by Andrea Kane
* * *
Maura Harris loved her job.
She’d worked in all aspects of veterinary care since she was a teenager and had volunteered at an animal clinic cleaning out kennel cages. Now she was applying to veterinary schools, hoping to one day fulfill her dream and run her own animal clinic.
In the meantime, she worked at the Canine Palace, a posh full-service inn for dogs, located in Tribeca. She handled everything from long-term boarding to doggy day care. Her time there had reinforced what she already believed: dogs were far easier and more delightful to deal with than their owners.
She commuted from Hoboken, a short ride on the PATH train that she could do in her sleep. With her credentials, she could easily have gotten a job closer to home, but she was too attached to her regular “clientele” to make a move.
Her hours were long. Sometimes she didn’t get back to her apartment until after eight, especially when busy executives were picking up their pups after a very full day. But it wasn’t a problem, since her boyfriend was an architect whose hours were as crazy as hers. Whoever got home first either cooked or bought dinner.
This particular night had been an exceptionally long one. A slew of professionals showed up to pick up their furry friends from doggy day care, and an equal number of folks had arrived to reunite with their pets after a week’s or two-week vacation. Even that strange guy who’d been coming in every other day for a month to buy toys for a dog Maura had never seen showed up, examining the squeaky latex animals for an hour before he chose two of them to purchase.
By the time she got out the door, Maura’s red hair was sweaty and stuck to her neck, and she was more exhausted than usual. All she wanted to do was take a hot shower, put something in her stomach and crawl off to bed.
She didn’t pay a damned bit of attention to her fellow PATH train riders, nor did she glance around as she took the shortcut to her apartment. Her boyfriend hated when she went that way. It took her right by the sketchiest section of town. He’d rather she took a taxi. But she wasn’t waiting around to hail one. Her sole focus was on getting home.
She was halfway by the projects when she got the eerie sense that she was being followed. She halted, turning to scrutinize the area behind her. No one. She was just being paranoid. Too many warnings from her boyfriend and too many TV shows.
Still, she picked up her pace. Commuting time was over, it was dark and she couldn’t shake the creepy feeling in her gut.
Rough hands grabbed her from behind, and an arm hooked around her neck. A handkerchief was forced over her nose and mouth. The blade of a knife dug into her abdomen, just shy of piercing her body. Struggling wildly, she flung down her purse, hoping her assailant would take it and run off.
He didn’t.
She fought harder, trying to shove away the knife blade as she thrashed her head, struggling for air. She’d watched enough cop shows on TV to recognize the sickeningly sweet odor of chloroform. She had to escape before the dizziness took over.
It was useless. Her assailant was too strong.
He began to drag her off.
In a last-ditch effort, she raised a leg and kicked him as hard as she could with the heel of her shoe.
He swore violently and stabbed the blade into her waist—not enough to kill her, but enough. Maura cried out in pain, but her cries were silenced by the handkerchief.
“You’re not dying here,” he muttered. “Not until I’m done with you.”
He crammed the handkerchief into her mouth, pinching her nose closed and forcing the chloroform to do its job.
Blood soaking through her clothes, Maura collapsed against him, unconscious.
* * *
Claire was in her apartment, trying to relax. Sitting in the lotus position on her bed, she was taking deep cleansing breaths, letting the calming energy flow through her.
All of that ended in a surge of blinding panic, and a vision that was all too familiar. The same. Different. Terrifying.
Dear God, it was happening again.
Patrick. She had to reach Patrick.
Chapter Ten
Casey had just stepped out of the shower and was towel-drying her hair when her cell phone rang.
She picked it up cautiously, glancing down at caller ID. Her gut clenched when she saw that the number was blocked. Still, she wouldn’t allow herself to freak out. Lots of people preferred to have their cell phone numbers unidentifiable.
She punched on the cell. “Casey Woods.”
“Hello, Red.” The tinny scrambled voice sent chills up her spine. “Stop searching. That body is cold. There’s a warm one with your name on it.”
Casey sank down on the edge of her bed, trembling but determined to find out all she could before this psycho hung up on her.
“What cold body?” she demanded.
“The Olson girl. One of my first. Before I knew exactly the victim type I wanted. I like to think of her as practice.”
Oh, dear God. Casey felt bile rise in her throat. “You killed...” She swallowed hard. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“I’ll give her to you. It’s ironic. You’re doing such a thorough search, and she’s right in your backyard. Worth Street, near Broadway. The newly renovated office building near the pharmacy. In a crawl space in the basement. She’s still there. Pretty well preserved. I made sure of it.”
Casey didn’t—couldn’t—speak.
“Worry about the present,” the chilling voice continued. “I’ve just solved your old case. Put all your efforts where they belong. This new one—I’ve still got her blood on my hands. Find her while the body’s warm. And know that it’ll soon be your turn. Get ready for me, Red.”
The line went dead.
It took Casey a few moments to get herself under control. Then she called Patrick’s friend, Captain Sharp, at the Twenty-six Precinct, so that the NYPD could start digging for Jan Olson’s body.
She had no doubt it would be where her caller had said.
* * *
Patrick was watching TV in the living room of his Hoboken brownstone when Claire’s call came through. She was so overwrought he could barely understand her.
“Claire, calm down,” he instructed, muting the sound. “Are you telling me there’s been another murder?”
“Yes.” Claire swallowed some water to compose herself. “It wasn’t as clear as the last time. I couldn’t see or hear anything to give me a clue as to where it was. But I had to call you. I had to...” She broke off, as if something were coming to her. “It happened nearby.”
“Nearby where? The office?” Now Patrick was getting nervous. “Marc’s with Casey. She should be safe.”
“No. Not the office. Near you.”
“In Hoboken?”
“Yes.” Claire was getting agitated again. “Patrick, do you know anyone at your local precinct?”
“Of course.”
“Call them. Now.”
* * *
Casey nearly collided with Marc in the hall outside her bedroom. He was in special-ops mode, his entire body geared like a missile.
“Are you okay?” he demanded.
Still trembling, Casey stood there, white-faced, wrapped in her terry-cloth robe, her hair damp and tousled. “You know?” she asked Marc.
“I know there was allegedly another victim. Patrick called. He’s worried about you. You didn’t answer your phone. So he called me.”
“I was talking to the police.” Casey dragged a hand through her hair, trying to get her bearings. “I don’t understand. How did Patrick know?”
“Claire. She says the crime happened in Hoboken.” Marc’s eyes bore into Casey. “You heard from the killer.”
She nodded. “He told me about the new victim—and the old one.”
Marc looked puzzled. “Old one? Which old one? Kendra?”
“No. Jan Olson. He told me where we could find her body. He said she was one of his first kills.”
“Shit,” Marc hissed. “He’
s claiming to be the same serial killer? Casey, there’s a fifteen-year gap between the murders of Jan Olson and Kendra Mallery.”
“I realize that. But I believe him. He didn’t miss a beat. He gave me the location of Jan’s body to get my focus off her and on to his current killing spree—with me as his finale.”
Marc seized Casey’s arm. “We’re going downstairs to the living room. I’m getting you a drink. Then we’ll talk.”
Casey didn’t protest. With Hero padding along behind her, she followed Marc down the staircase to the third floor, where the team’s cozy living room was located. They didn’t spend much time here; they were too busy doing other things that precluded relaxing. But the room was soothing, with decorative wood moldings and wainscoting, cushy sofas and a shag rug that Hero loved to roll around on.
He didn’t play now. He climbed up on the sofa next to Casey and put his head on her lap. He was keenly aware of her tension. And he knew something was up.
“Thanks, boy,” she said softly, stroking his head. “I could use the comfort.”
Marc came in, carrying two glasses of bourbon. “Here.” He shoved one in Casey’s hand. “Drink.”
“Yes, sir.” She took a deep swallow, closing her eyes as the warming effects of the alcohol spread through her. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
Marc lowered himself into the chair across from her. “Tell me exactly what he said.”
After another swallow, Casey complied, relaying the conversation as close to verbatim as she could.
Marc whipped out his cell phone. “I’m sure the pervert used a burn phone. But we can try to trace it.” He punched in Ryan’s cell on speed dial.
Ryan answered on the first ring. “I’m already on it. Yoda pinged me. Tracing the call is a near impossibility. But I’m trying.”
Ryan’s tone told Marc there was more. “And?” he prompted.
“And I didn’t mention it to Casey because she would’ve blown me away, but I installed an app on her cell phone. Every phone call she makes and receives is recorded and uploaded to our servers for analysis. I skip the calls with Hutch,” he added, striving, in his customary way, for a flicker of levity. “Even I have a moral code when it comes to that kind of invasion of privacy.”
“Admirable,” Marc said dryly. He then filled Ryan in on the rest—Claire’s intrusive vision and her call to Patrick.
“So the cops are searching for two bodies simultaneously.” Ryan gave a grunt of disbelief. “This is crazy. If that sick wacko isn’t lying—and I doubt that he is—we’re talking about a career serial killer.”
“Yup.” Marc took a gulp of bourbon. “So, assuming the call can’t be traced, what’s your strategy?”
“I’m analyzing the killer’s word pattern as we speak. The voice might be unrecognizable thanks to the scrambler, but the choice of words isn’t.” He paused. “How’s Casey?”
“Holding up.”
“Once I’ve got this running, I’m coming in. I’ll do the rest from my lair.”
“Good idea. I’ll call Patrick and Claire and fill them in on the pieces they’re missing. The whole team should be here.”
* * *
And they were, gathered around the conference table when the first call came in just after midnight. It was from the NYPD’s Twenty-sixth Precinct.
“We found her,” Captain Sharp reported. “The body was precisely where your caller said it would be. It took a while to get through that narrow crawl space. But it’s done. Now we wait for confirmation of her identity. We’ll compare the victim’s dental records to Jan Olson’s. Oh, and she was wearing a brass locket. We’re going to examine it for partial prints. Who knows? We might get lucky. Especially if she was strangled.”
“If?” Casey lost it. “Was she or wasn’t she? And not only strangled, but raped, tortured, naked?” She tried, unsuccessfully, to stem her emotional outburst. “I know the M.E. has to do his job. But give me something, Captain.”
The silence was oppressive. Obviously, Captain Sharp was taken aback by Casey’s over-the-top response.
“Just tell us what you can, Horace,” Patrick interceded. “We’ll wait for the rest. It’s been a rough night here.”
“Understood.” Captain Sharp accepted that, since he’d been made aware of the potential killer’s claim about the current homicides. “I can tell you the body was nude, other than for the locket. As to any evidence of rape or strangulation—that’s going to have to come from the M.E.’s office. We weren’t able to identify any ligature or finger marks around the throat area, not with fifteen years of decomposition.”
“The body’s with the M.E. now?” Patrick asked.
“Uh-huh. I’ll call you as soon as we get the report—after I notify Daniel Olson.”
“The poor man,” Claire murmured, disconnecting the call.
“On some level, he’s been expecting this,” Marc said. “It won’t make the pain any easier to bear, but it will give him the closure he needs.”
“And if the cops are lucky enough to get a fingerprint, we might get the killer—or at least his identity,” Ryan added.
“Small consolation to a father who’s just found out his daughter was brutally murdered,” Claire said. “Fearing something and knowing it to be true are two different things. The latter eclipses any shred of hope.”
Marc cleared his throat. “There’s something else we have to discuss. Not about Jan’s murder. About the one being investigated now. If Claire’s right and the victim was killed in Hoboken, it obviously suggests a pattern.”
“Damn right it does,” Patrick agreed before Marc could even finish. “The offender is striking as close to home for Casey as possible—and taunting her in the process. First, a murder near Ryan’s place. Now, a second one near me. That’s no coincidence.”
“It certainly isn’t.” A deep baritone came from the doorway.
The whole team turned around, just as Yoda announced, “Hutch has arrived. He operated the Hirsch pad correctly in order to gain access.”
“Yeah, and I identified myself to the guard outside, too.” Hutch tossed his jacket on a chair, dropping his overnight bag.
There was something about Hutch that dominated a room. He was a confident, take-charge man, powerfully built with hard features and piercing blue eyes, whose very presence screamed leadership. He’d been a D.C. cop, worked tough neighborhoods and had a scar on his left temple to show for it. He’d learned to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself, to remain silent until the person he was interviewing blurted out things that he or she wouldn’t normally reveal. He’d also learned to capitalize on his strengths and to keep his weaknesses well hidden.
Casey was his main weakness.
She looked over at him now and blinked. “I didn’t know you were coming this soon.”
“Neither did I. Not until late this afternoon. Looks like I showed up at exactly the right time. What happened?”
“The cops recovered the body of a girl who was killed fifteen years ago—possibly by the same killer we’re dealing with now—and who allegedly just killed again. At least according to what he said to me in our phone call.” Casey blurted the whole thing out at once. “Aren’t you glad you came to visit?”
Hutch narrowed in on Casey’s face. He took in her ashen coloring, her huge, wide eyes and her tousled appearance. She’d thrown on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and tied back her hair, but she wasn’t the together-looking woman she always presented to the world.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Actually, I am.” His gaze flickered to Marc. “Can you fill me in?”
Nodding, Marc rose.
“The two of you macho guys aren’t going off and closeting yourself in another room, and I’m not going to be coddled,” Casey stated flatly.
“You’re about to collapse,” Hutch said, not backing down an inch.
“Then I’ll do it here. We’re waiting for a call from the Hoboken police. Plus, the M.E.’s examining the first victim’s body. I’m not bud
ging until I know what’s going on.”
Hutch shook his head. “The Hoboken police you might hear from soon. But an update from the M.E.’s office? Especially when the cops haven’t spoken with the victim’s next of kin? That call isn’t going to come in for hours.”
“Fine. Then I’ll wait for the cop to call.”
Hutch didn’t change his expression. “Okay. Sit at the table and drink coffee. Let Marc fill me in.” He was placating her, which he was more than willing to do if that was what it took. “We won’t even leave the room. We’ll stay in plain sight and talk over there.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the far corner. “Yoda can eavesdrop and give you a full playback later.”
“That’s correct,” Yoda supplied.
Casey had that “it’s my case” look on her face.
“Go ahead and run the show.” Hutch read her expression easily. “But conserve your energy. I think Marc can handle a verbal briefing, don’t you?”
“Fine. Yes. Go ahead.” Casey waved her hand. “Marc’s probably more coherent right now than I am, anyway.”
As she spoke, Patrick’s cell phone rang.
“Yeah,” he answered. A brief silence. “What’s her name and what did he tell you about her?” Another silence, this one a bit longer. Patrick’s jaw tightened. “Thanks, Al. Call me as soon as you find something out.” He punched off.
“What is it?” Casey demanded.
“A guy called into the Hoboken police to report that his girlfriend never came home tonight,” Patrick answered. “She works in Tribeca and lives in Hoboken. She called her boyfriend around eight-thirty and said she was on her way. She never showed up.”
“Tribeca,” Casey repeated. “Where?”
“At the Canine Palace.”
“Where we board Hero.” Casey’s voice was a monotone. “Is her name Maura?”
“Maura Harris, yes.” Patrick studied Casey’s reaction. “You obviously know her.”
“She’s great with Hero.” Casey’s reply was wooden. “I can also save you the description. She’s a petite redhead, maybe late twenties. She’s studying to be a vet.” There was a pained pause. “Goddammit.”