The Stranger You Know

by Andrea Kane

  “There was more than one assailant,” the M.E. announced, studying the strangulation welts. “They used gloves, but there are two sets of different size finger and hand marks on the body.”

  “Glen Fisher.” Casey heaved again. “He did this to Trish, together with the other offender. They both... Oh, God.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering uncontrollably.

  “Also, these two hair samples didn’t come from the same body,” the M.E. continued. “That’s visible even to the human eye. But we’ll have them analyzed for DNA evidence.”

  “If the killer is following his usual pattern, one lock of hair belongs to our previous victim, Deirdre Grimes,” Hutch said. “I don’t know about the other.”

  “Well, it isn’t the victim’s,” the M.E. told them. “The shade of red is different.”

  The shade. Something about that was bothering Casey. She forced herself to turn around and stare directly at her cousin.

  “Her lip gloss,” Casey said, her voice hoarse and unsteady. “It looks exactly like the shade I wear. Can you have it checked?”

  “Of course.” The M.E. rose to her feet. “Do you have a sample of yours with you?”

  “Yes.” Casey dug through her purse, and came up with a tube of pale peach lip gloss. “Here. Check it against Trish’s. Then compare it to the lipstick on all the bodies. If it’s a consistent match, this whole lipstick thing is more than just an arbitrary fetish.”

  “It’s yet another link to you,” Hutch said. He studied Casey’s expression, and recognized that she was a nanosecond away from melting down. “Let’s go home.” He pulled her jacket more closely around her. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”

  “I have to call my uncle,” Casey murmured, talking more to herself than to anyone else. “I have to let him and his wife know. What in God’s name am I going to say? That a psychopath who’s after me raped and killed their twenty-one-year-old daughter for practice?” Tears welled up in her eyes. “This is my fault. I never thought of Trish or Maggie when I wrote up that list. They weren’t even on my radar. I don’t care if we were estranged, I should have thought of my own family members. We should’ve had Patrick’s security friends assigned to them. If we had, Trish might still be alive.”

  “Stop it, Casey.” Hutch hooked his finger under her chin and raised it, forcing her to meet his gaze. “There’s nothing to be gained by blaming yourself. Even if you’d thought of her as a possible target, Trish was a college kid. She couldn’t have been shadowed 24/7. Glen Fisher, Jack Fisher, whoever the hell is the offender, would have found a way. Now let’s go home. You’ll call your aunt and uncle in the car. And then you’ll call your team. It’s time to close ranks. The killer made it clear that he’s coming after you now.”

  * * *

  The entire Forensic Instincts team was already at the brownstone when Casey and Hutch arrived, thanks to the phone chain Marc had initiated. Hero went straight to Casey as she walked in, greeting her with that loving instinct animals possess when they know something is wrong.

  “Hey, boy.” Casey crouched down to scratch Hero’s ears and stroke his silky head.

  “Are you okay?” Claire was the first one out in the hall, anxiously searching Casey’s face for signs of strain.

  It wasn’t hard to find them. Casey was a basket case.

  “I’ll never forget the sound of my uncle’s voice when I told him,” Casey replied, rising to her feet. “He was shattered. So was his wife. Part of their lives was taken away. And what could I say? There were no words to ease the pain.”

  Claire walked over to Casey and gave her a tight hug. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t pick up on any of this. I should have.”

  There was something odd in Claire’s tone—a deep sense of personal guilt. Casey was about to ask her about it, when Ryan stepped into the hall behind her. The expression on his face, the protective way he hovered near Claire—both of those answered Casey’s question. They’d been together last night. Claire’s intuitive instincts had been directed elsewhere. And now she was beating herself up over it.

  “Don’t do this,” Casey told her quietly. “I have enough guilt for all of us. But Hutch is right. Guilt won’t flush out Glen Fisher or the other offender. That’s going to require skill.”

  “Yeah,” Ryan said. “Especially since they’re clearly on their way to you.”

  Patrick joined them in the foyer. “This place is like a fortress. I doubled the number of security guards stationed outside the building. And if you have to go out—and I repeat, have to—it will be with two men, not one.”

  “Thank you,” Casey said gratefully. “But we can’t keep taking a defensive stance. It’s time to be proactive.”

  “You’re not baiting the guy.” Hutch’s words were a flat-out command.

  “I wasn’t going to. I’m not suicidal. There’s got to be another way. Fisher is going to make me sweat. Let’s use that time to come up with something.”

  * * *

  Jack pedaled his bicycle past the Forensic Instincts building for the third time that morning. He’d pulled his Yankees cap down low and his jacket collar up high. So his face was pretty much concealed.

  Glen had told him to do surveillance, to see what the deal was at Casey Woods’s office. The fucking building was like a prison, with two guards standing outside the door and who the hell knew how many more inside. Plus there was her tough, cop-looking boyfriend and that navy SEAL who’d pounded the shit out of his uncle. Neither one of them was going anywhere.

  Getting to her was going to be like getting inside Fort Knox.

  Jack rounded the corner and took a break. He swung off his bicycle and bought a pretzel and a soda from a local hot dog vendor. Pedaling around was a pain in the ass, but he was in too good a mood after last night to let it bother him.

  Taking care of that girl with his uncle had really gotten his juices going. He’d forgotten how awesome Glen was at this. Not just the sex or even the strangling, but the head games, the taunting threats. Casey Woods’s cousin had been scared out of her mind even before they’d laid a hand on her. And then, taking turns, prolonging the end—it had been great. Dumping the body near that navy SEAL’s place had completed the ritual.

  Now it was time for the real deal.

  He took a bite of his pretzel, thinking that, while he hated to admit it, he was glad his uncle was with him on this one. Glen was creatively brilliant. He’d work out how to get past the barricade surrounding Casey Woods. He was probably planning it right now.

  And then they’d be on their way.

  * * *

  Glen stared at himself in the bathroom mirror at Jack’s apartment. He’d automatically gone in there to shave, before remembering that he now sported a mustache and the beginnings of a beard—both dyed the same deep red as his hair. He could have picked any color other than his own dark brown. But red seemed like the most ironically pleasing choice. So he was now a bearded redhead with brass-rimmed glasses and a limp—thanks to the two-inch lift he’d placed in his right shoe.

  The new and unrecognizable Glen Fisher.

  Exiting the bathroom, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the second carefully folded scrap of paper he’d brought from Auburn. Like the previous scrap, it had a name and phone number on it. This one read Henry Rand. Rand was a pawnshop owner with a useful side gig: identity forging. He was supposedly the best, at least according to the Auburn inmate who owed Glen.

  Glen was about to find out just how good he was.

  The timing of all this had to be perfect, like a well-choreographed ballet. Glen was setting up an exit strategy. And Rand was a key player in keeping that strategy on track.

  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, inc
luding 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 d
ressing 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...”