“You’re scared, Red. That excites me.”
“You’re sick.”
“And you’re vulnerable.”
Casey rose, giving the appearance that she’d snapped. “I’m getting out of here,” she said, her eyes huge and frightened. “You’re not telling me anything. All you want is to intimidate me.” She took a few steps toward the door.
“Leaving so soon?” Fisher called after her. “I’m disappointed. I thought you had a greater purpose in coming here today.”
Casey whirled around. “Listen, you sick bastard. You’re so full of yourself. Don’t be. You’re not even a man anymore. The medical examiner concluded that the real reason there was no semen on any of last year’s victims is because you’re impotent. You brutalized those women any way you could. But not in the way that mattered. You failed miserably in that regard. So if I feel like I’m in danger, it’s because your successor can at least perform.”
“Bitch.” Fisher was on his feet in a second, a vein bulging at his temple. “Leaving physical evidence is a choice. Whoever’s after you now is smart enough to make the right one. But never doubt that he’ll do to you exactly what you deserve—violate and torture you before he ends your pathetic life. I’ll make sure you bleed for what you did to me. You’ll suffer unbearably. Sleep on that.”
“This interview is over.” Hutch shoved back his chair and stood up. “Come on, Casey. We’re leaving.” He signaled at the guard.
“I’m ready.” Casey was all composure, triumph glistening in her eyes. “Thank you for the information, Glen. You’ve just linked yourself to the killer. Say goodbye to ever leaving this cesspool.”
Anger blazed in Fisher’s eyes. “And you’ve just made your death a hell of a lot more painful, Red.”
Chapter Sixteen
Casey wasn’t sorry when Hutch drove out of the penitentiary gates. She’d been pushed to her limit during this visit. She felt drained from the interview and as if she needed a bath from being so close to Glen Fisher.
She sank into the passenger seat, staring out the window at the side-view mirror and watching the drab, gray complex disappear into the distance.
“You holding up?” Hutch asked as they pulled onto the highway.
“I’ll live.” Casey’s answer was frank. “But this was tougher than I expected.”
“You did a great job. And you got us just what we needed—an inadvertent admission from Fisher that he’s somehow tied to these new killings. Not because of his bullshit threats, but because of the details about the victims. The ribbons, the lipstick—none of that was released to the public.”
“I know.” Casey massaged her temples. “And the rage he feels toward me came through loud and clear. He’s communicating with the new killer in some way, maybe even running the show.”
A corner of Hutch’s mouth lifted. “Nice touch about the impotence. The scumbag almost had a coronary. He’ll stew over that one. And he may even act on it.” Hutch’s smile faded. “The only thing that worries me is figuring out when he’s going to aim that psychopathic rage directly at you. You definitely poked the lion with a sharp stick.”
Casey’s cell phone rang. She glanced down at the caller ID. “Marc,” she announced.
She punched on the phone, hitting the speaker button so Hutch could be part of the conversation. “Hey. We’re on our way back. I’ll fill you in then, okay?”
“Good,” Marc replied. “Ryan and I are doing our surveillance. But I wanted to let you know that I just heard from the Manhattan D.A.’s office. They’ve agreed to file new charges against Glen Fisher for the rapes and murders of Holly Stevens and Jan Olson. Given the circumstances, they’re expediting things. The necessary papers are being filed and arrangements are being made to transfer Fisher from Auburn to the Rock.” The Rock was Rikers Island, New York City’s maximum security prison.
“So this should happen quickly,” Casey clarified.
“Yup.”
“I can’t wait for Fisher to hear the news.”
“It’ll probably be tomorrow or the next day. Otherwise, I’d suggest you stick around and see the expression on his face firsthand.”
“I couldn’t stick around, anyway,” Casey reminded him, steeling herself for the reaction she knew she was about to get from Hutch. “I’ve got a full calendar tonight. A six o’clock haircut. Then my class at eight.” She was referring to the biweekly human behavior seminar that she taught to a class of psychology students at NYU. “I’m going to both,” she stressed, trying to avoid a blowout fight with Hutch.
It didn’t work.
“Like hell you are!” Hutch nearly shouted. “Considering what’s going on, you’ll cancel the haircut and the class.”
“No way.” Casey shook her head. “I’ll take one of Patrick’s bodyguards with me. But I’ll repeat what I said when I first started getting these phone calls—I am not changing my life. And I’m not hiding. I’ll be sensible. But I won’t be a prisoner.”
“You two can kill each other on the ride home,” Marc interjected. “I just wanted you to know about Fisher’s impending transfer.”
“He won’t be surprised by that turn of events,” Hutch said, tabling his showdown with Casey for a few minutes. “Casey pretty much shoved the news in his face—and got him agitated enough to slip up. We’ve got what we need to go after Fisher for the past and present crimes.”
“Nice work,” Marc commended.
“What about at your end?”
“Like I said, still doing surveillance outside the meat market. It’s tedious. And we’ve got nothing yet except a massive headache. But we’re keeping on it. We’ll check in as soon as we have something.”
* * *
The truth was that it had been eighteen hours since Ryan had set up his surveillance.
He and Marc were bleary-eyed and no closer to the truth. All morning long, they’d watched as customers—mostly female—had entered the meat market, then exited with their purchases. A handful of times, customers had left without making a purchase. Interestingly, all of those customers had been men.
But that was the one, unimpressive, concrete observation the day had brought.
“Goddammit,” Ryan said, sitting back in disgust. “Technology did shit for us this time. Outside video surveillance isn’t enough. We’ve got to find a way to see what’s going on between the customers and the owner.”
“You want me to break in to the store?” Marc asked, still squatting in front of the computer screen. “You could install Gecko inside the ventilation system.”
Gecko was Ryan’s small robotic invention—a little R2D2 that traveled through tight spaces and provided both audio and video feed.
Ryan didn’t seem too enthusiastic. “Gecko could do the job—if we knew exactly what we were looking for and if one of us spoke Arabic. And even if we could manage both, I’d have to eyeball the ventilation system first and figure out the best location for Gecko.”
“All of which takes time,” Marc agreed. “Not to mention the fact that we’d have to plan the break-in.”
“I don’t like it.” Ryan fell silent, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “There has to be another way,” he muttered.
Abruptly, he raised his head. “I just came up with a great idea. If it works, we could have our answers immediately.”
“I’m listening.”
“Listen while I tell Casey.” Ryan reached for his iPhone. “I need her approval on this one.”
* * *
The call from Ryan interrupted Casey and Hutch’s verbal battle.
“Hey, Ryan.” She was grateful for the interruption. “Marc told me you’d be calling. What’s up?”
“I have an idea. I need to run it by you and get your okay.”
“Shoot.”
* * *
Leilah Milani was a struggling actress Ryan had met at a bar several years ago. She was a dark-haired Persian beauty—a free spirit, with a thirst for life, and a body that was so hot, it sizzled. She and Rya
n had had an on-again, off-again thing that was ten percent conversation and ninety percent sex. Leilah’s acting career had started to take off about eight months ago, and Ryan’s career at Forensic Instincts was thriving. So they hadn’t touched base in a while.
That didn’t stop Ryan from picking up the phone now.
He gave Leilah a call right after he hung up with Casey, and met her at the Forensic Instincts brownstone a few hours later. She was the same exquisitely beautiful woman he remembered, and she was dying to hear the acting job Ryan’s company wanted to hire her for.
Ryan led her into a first-floor interview room. “You look great,” he said.
Leilah’s smile was radiant. She walked up to Ryan, wrapped her arms around his neck and planted a long, lingering kiss on his mouth. “So do you,” she murmured.
“Oh...excuse me, I didn’t know this room was occupied.”
Claire’s tone was as startled as it was cold.
Ryan glanced past Leilah to see Claire leaning against the door jamb, arms folded across her chest as she observed the overfriendly exchange between Ryan and the exotically stunning woman with him.
“Hey, Claire-voyant, come on in.” Reflexively, Ryan released Leilah, dropping his arms to his sides. This was a new and unwelcome situation for him. He’d never before given a damn if two women he was involved with at the same time ran into each other. No strings meant no strings. But with Claire...this was weird.
“This is Leilah Milani,” he introduced, waving Claire in. “She’s an old friend who’s going to be helping us out with this case. Leilah, this is Claire Hedgleigh. She’s the Forensic Instincts—” he paused, cautioning himself not to use the dreaded word psychic “—intuitive. She’s a core team member.”
“Nice to meet you, Claire.” Leilah walked over and extended her hand, shook Claire’s. “An intuitive? Is that like a medium?”
“We have different sensitivities. We operate through different communication channels,” Claire replied. Having gotten past that first awkward moment, she reverted to her usual gentle, even-tempered self. “What about you? What’s your profession? How are you helping us with this case?”
“I’m an actress,” Leilah informed her. “And I don’t know the details of my assignment yet, but apparently Ryan is giving me an exciting opportunity to assist you.”
“I’m sure he is. Ryan is all about excitement.” Claire couldn’t resist that one barb. “In any case, I won’t keep you.” She turned her gaze on Ryan, her demeanor one hundred percent professional. “I just wanted to tell you that I spoke with Casey, that her outing yielded some success, and she’ll be back by dinnertime.”
“I know. I spoke with her.” Ryan had the absurd desire to grab Claire, shake her and explain. At the same time, he was inexplicably angry at himself for even thinking he owed her an explanation.
Reading the warring emotions on his face, Claire opted to extricate herself. “Talk to you later,” she said. “And good luck with your assignment, Leilah. I’ll get back to what I was doing and give you two some privacy.”
She shut the door behind her.
“She’s lovely,” Leilah commented, eyeing the closed door for a minute. Then she turned to face Ryan. “And you’re sleeping with her,” she added. “Is it serious? I’d hate to think you’re off the market.”
Ryan kept his expression nondescript. “We’re not here to discuss my sex life, Leilah. We’re here to set up a sting. Are you game?”
Another one of those radiant smiles. “As I said, I’m game for just about anything with you.”
“Good.” Ryan ignored the double entendre. “This isn’t going to require an Oscar-worthy performance. But it is going to be an integral part of solving this case.”
“I’m honored,” she said teasingly. “I’ve never been asked to capture a criminal.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything. Let me start by saying that this has to be conducted with the utmost discretion. It’s not a role you can publicize or put on your résumé.”
“Got it.” Leilah nodded.
“It also has to be done ASAP—as in tomorrow. Can you swing it?”
Another nod. “I’m in between roles. Give me the details. Then, I’m all yours.” She winked. “In any way you want me.”
* * *
Violent porn.
It was just the charge he needed. He’d been operating in hyperdrive all week, his adrenaline pumping as he raped and tortured the bitches one by one, then choked the life out of them. His mind was still revving, but his body was depleted from expending all that energy. He needed to jack himself up, get ready for the next step. And this was the night to do it—the only free night he’d have for a while.
He turned the key in his apartment door and let himself in, making sure to lock the door behind him. He went through his customary room-by-room check, just to ensure that nothing had been disturbed. You could never be too careful.
Everything was exactly as he’d left it.
He tossed his duffel bag in the bedroom, walked into the kitchen and popped a microwave meal in to heat. When the timer beeped, he took out the dish and carried it into the living room where his big-screen TV was.
He set his dinner on the coffee table. Then he went back to the bedroom, opened his closet and squatted down over the brown cardboard box that was brimming with DVDs. He took each of them out, scrutinizing them as he made his selection.
He chose one of his favorites, Scream If You Can, in which women were choked almost to the point of asphyxiation during violent intercourse. Their pain, their gasps for air—it all really juiced him up.
He replaced the other DVDs and put away the box.
Returning to the living room, he turned on the electronic equipment and slid the DVD into the player.
His dinner was still warm. He picked it up and settled himself on the secondhand couch.
It didn’t take long to accomplish his goal. Soon, his heart was thumping in his chest, his breath was coming faster and his erection was throbbing.
Dinner was forgotten.
He could visualize his next victim, pleading as she lay beneath him, trying to escape the brutal pounding of his body as it tore hers to shreds. He could feel his hands around her throat, hear her choked cries of pain, revel in the power that was his as he— The ringing of his cell phone was a shrill, intolerable interruption.
At first he ignored it. He was too far gone, lost in the surges of his own release. His head fell back against the sofa cushion, and he gasped in air as the warm aftermath of triumph flowed through him.
The damned phone wouldn’t shut up.
It began ringing again, an insistent discord violating his peace.
He turned his head and looked down at the phone, recognizing the familiar number—a number he never dared to ignore.
“Yeah,” he said, having punched on the phone and brought it to his ear. He listened for a few minutes, his annoyance transforming to puzzlement. “A clump of her hair? How the hell do you expect me to pull that off?” He listened again. “Okay, yeah, I guess I can do that. I’ll start figuring it out tomorrow...Now?” His eyes snapped open. “You mean as in right now? I can’t possibly—” Another bout of listening, this one longer and more intense. “Fine, I get it—you know where she is every fucking minute, and now is when she’s there,” he snapped, kissing his plans goodbye for the rest of the evening. “I’ll take care of it....Yeah, half and half. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”
Chapter Seventeen
There were very few things that made Casey relax.
Her monthly hair salon appointment was one of them.
As soon as they lowered her in the chair and cradled her head in the indented curve of the sink, her type A+ personality ebbed into an uncustomary type A–. She shut her eyes and let the warm water work its magic. The scent of the shampoo, the gentle massage of her scalp, it all eased the tension from her body. And then afterward, sitting in Louis’s chair—half watching him per
forming his artistry and half zoning out—it was a monthly experience that was like a minivacation for her.
Having a security guard reading a magazine in the waiting area and frequently eyeballing her for safety put a definite damper on things. But she refused to let that ruin her experience.
The next few days were going to be manic. This time was hers.
“I’m leaning toward creating a wispier look,” Louis announced. “I’ll take about a half inch off the bottom, and do more pronounced edging up the sides.”
“Sounds good.” The agreement was perfunctory. Louis did what he chose and his decisions were not open to debate. But that was fine with Casey. Louis was a genius with a pair of scissors. She was never disappointed when she left his chair. He went to work, alternately combing, snipping and scrutinizing his handiwork. Casey watched with half-shut eyes, thinking about grabbing a sandwich at the deli next door before she hailed a cab to NYU.
The salon was bustling. Upscale as it was, it attracted a high-end crowd, many of whom made their appointments for right after work. That gave them a chance to wind down before dinner.
None of the patrons paid much attention when the handyman entered the salon. He was wearing a gray uniform jacket and carrying a tool chest.
“Hi,” he greeted the receptionist. “I’m with Superior Plumbing. The deli next door is having water pressure problems. The landlord asked me to stop in here and measure your water pressure to make sure you’re not being affected.”
Charisse, the receptionist, looked worried. “Does he think we’re having an issue? We’re a hair salon. Any problems with our water would be a disaster.”
“Yeah, I know.” The guy nodded. “That’s why he wants to be sure. He doesn’t want you to have any disruption to your business.”
“I appreciate that.” Charisse cast a nervous glance around the salon. “Please, go ahead and check,” she urged, pointing toward the rear of the salon. “And, while you do, I ask that you do your best not to upset the clientele. They won’t react well to a snag in their salon experience.”