by Andrea Kane
* * *
The evening hours rolled by.
Suzanne spent them pacing around her bedroom. She was worried. She was scared. And she was ready to jump out of her skin.
Finally, her cell phone rang. She snatched it up, quickly accepted the charges and waited to hear Glen’s voice at the other end.
“Glen.” She breathed his name. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you for hours—ever since the detectives and the FBI agents left.” Her voice trembled. “They practically ransacked the apartment.”
“I’m sure they did,” her husband said in an offhand tone. “Just as I’m sure they found nothing.” A pointed pause. “Because there’s nothing to find, right?”
“Of course, right.” Suzanne shoved her hair behind her ear. “I did what you asked. I answered their questions and gave them free access to the entire apartment. I cooperated fully.”
“Good girl. What did they take with them?”
“Just bank statements and our address book. There was nothing else that jumped out at them.”
“Speaking of bank statements, did you handle this month’s withdrawal and payment the way I asked?”
“Yes. I withdrew the cash two days ago, right on schedule. But I spoke to our landlord, and held off on making yesterday’s rent payment. I’ll make it first thing tomorrow—along with the other necessary installment.”
“Good. That’ll keep our bank record seamless for the cops’ eyes. But it’ll also defer our financial exchange until their emphasis is totally on me and off you.” There was a smug note in Glen’s tone. “You’re a sweet, gentle soul. After today, you’ll be scratched off law enforcement’s list. You did a fine job. I’m proud of you.”
Suzanne soaked in the praise, but she didn’t relax. She wasn’t sure how Glen was going to receive the next segment of information she was about to impart.
“They weren’t the only ones who were here for the search.”
“Oh?”
“Three members of the Forensic Instincts team showed up. I let them in. I hope that wasn’t a mistake.” She held her breath, praying Glen wouldn’t go ballistic.
He did anything but.
“Forensic Instincts? What a nice added bonus. Which three members?”
“Claire Hedgleigh, Marc Devereaux and Casey Woods.”
“This just gets better and better.” There was a smile in Glen’s voice. “Tell me about the meeting.”
Suzanne replayed the entire conversation, as close to verbatim as she could.
“They’re doing reconnaissance,” Glen noted. “Just a fishing expedition, since you didn’t give them a thing to work with. But I’m very pleased that they’re involved. Feel free to answer their phone calls and visits. Be gracious, but be tight-lipped.”
“You think they’ll come back?” Suzanne tensed. “You just said I’d be scratched off the list.”
“Law enforcement’s list,” Glen clarified. “Forensic Instincts is an entirely different animal. They’re the most challenging of adversaries. So, do I think they’ll come back? I know they will. In fact, I’m counting on it.”
Chapter Fourteen
“There’s next to nothing here. Not even a damned credit card statement.”
Hutch tossed down the monthly bills he’d reviewed for most of the night. He was perched at the edge of FI’s conference room table, gulping coffee and poring over all the paperwork that law enforcement had collected at the Fishers’ place.
It wasn’t much.
“Glen Fisher was all about cash,” he said. “Every month on the exact same day of the month, he withdrew precisely eight thousand dollars from the bank and used it to pay all his bills, including his rent. That’s weird, but not illegal. He had that generous trust fund from his grandparents, and a wad of cash inherited from his parents. The other half went to his brother, Clark, whose assets were inherited by his son, Jack. I have no idea if the kid blew it all or gave it to his uncle for managing.”
“I can fill in some of those blanks.” Ryan entered the conference room. “Yoda,” he instructed. “Display background check on Jack Fisher.”
“Retrieving requested information,” Yoda responded.
A moment later, up popped a webpage displaying a three-column table. In the first column were the dates of various documents in descending order. In the second column was the source of the information—everything from high school transcript to Experian. In the third column was the result of the background check. Where the query had returned some information, the result column displayed a link to a PDF document that contained the details of the search and the results.
The first PDF document stopped everyone in their tracks.
It was Jack Fisher’s death certificate.
“Shit,” Ryan muttered. “I was hoping this would be a productive avenue.”
“Well, it’s not,” Hutch said. “Put it on the back burner for now, and let’s focus on more viable leads. Is Patrick tailing Suzanne?”
“As of dawn today, yes,” Casey replied. “He hasn’t called in yet. But she probably hasn’t even left her apartment for work. It’s early.”
“I wish we’d started following her a few days earlier,” Hutch said, studying the bank statement again. “Yesterday she made her eight-thousand dollar monthly withdrawal. I’d love to know how she allocated it.”
“And I’d love to hear back from Claire.” Casey frowned. “I’m not going to bug her. She’d call if she had anything solid to tell us. But we really need her input—especially if it implicates Glen or hints at who his successor is. As for me, I’m waiting for official word that I’m on Fisher’s visitor list. Once that happens, I’ll be driving up to Auburn. My getting in his face might provide us with something.”
“Or it might provoke him to go after you sooner,” Hutch said, his expression as hard as his tone. He still wasn’t happy with Casey’s plan to see Glen Fisher.
“I’ll risk it. You’ll coach me as to how I can best approach him. If I piss him off enough, maybe he’ll lose it and inadvertently give us a lead.”
* * *
Glen Fisher was in a fine mood.
He hadn’t been sure that the cops would let Forensic Instincts take part in yesterday’s search. But clearly Casey Woods had the kind of connections that opened doors—including the door to his apartment.
He wondered just how frustrated she’d been to learn nothing, to actually be in his living space and yet not be able to capitalize on it. There was something deeply exciting about the thought of having her in his home, going through his things and still being a fly in his web. She was at his mercy. He was the master of her fate, whether she knew it or not.
She’d know it soon enough.
And she’d be begging to die.
* * *
Claire nearly jumped out of her chair when her doorbell rang.
She’d been sitting at her kitchen table, nursing a cup of green tea, and eyeing the ballpoint pen that was in front of her. She’d handled it a dozen times, and each time a barrage of dark energy had assailed her, nearly suffocating her with its intensity.
She was steeling herself to go through the onslaught again.
The doorbell was a startling, but in some ways relieving, interruption.
She rose, checking the wall clock as she did—8:30 a.m. She barely remembered when night had turned into day.
Blinking, she forced herself to reorient so she could deal with her first outside interaction since yesterday. She glanced down at herself, just to make sure she was decent enough to be seen. Oh, right. She was wearing her oversize college T-shirt and black yoga pants. She’d showered and put them on sometime after dawn.
Wow, was she out of it.
Still somewhat off-balance, Claire picked up a hair band and tied back her still-damp hair. With that, she headed for the door.
Habit made her peer through the peephole. Brows raised, she opened the door.
“Hey,” she greeted Ryan in surprise. Their time together rarely
included early morning drop-bys—or any other conventional dates.
“Hey, yourself.” He walked in, carrying a white bag containing something that smelled wonderful. “Croissants,” he explained. “Fresh from the bakery down the street. I’m assuming you haven’t eaten?”
Claire looked from the bag to Ryan and back. “No, I haven’t.”
“Good. Then let’s eat.” He placed the bag on the kitchen table. “I see you’re drinking some of that foul-tasting tea. I’ll have coffee.”
“Of course you will.” Claire walked over to brew a single K-cup of coffee. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t convert Ryan to a green tea drinker.
“Are you okay?” he asked, studying her as he did. “Casey said she hadn’t heard from you since yesterday. It’s not like you to fall off the grid.”
“You’re right.” Claire handed Ryan his coffee. “I lost all sense of time. This pen and all the horrifying visions it’s conjuring up are consuming me.”
Ryan took the cup of coffee with a nod of thanks. He didn’t have much faith in psychic connections. But he’d be a fool to disregard all of Claire’s successes. And whatever she’d been experiencing now had taken a huge toll on her. She was pale, her eyes haunted, and she wasn’t a hundred percent steady on her feet. Altogether, she looked as if she was on the verge of collapse.
“Let’s sit down.” Ryan took her arm and guided her over to the sofa. He put both their cups on the table in front of them and sat, pulling her down beside him. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Not really. Then again, I didn’t really expect to. The connections I’m making with Glen Fisher are really freaking me out. I’ve dealt with evil before, but this is in a class by itself. The man is a psychopath. The things he did to those women, the strategic planning that went into each attack—every time I pick up that pen, I get flashes of a different scene, a different victim. Nobody—not FI and not the authorities—have so much as scratched the surface. These brutal murders have gone on for years.”
She pointed at where she’d been sitting at her table. “I have a notebook and my own pen next to Fisher’s. I’ve been writing down each energy event I experience. It’s the only way to keep track of all Fisher’s crimes—that’s how many of them there were. And I have no sense of a timeline. That’s part of what I was hoping for. I wanted to not only collect but to organize my thoughts before I came back to the team.”
“Sounds like a plan, but a complicated one.” Ryan’s knuckles caressed her cheek. “You need more than I realized. The croissants can wait. You need a break, and something to relax your body and clear your mind.” He slid off her hair band, massaging the back of her neck as he did. “I can provide both.”
Claire smiled. Now this was the Ryan McKay she knew.
“I’m sure you can,” she murmured. “But it’s a tall order. My mind is pretty locked up right now.”
“I’ll unlock it.” He fanned her hair out over her shoulders. “You know how I feel about a good challenge. I always rise to the occasion.”
“True.” Claire was unbuttoning his shirt. “Your methods are impressive. Your results are even better.”
“Uh-huh.” Ryan’s hands were under her T-shirt, gliding up and down her back, leaving goose bumps in his path. “But you’re really wound up this time. It might take a while to get the desired results.”
“I can wait.”
“I can’t.” Ryan yanked the T-shirt over her head, drew her to him and covered her mouth with his.
After that, it was an eruption of the senses, just as it always was.
Claire never let herself go quite the way she did when she and Ryan were together. And he knew it. He drew out every touch, every sensation, until the pleasure was almost painful. Then he slowed down, backed off and started all over again. He brought her to the edge and kept her there, savoring the urgency in her body—sometimes satisfying it, sometimes making her wait.
The experience was anything but one-sided. Ryan was an accomplished lover who was used to being in control. Claire blew that talent to bits. She drove him crazy and she was acutely aware of it. Every touch, every taste, every shivery twist of her body, elicited a harsh groan and an equally hard shudder from him.
They were explosive together.
Afterward, they lay quietly on the couch, an afghan thrown over them, their heart rates gradually slowing to normal.
“Feel better?” Ryan asked as he let shimmering strands of blond hair run through his fingers.
“Much.” Claire shut her eyes, savoring the boneless satisfaction that seeped into every pore of her body. “Challenge met and overcome.”
“Glad to hear it.” There was a sexy smile in his voice. “Call for reinforcements anytime.”
“I will.” Claire smiled, too. “And don’t sound so smug. I rocked your world, too.”
“Yeah, you kind of did.” He sounded as if the admission was dragged out of him.
“It’s okay, techno-hottie. Your secret is safe with me.”
“Good. I have a reputation to protect.” Ryan stretched. “Well, now I’m starving. Carb time?”
“Your coffee is cold.” Claire reached down for her T-shirt, and pulled it over her head. It hung down to her upper thighs, so she didn’t bother with anything else. “I’ll microwave it.” She walked into the kitchen, glancing down at Glen Fisher’s ballpoint pen as she did.
She came to an abrupt halt.
“He’s planning something,” she whispered. “It’s dark and it’s evil. And it’s bringing him one step closer to Casey.”
* * *
Patrick followed Suzanne into the subway at Lexington and East 51st Street, keeping a discreet distance while making sure she was directly in his line of vision. Unaware of his scrutiny, she proceeded to the Uptown platform and waited. The number 6 train arrived. The doors opened. She stepped inside.
Quickly, Patrick followed her.
Suzanne took the nearest seat, clutching her purse tightly to her side. To the average straphanger, she looked every bit the typical New Yorker, protecting her belongings from a “hit and run” purse snatcher. But Patrick wasn’t any average straphanger. His trained eye detected Suzanne’s heightened awareness of her surroundings and her even greater concern for the contents of her purse.
He stayed where he was, standing just a short distance away, close to Suzanne, equally close to the exit doors. Suzanne was visibly impatient and uneasy, staring at the doors as the train stopped at 59th, 68th St.–Hunter College, 77th, 86th, 96th, 103rd, 110th.
Finally reaching 116th Street, the train stopped, and Suzanne rose from her seat. Winding her way over, she stood right up against the doors and rushed out of the train as soon as they opened. With calm purpose, Patrick exited behind her and continued his tail.
There was no doubt that Suzanne was a woman with a mission. She blew out of the subway station, crossed 116th Street and headed west. She strode under the elevated tracks at Park Avenue and continued past the small shops on the south side of the street. Then she crossed Fifth Avenue, and veered sharply into a storefront with a large sign in the window that read Halal Meat.
Patrick remained outside, leaning against the wall and reading the newspaper—holding it up so his face was hidden. He was curious as hell as to why Suzanne would take this long trek just to pick up dinner.
Ten minutes later, he was even more puzzled. Suzanne left the store without making a single purchase. She headed back toward the subway, retracing her route.
Patrick didn’t break stride. He continued behind her, whipping out his iPhone and calling Ryan on speed dial.
Ryan sounded distracted when he answered.
“Hey, Patrick.” His mouth was clearly full.
“Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but I need some help.”
“Shoot.”
“I need you to investigate a butcher shop for me.” Patrick went on to explain the events that had just taken place.
“Yeah, that’s weird.”
Ryan was back on his game now. “Why would anyone go so far out of their way for a specialty butcher shop and then not buy anything?”
“Exactly. And she was gripping her purse like she was carrying the Hope Diamond inside it.”
“This sounds like it could be something. I’m on it.”
* * *
Claire put down her cup of tea and eyed Ryan quizzically. “Patrick has a lead?”
“Yup.” Ryan was pulling on his clothes. “I’ve got to get back to my lair and get on it.” He hesitated for a second, studying Claire in an oddly protective way. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m fine.” She waved him toward the door, gathering up the rest of her clothes. “I’m going to jump in the shower and come into the office, too. I’ve got more than enough to start reviewing things with Casey.”
“And you’d better do it fast, because the minute she gets the green light, she’ll be driving up to Auburn.” Ryan walked over, raised Claire’s chin and kissed her. “That’s for later, when we’re killing each other.”
Chapter Fifteen
Casey had gone out for a long walk with Hero—and, of course, one of her bodyguards. She was so tense that even playing tracking games in the dog park with Hero didn’t release her excess energy. She felt as if she were circling Glen Fisher and his plans, making narrower and narrower rings, but not quite getting close enough to grab him.
The clock was ticking. And another woman was going to die.
It didn’t take a psychic to figure that one out. The killer had made it crystal clear. He hadn’t said when or where, but Casey sure as hell knew why. And, irrational or not, she felt guilty and responsible. The rapes and murders might fulfill some sick fantasy, but she was the psycho’s ultimate target. His other victims were selected to taunt her, to drive home his absolute control and dominance.
There was no such thing as a copycat killer. Hutch had taught her that a long time ago. There were only killers who wanted to establish themselves as bigger, better, craftier—even if they did view the original offender as a hero. So who was this psychopath who’d chosen—or been chosen—to take over for Glen Fisher?