as many people who’d known Jan as possible, particularly her boyfriend, Chris Towers, who now lived in Colorado with his wife and two kids. He was completely taken aback by the subject of Casey’s phone call, but he answered every one of her questions, and his take on Jan was similar to Brenda’s, only from a boyfriend’s point of view. He confirmed that he and Jan were pretty much inseparable, but not sexually active, so pregnancy was out. And he agreed with Brenda that, in the week leading up to her disappearance, Jan had been acting unusually jumpy and nervous. She’d assured him it was just academic stress. But when she’d vanished without a trace, he couldn’t help believing the two were related. He and Brenda had contacted the police, but no sign of Jan materialized. Eventually, they were forced to accept the fact that she’d taken off on her own. Any other theory was too horrific to live with.

“When was the last time you remember seeing Jan alive?” Casey concluded, asking it as a routine question. Frankly, she didn’t count on his answer to shed any light on things. If he and Jan were as inseparable as it seemed, he’d doubtless seen her on the day she’d vanished.

Sure enough, Chris replied, “The afternoon she disappeared. I walked her to work. We made plans to meet up in her dorm room around eleven o’clock that night. She never came back.”

Work.

Abruptly, something clicked in Casey’s mind. Jan had been a waitress at the Lakeside Restaurant at the Boathouse in Central Park. If you coupled that with Claire’s vision—a park with a backdrop of water—you got a strong potential scenario for the scene of the crime.

That was solid enough to act on.

Casey walked through the brownstone and found Claire in the main conference room finishing up a phone call with the police.

“Anything?” she asked.

Disconnecting the call, Claire shook her head. “Nothing yet.”

“Then that frees you up to go with me.”

“Go where?”

“To Central Park. To the restaurant Jan Olson worked in. We’ve been so wrapped up, we didn’t get around to going there and questioning the staff.”

Claire rose slowly from her chair, her mouth set in a firm line. “Number one, you’re not going to Central Park—that’s an open arena for people. Number two, Jan worked there fifteen years ago. Even if we find someone who’s still around from back then, I doubt anyone would remember a college girl who waitressed there that long ago.”

“I don’t know. But we’re going to find out.” Casey wasn’t letting this one go. “Take something of Jan’s, something you feel connected to. I’ll announce our outing to the team. I don’t care if they barricade the door. We’re going.”

A half hour and a huge shouting match later, Casey and Claire, together with Dave Brinkman—one of Patrick’s bodyguards—made their trip to Central Park. They walked all over the grounds, Claire tightly clasping Jan’s calendar in the hope of picking up some of her energy and connecting it to their location.