by Andrea Kane
Rage contorted Glen’s features. “You don’t know shit.”
He stalked over and squatted down, grabbing Casey’s face with one hand. His vice-grip felt as if it was going to snap her jaw. But she refused to cry out. Tears of pain filled her eyes, but she stared Fisher down, feverishly praying she hadn’t pushed him over the edge.
There was a glazed, faraway look in his eyes, and Casey knew he was remembering.
“That perverted bitch,” he said, lost in his memories.
He was a fucking kid. Fourteen years old. A horny adolescent who’d never had sex before. She was a twenty-eight-year-old woman with a body to die for and an appetite for students. It had been easy to seduce him.
She’d taken him to the grounds behind the baseball diamond and touched him everywhere—with her hands, her mouth. She’d gotten him so hot that he’d do anything to get laid. But she’d made him wait. Made him beg. Hold off until he was in agony. And when she’d finally straddled him, taken him inside her, she’d clamped her legs around him, held him in place like a prisoner. She’d controlled everything, riding him hard, taking his hands and wrapping them around her neck, making him squeeze until she was gasping for breath.
That was when she’d climaxed. He wasn’t allowed to come until she had. If he did, she punished him, kept her body from him like some kind of treasured prize.
He was addicted. He did anything she wanted. Anything so he could have that incredible release.
He’d literally been her slave.
Never again.
In one harsh motion, Glen released Casey’s face. He groped inside his jeans pocket, pulled out a knife and flipped open the blade.
“Just like the first time, Red,” he said, referring to that night in Tompkins Square Park when he’d taken her at knifepoint. “Only this time I’m going to slit your fucking throat after I rape and choke you.”
He reached for the front of his jeans, unbuttoning them and unzipping the fly. He used his knees to stretch her legs as far apart as the beams would allow them to go.
He was just groping inside his pants to free himself, when the front door opened.
“Pizza delivery,” a man’s voice called out.
“Goddammit, not now!” Glen yelled.
Casey’s breath was coming in harsh, shallow pants, and her body was shaking with shock and fear. But she recognized the voice of the man who’d just walked in. She couldn’t quite place it.
Whoever it was had saved her life.
She angled her head to see him.
“Robbie.” Relief surged through her as she focused on the pizza delivery guy who’d found the bloodstains in Deirdre’s dorm room. “Quick,” she rasped. “Help us. This is what happened to Deirdre Grimes. Call the police. Hurry!”
Robbie set down the pizza box and studied her. He didn’t seem horrified by what was going on, or terrified by Glen’s outburst.
What the hell was the matter with him?
“Robbie? Did you hear me?” Casey asked frantically.
“I heard you,” he replied. “I was just thinking that it was a lot different with Deirdre. Quicker. Less fanfare. Then again, less investment.” He shrugged. “I brought you half a pie,” he told Glen. “It would’ve been nice if you’d waited for me before you started the party.”
Glen’s head came up. The crazed look in his eyes was fading. “You were gone too long.”
“Looks to me like I timed it pretty well. And what’s with the knife?”
“Instant replay for me. But I’ve got one for you, too, okay?” Glen sat back on his haunches. “Grab a chair. You can watch round one.”
“Watch?” Casey whispered in helpless incomprehension. She was still staring at Robbie. “You’re part of this? I don’t understand. You called in the other crime.”
“That was just me being clever,” Robbie responded with a smug grin. “I grabbed Deirdre’s cell phone when I stuffed her in the duffel bag and took her. I used it to call in her order. Her number shows up at the pizza place three times a week, so everyone there knows it. Johnny took her order that night. He asked if she wanted the usual. I just said ‘yup’ in a high voice. That place is so noisy, you can’t make out a thing, anyway. Johnny said the pie would be there in thirty minutes. Great timing. I snuck back, put Deirdre’s cell phone on her desk and left. Johnny called me to pick up the delivery. I showed up with the pizza, knocked and—what do you know—I found the door ajar. I went in, saw the blood, called 9-1-1. Pretty smart, huh?” He pulled over the second chair and straddled it. “All set for the show.”
“Oh, my God,” Casey whispered, past fear and into hysteria. “You killed those women? Why? Why?”
Both men chuckled, and Glen gestured at the younger man. “Meet my nephew, Jack. He delivers a great pizza—and a great dead body. He’s multitalented.”
Casey stared. “Robbie...is Jack?”
“Yup,” Jack confirmed. “A little time away, a little plastic surgery and a whole new identity. Kept me safe from the mob, and eventually I was able to help out my uncle Glen. Till you got him thrown in prison. Then I took over. I resented the hell out of you at first. But, in the long run, it gave me the chance of a lifetime.”
“All along, it was you.” Casey processed that as best she could. “The phone calls, the rapes, the murders. You knew all the victims from your pizza deliveries and you exploited that fact to...” She broke off, too far beyond overdrive to even speak.
That suited Jack fine.
“Enough conversation,” he said, gesturing to his uncle. “Like I said, now that I’m here, let’s get this show on the road. I can’t wait to get my hands on these two.” He shot Claire a lascivious look. “Especially you, Ms. Psychic. You’re gonna be worth waiting for.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Forensic Instincts van pulled up on South 1st Street, behind the building where Casey and Claire were being held.
Everyone but Patrick hooked their gear bags over their shoulders and got out of the car. Patrick drove away, making two successive right turns until he could pull over and park diagonally across the street from the warehouse’s front door.
He punched in Ryan’s cell number. “Ready,” he told his teammate.
“Then so are we.” Ryan disconnected the call. “Patrick’s in place,” he informed Hutch and Marc. “Marc, lead the way.”
Marc had already kicked into navy SEAL mode. He moved forward and scaled the barbed-wire fence, dropping down on the other side. Squatting low, he ran up to the building, glancing inside each of the windows and peering through the crack between the shade and the frame to assess the lay of the land.
After a thorough inspection, he waved to Hutch and Ryan to follow. They quickly scaled the fence and joined him.
“We’re at an entrance that’s next to a bathroom,” Marc said. “The entrance and the bathroom are deserted. Then there’s a short hallway, also deserted, with a bigger room at the other end. Fisher and his nephew are in that bigger room. One of them is sitting down. The other is crouched over Casey.” A pause. “Shit. He’s got a knife at her throat.”
“Where’s Claire?” Ryan demanded. “Can you see her?”
“Yeah. She’s not far away from Casey. She’s still in the same position she was in the text photo.”
“Still tied up?”
Marc nodded.
“Shit.”
“No time for freaking out,” Hutch told him. “We’ve got a job to do.”
“I’ll pick the door lock,” Marc said. “We’ll stay low and ease past the bathroom, then press ourselves flat against the interior wall and move partway down the hall. From there, I’ll recon the big room and figure out the best assault vectors.” Marc glanced at Hutch. “We’d better be prepared to storm the place if the door is alarmed.”
“Understood,” Hutch said. He knew that Fisher holding a knife at Casey’s throat created exigent circumstances. Fortunately, that meant the FBI’s deadly force policy and his heart were aligned. But the truth was that, with Casey�
��s life on the line, it wouldn’t have mattered.
“If all else fails, I have a backup plan.” Ryan patted his gear bag.
Marc’s lips twitched. “Of course you do.”
Moving forward, Marc picked the lock and slowly opened the back door.
Silence. No alarm. Crisis one averted.
Relieved, the three men inched into the dark, narrow hallway. Flattening themselves against the wall, they edged along, trying to find a clear line of sight into the bigger room.
They found one a quarter of the way down. But what they saw stopped them from acting.
Jack had dragged Claire over until she was perpendicular to Casey. He clearly wanted her close by to witness Casey being violated. He was kneeling beside her, holding a knife at her throat and watching as Glen leaned over Casey.
“Dammit,” Marc growled. He’d already reached for his holster. Now his hand paused on the handle of his pistol. “The four of them are too close together. We can’t risk hitting one of the women.”
Hutch agreed. These had to be kill shots. Marc could definitely make one. Hutch was a “probably.” And probably wasn’t good enough.
“They won’t kill them until they’ve raped and tortured them,” he said. “Which is about to happen. We’ve got to act now.”
“It’s time for my idea,” Ryan said. “I can split them up. Fast. Trust me.”
“As always,” Marc stated simply, stepping back.
Silently, Ryan opened his gear bag and extracted a gray mechanical mouse. “Meet Jerry.”
“Jerry.” Hutch stared at him in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Nope.” Ryan placed Jerry on the floor. Using his iPhone, he drove the creature silently into the room where the Fishers were holding Casey and Claire. “I’ll use Jerry to create a diversion.” He gave Marc and Hutch a quick explanation of his intentions. “Just let me know when it’s time.”
If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Marc and Hutch would have burst out laughing. As it was, they huddled behind Ryan and discussed assignments. Hutch would take out Glen. Marc would take care of Jack. Ryan would put Jerry into action on Marc’s signal.
Ever so cautiously, Marc and Hutch crept down the unlit hall, and stopped several steps from the narrow doorway to avoid detection. Hutch crouched down. Marc remained standing. This way, they were out of each other’s lines of sight. Ryan stayed where he was, gripping his iPhone and watching Marc intently.
Marc turned and signaled Ryan with his tactical flashlight.
Nodding to himself, Ryan typed Send on the command line, selected the MP3 file in the window that popped up and depressed the OK button on his Jerry Mouse app. Seconds later, he received an acknowledgment in the status window that the MP3 file was received.
Using a flashlight app on his iPhone to illuminate himself, Ryan displayed a thumbs-up to Marc, indicating that Jerry was ready to cause a commotion. Signal received, Hutch and Marc drew their Glocks, turning on the pistols’ laser sights. Hutch tapped Marc’s leg to indicate that he was ready.
Again, Marc used his tactical flashlight to signal Ryan.
That was all Ryan needed to set Jerry in motion.
He typed Move=Big Figure 8 and Play @ Volume=10, and depressed the OK button to confirm. The mechanical creature zoomed into the center of the room and began making large figure eights. Simultaneously the “Scooby-Doo” theme song screeched from Jerry’s tiny, embedded speaker.
Utter confusion ensued.
Glen and Jack gave starts of surprise, and then staggered to their feet. Focused on their impending sexual gratification, they were thrown completely off balance. They searched the area in bewilderment, trying to find the cause of the unexpected cartoon theme song.
At that exact moment, Marc and Hutch burst into the room, pistols raised.
“FBI!” Hutch shouted.
For a split second, bewilderment gave way to terror in the murderers’ eyes. Laser pointers found their marks on each man’s forehead. Marc and Hutch fired in unison. The impact of the .40 caliber bullets sent them reeling backward and away from Casey and Claire.
Their switchblades clattered to the ground.
Glen and Jack were dead.
Hutch and Marc rushed forward, removing their jackets, and covered up the two naked women.
“All clear,” Marc called out.
“Yeah, and for the love of God, turn off that goddamned thing,” Hutch added. He was holding Casey’s face between his palms, letting her feel his warmth, pausing to kiss her and whisper that everything was going to be all right.
Ryan took the hint. Jerry fell silent and ceased his frenetic dance.
Having scooped up the mechanical mouse, Ryan ran inside, straight over to Claire, dropping to his knees beside her. “Hey, Claire-voyant,” he murmured, his voice unsteady. “I’ll have you out of here in a minute.”
Claire nodded, tears trickling down her cheeks.
Marc took out his Buck tactical knife, flipped open the blade and sliced the ropes tying each woman down, until they were free. He then intercepted a gesture from Hutch and acted on it.
He whipped out handcuffs, went straight to Glen’s and Jack’s lifeless bodies and cuffed their hands—standard FBI procedure that he well-remembered and was happy to do for his friend.
“It’s over, sweetheart.” Hutch cradled Casey’s quaking body in his arms. “We’re going to call an ambulance and get you to the hospital right away.”
Casey shook her head. “He didn’t rape me,” she managed to say. “He was about to. But you stopped him. And Claire—they choked and traumatized her. But I was slotted to go first. So we don’t need the hospital, not unless Claire’s injuries are worse than I think.”
“No,” Claire said adamantly from a foot away. Her voice broke and she started to cry again. “I’ll need to talk to someone—a professional. I’m a mess. But no hospital—please.”
“Okay, okay,” Ryan agreed at once. “No hospital. We’ll just get you home and into a warm bath—with your favorite lavender bath crystals. How’s that?”
Claire smiled through her tears. “That would be perfect.”
“I’m going out front,” Marc announced, already in motion. He wanted to give the women time to dress and to pull themselves together. And he knew they were in the best of hands. “I’ll do a sweep,” he said over his shoulder. “Then I’ll call Patrick and tell him all clear. I’ll also intercept law enforcement, who’ll be showing up any minute. Anything they need to know right away, they can hear from me. The rest of the interviews can come later.”
“Thanks, Marc,” Hutch said quietly.
“No problem.” Marc turned around for a second. “By the way, nice shot. You would’ve made a great SEAL.”
A corner of Hutch’s mouth lifted. “And you would’ve made a great cop.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Two weeks later
Mike’s Tavern was a good, old-fashioned Tribeca bar. Family-owned, it had been around for decades. Its well-worn surroundings and reasonable prices kept loyal patrons coming back time and again.
Ryan and Marc had pushed two tables together to accommodate both of them, plus Patrick, Hutch and Captain Sharp. They’d all been there for a few beers, trying to unwind after weeks of questioning, debriefing and paperwork.
“It’s getting late,” Captain Sharp said, pushing back his chair and standing up. “My wife’s holding dinner.” He clapped Patrick on the shoulder, then indicated the entire group. “The tab’s yours,” he told them. “It’s the least you can do. My butt’s still sore from being ripped a new asshole about this escapade. No more cowboy operations in my city, gentlemen.”
“Bullshit,” Patrick countered. “You and your brass buddies were all smiles at that press conference. Even your frenemies at the FBI looked happy. I almost puked at the public display of ass-kissing.”
The other men’s jaws dropped, and four pairs of eyes stared at Patrick. His blunt outburst and colorful expletives were
so uncharacteristic of the “by-the-book” guy—even with three beers in him—that it shocked the hell out of them.
Then they all burst out laughing.
“Shit, I wish I’d gotten that on video,” Ryan said. “As it is, everyone’s gonna think I either made it up or said it myself.”
“I’ll vouch for you,” Marc assured him.
Ryan grunted. “A lot of good that’ll do. Your rep is almost as sketchy as mine.”
Horace Sharp shook his head, still laughing. “I’m outnumbered and outgunned. Time to leave with my dignity intact.” He leaned over, picked up his beer to polish it off and headed out, waving as he left.
Marc turned to Hutch as soon as the four of them were alone. “How did your debriefing go?”
Hutch shrugged. “I survived. Even with exigent circumstances on my side, my boss pointed out the blatant gaps in my report. He lectured me about policy and procedures. Despite all that, he had to admit I didn’t violate the Bureau’s deadly force policy. So I’m okay. Still, I guess I’ll never make ADIC.”
Everyone chuckled at the double entendre. They all knew that the acronym stood for Assistant Director in Charge—pronounced “a dick”—a high rank in the FBI hierarchy. They also knew how Hutch meant it.
Hutch inclined his head in Marc’s direction. “I take it you’re okay with the law enforcement community?”
“As okay as I’ll ever be.” Marc was clearly fine with that. “Cops couldn’t argue that the kill shots were necessary. Glen and Jack were about to stab Casey and Claire with their switchblades. So we took them out. Period.”
“They were damned lucky there was a former navy SEAL on the scene.” Ryan jumped to Marc’s defense. “Your strategy was perfect. So was your shot—and Hutch’s. You made the headlines read a lot nicer for them than the alternative would have. They should be grateful.”
“I doubt Forensic Instincts is ever going to be getting medals from the authorities,” Hutch said, taking another healthy swallow of beer. “But don’t kid yourself. Right now, the Feds and the NYPD are counting their blessings that you were there. Two minutes later...” He shuddered. “Let’s not even go there. All that matters is that Glen and Jack Fisher are dead. Suzanne Fisher went to pieces once the cops broke the news to her. She’s spilling her guts and filling in all the missing blanks. Enough said.”