“Got it.” He snapped off a salute. “I’ll make it quick and painless.”
With that, he headed toward the back, well aware that the bodyguard sitting up front was scrutinizing him. Purposely, he walked past the workstation where Casey Woods was sitting, having her hair cut, without breaking stride.
The bodyguard went back to reading his newspaper.
The instant there were no eyes on him, the repairman let a pen drop from his pocket. It fell onto the marble tile floor with a clatter and came to rest near Louis’s station. The repairman squatted down and scooped up the pen—along with a few wisps of Casey’s hair. Rising, he continued to the back, going straight over to the deserted area where the water meter was situated. Making sure he had no audience, he slid Casey Woods’s hair in a small Ziploc bag and sealed it. He opened his toolbox and placed the small bag inside.
Mission accomplished.
He waited a respectable period of time, then returned to the front of the salon.
“All good,” he told Charisse. “Your water pressure’s fine.”
“Oh, thank you.” She heaved a sigh of relief. “And please thank the landlord for us.”
“Will do. Have a good night.”
He got out of there as fast as he could. Getting the hair was only step one in what he needed to do. He had to split the clump of hair in half, keeping a section of it for future use and arranging to have the other half delivered to Auburn Correctional Facility.
He glanced at his watch.
He had half an hour to meet his contact.
* * *
Glen Fisher was awake most of the night.
His moods cycled rapidly as he replayed his meeting with Casey Woods. Sometimes his rage would eclipse all else, forcing him to clench his fists at his sides to control the urge to choke her. Sometimes his lust took over, and he had to seek his own relief to calm the obsession to possess her. And sometimes, a smug sense of peace took over, reminding him that he’d have a chance to do it all, feel it all, inflict it all.
It was a relief when Tim the prison guard showed up at his cell.
“I have a few things for you,” he muttered through the bars.
Glen rose. “A few things?” He only knew about one, and he’d been itching to receive that since last night.
“Yeah.” Tim passed the Ziploc bag containing Casey’s hair through the bars. “You wanted this.” He hesitated, looking down at the papers in his hands. “I’m sure you didn’t want this. But I thought you deserved a heads-up. These legal documents arrived late today. The Manhattan D.A. is filing charges against you for the murders of Jan Olson and Holly Stevens.”
Glen snatched the documents and pored over them, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Then he raised his head.
Tim resembled a cringing child, as if he expected to be lambasted—maybe even threatened—for giving Glen the papers.
He was pleasantly surprised.
“I was expecting these,” Fisher said. “Casey Woods all but handed them to me herself.” He glanced briefly at the packet of hair, then back at the legal documents, that eerie look coming into his eyes. “This round is hers. The next one won’t be.”
Tim cleared his throat. “They’re transferring you to Rikers in a few days.”
“Excellent.” Glen turned that crucifying stare on Tim. “I want you to get me an iPhone. Immediately. I don’t care how much it costs. Just get one. Bring it to me tomorrow morning—same time as today.”
* * *
Leilah was prepped and ready.
She and Ryan left Tribeca around 11:00 a.m., making their way up West End Avenue in Ryan’s equipment-laden truck. Crawling up Tenth, they turned onto West 116th Street, headed east and parked a block away from the meat market. Climbing out of the van, Ryan paused long enough to place a forged “Clergy” card in the windshield—a personal statement on his part because he hated paying for parking in Manhattan.
Garbed in a traditional burka, Leilah walked ahead of Ryan, keeping a half block distance between them. By the time Ryan entered the store, Leilah was waiting in line, pacing up and down the length of the meat case. Ryan took his cue, and went over to examine some of the prepared foods—or at least pretended to. In reality, he was scanning the locations of the HVAC supplies and returns. It was a start. He’d need to get his hands on detailed drawings in order to put Gecko into play.
Leilah was still pacing. The owner of the store began darting irritated looks at her. By the time the patron ahead of her had completed her transaction, the shop owner was visibly agitated.
“May I help you?” he asked her in heavily accented English.
Leilah responded in Arabic. The owner reverted to his native Arabic, as well.
A heated conversation ensued.
Ryan had no clue what they were saying, but Leilah’s raised voice and her accusing finger pointing at the lamb kabobs in the case launched the owner on a tirade. He ended with a few tightly controlled, furious words, and then stormed into the back.
Leilah met Ryan’s eyes and nodded, letting him know that this was his opportunity. Ryan nodded back. He’d already used the time when Leilah was doing battle to select the ideal location to plant a bug—just beneath a wooden railing. To the untrained eye, it looked like a piece of used chewing gum. It felt like one, too. So, anyone coming across it by accident would leave well enough alone, too grossed out to touch or to closely inspect someone else’s disgusting leftover.
A man entered the meat market and glanced around, looking for the owner. On his heels, a woman with a shopping bag came into the small store, also gazing quizzically around. She asked Leilah where the owner was.
Before Leilah could respond, the owner returned, emphatically shoving what was clearly a newly cut batch of lamb kabobs at her. He turned to the two new customers, forced a smile and said he’d be with them in just a minute. Then he turned back to Leilah, who was peering at the bright red contents on the brown paper. After a thorough inspection, she gave a nod of approval.
The owner quickly weighed the meat, wrapped it up and told Leilah how much she owed him. She handed him a hundred-dollar bill. He rang up her purchase, pulled out change from the register and handed over the meat and her money.
It was blatantly obvious that he couldn’t wait for her to leave.
Ryan checked his watch, frowning as he ostensibly realized how late it was. He put down the container of prepared couscous that he’d planned on buying, and headed for the door.
A few minutes later, he and Leilah were back inside the van.
“What the hell happened in there?” Ryan demanded. “I thought the guy was going to bust a gut.”
Laughing, Leilah peeled off her burka, tossed back her head and shook out her full mane of hair.
“I told him the lamb in the case looked like a dead carcass cut up into pieces. I asked him if his meat was halal or did that just apply to the sign in the window. He was livid. He told me to go elsewhere to buy my meat. Then I told him I needed five pounds of kabobs—five fresh pounds—which I demanded he cut for me on the spot.” A lighthearted shrug. “I guess he wanted my money, so he forgot about my insult.”
Ryan began to laugh. “A brilliant strategy and an equally brilliant performance. I’m totally impressed.”
“I aim to please.” Leilah preened like a beautiful peacock.
“I knew you spoke Arabic. But where did you learn how to pull off a scene like that?”
“From my mother,” Leilah replied. “She was quite the force to be reckoned with. As a little girl, I would go with her to the meat market. The shopkeepers would cringe when we walked in. But they tolerated her badgering because she was a good customer.” She gave him a sunny smile. “And while we’re on the subject of badgering, you owe me five hundred bucks for my performance, another hundred for the meat, and I’m hungry. When are you going to cook these kabobs I so painstakingly acquired?”
“Later,” Ryan promised. “After we get what we came for. I promise I’ll
fire up Big Bertha and char this lamb to perfection.” Big Bertha was Ryan’s homemade grill that looked more like a midnight requisition from an oil refinery than a typical gas grill. “In the meantime, I brought you a snack as a substitute.”
He opened a cooler, placed the meat inside for safekeeping and removed a Ziploc bag, offering it to Leilah.
She glanced down at the contents. “You remembered!” She leaned forward and gave him a long, sensual kiss—one that might have gone somewhere if Ryan had let it.
He eased back on his haunches, preparing to get the audio information off his bug.
“I hope you brought something else for yourself.” Leilah spoke between mouthfuls of the buffalo jerky that was her favorite.
“I’m fine. I just want our venture to pay off.” He fast-forwarded the digitally recorded audio stream from the bug he’d planted. Oddly, the woman who’d entered the store after the man was being helped by the owner first. The transaction seemed normal enough. She made her purchase, paid and left.
Ryan could hear the door slam shut. Immediately thereafter, the two men began speaking in Arabic.
Nudging Leilah, Ryan hissed, “Translate.”
Leilah nodded, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. She then translated, speaking in fits and starts. “The customer is talking.” A pause. “He said, ‘I want to send one thousand dollars to my uncle in Quetta, Pakistan, and another thousand to my brother in Dubai,’” she reported. “He asked the owner, ‘What are your fees?’”
Another intent pause. “The owner said ‘three hundred dollars.’ The customer told him that was a lot of money.” Leilah frowned, her forehead creased in concentration. “The owner is explaining. He’s saying that this is a very risky business, that the authorities are trying to pull the plug on all of them and throw them in jail. He wants to be paid for his trouble.”
Leilah reached for another piece of jerky. “This will take a while. The two guys are haggling over the fees.” She resumed her munching as the heated conversation continued. Eventually, she raised her hand, swallowing quickly. “The owner agreed to take only two hundred and fifty dollars, since he was dealing with a repeat customer. The man asked him when the money would be ready. The owner said three days for the brother in Dubai and five days for the uncle in Quetta. The men agreed.”
Leilah listened again. “The customer is counting the money out loud. Two thousand. Two hundred. Fifty. The owner is accepting payment and advising the man that his uncle and brother can pick up the money in the same places as before. He’s reciting the addresses.” One final pause. “Now they’re saying goodbye.”
Ryan took in everything Leilah had just said. He steepled his fingers as he thought about what was going on and how it related to Suzanne’s visit earlier in the week.
His gut told him that she’d be visiting the store again soon. His bug would then pick up the interaction between her and the meat market owner.
At that point, it would be time to put Gecko to work.
* * *
Glen Fisher despised waiting.
Nevertheless, in this case patience was essential. Things had to proceed in a precise order so that he could reap the rewards.
Outdoor exercise was over. Time to file in from the yard and go to the cafeteria for lunch. Dutifully, he got in line. While he waited, he groped inside the fold of his prison jumpsuit. His fingers slipped inside the Ziploc bag he’d crammed in there, rubbing her lock of hair between his fingers. A sense of power surged through him. He was so close he could taste it. Taste her.
Taste victory.
Chapter Eighteen
Deirdre Grimes put down her psychology textbook, rose from behind her desk and stretched.
She meandered over to her dorm room window and glanced down at Third Avenue. It was jammed, as usual. For her, that was one of the beauties of attending NYU. Growing up in a tiny rural Midwestern town where everything shut down at five, the constant activity of Greenwich Village was a whole new and exciting world.
Most of all, nothing beat New York City pizza.
She grinned, thinking that she ordered so many pizza deliveries, the guys at her favorite place knew her phone number by heart. It was always the same order—a meat lover’s pie with a delicious combination of sausage, pepperoni and meatball. She’d eat a few slices, after which she’d store the rest in her minifridge to enjoy over the course of the week.
She’d finished up her last slice yesterday. So she’d be placing her order in a little while—her reward to herself after completing her calculus problem set and beginning to tackle the assignment Ms. Woods had given them in Human Behavior.
Normally, Deirdre didn’t add to her already-heavy course load by taking evening classes. But she was a psych major and Ms. Woods’s course was totally fascinating. It delved into what made people tick, how to read body language and how to zero in on different “tells.”
Last night’s lecture had focused on passive-aggressive personalities. The class assignment was to write a short paper describing a specific interaction with that type of individual, and what the indicators were that defined the person in question as passive-aggressive.
The paper wasn’t due for two weeks. But Deirdre was actually looking forward to writing it. She knew just who she’d be writing about.
A knock on the door made her turn away from the window. She brushed a strand of red-gold hair off her face and crossed the dorm room, turning the knob to see who her visitor was.
Opening the door was the biggest mistake of her life.
* * *
The Forensic Instincts team desperately needed a break. They’d been working for days without rest. The wear and tear was beginning to take a major toll on them.
Ryan provided that break—for the team, for Hutch, for the security guys and for Leilah. He took over the patio out back, setting up an impromptu dinner courtesy of his and Leilah’s shopping spree at the meat market. He spent an hour or so tinkering with Big Bertha to get things rolling.
“Big Bertha” had earned her name. Ryan had built the huge contraption from two steel drums, strategically cut and welded into a fire trough. But the real magic of the grill was its custom burners that Ryan had fabricated along with an “oxygen” boost that almost doubled the flame temperature, searing the meat like no other cooking apparatus.
While Ryan was adjusting the flame thrower he called a grill, Leilah was busy in the FI kitchen checking on the lamb that had been immersed for hours in her family’s traditional marinade, a recipe passed down from generation to generation. The aromatic blend of lemon, garlic, mint and other spices permeated the town house, making everyone hungry for dinner and keeping Hero glued to Leilah’s side.
The meal was delicious, but there was an unmistakable tension.
Claire was visibly aloof to Ryan. He’d tried several times to approach her and neutralize the strain between them. But it was clear that while Claire completely understood why Ryan had summoned Leilah for her help, she did not understand the overtly affectionate nature of their interaction. Nor did she want to.
“You’re screwing things up,” Marc commented as he walked out to the patio and perched beside Ryan, who was doling out seconds.
Ryan’s jaw tightened. “Why? Is your meat too rare?”
“You know what I’m talking about. And it’s not the food.”
For whatever reason, that infuriated Ryan more than he already was. His head snapped up and he glared at Marc. “Are you about to give me relationship advice? You, who haven’t been involved with a woman in as long as I can remember?”
Marc was unperturbed. “Yup. Because, whether or not you admit it, your relationship with Claire is more than casual—which means you have parameters to adhere to.” He paused. “And for the record, just because I like to keep my private life private, it doesn’t mean I spend my nights alone.”
“Fine.” Ryan took it down a notch. “Point taken. Actually, both points taken. How the hell am I supposed to convince Claire-voyant
that I’m not hitting the sheets with Leilah?”
“You could start by not being so responsive to her flirting. It doesn’t take a body-language specialist to figure out that she’s trying to rekindle whatever you once had. And you’re not exactly discouraging it.”
“Yeah,” Hutch agreed, having strolled over to join the men. “Cut the charm. I know you eat, drink and sleep it, but it’s not doing you any good tonight.”
“So what am I supposed to do—blow her off?”
“Just cool it, take it down a notch,” Hutch advised. “I don’t know what kind of arrangement you and Claire have, and it’s none of my business. But even if you’re keeping it light and easy, doesn’t mean she wants another woman shoved in her face. Do what you want, but do it on your own time—not when Claire’s around.”
A corner of Ryan’s mouth lifted. “Our boss has really taught you well. Nice analysis of the female brain. Okay, I’ll try my best.”
* * *
Back in the dining area, Claire sat by herself, playing with her couscous, and trying to deal with her own new and raw emotions. She was being unreasonable, and she knew it. Ryan had every right to renew whatever personal involvement he had with Leilah. There were no promises between them, no labeled relationship and no exclusivity clause. Still, all Claire could see was a beautiful, dark-haired woman all over Ryan. It was clear that they’d been hot and heavy at some point, and equally clear that Leilah was interested in picking up where they’d left off. As for Ryan, he was being too damned accommodating, despite needing Leilah’s help.
She had no idea how to approach this one.
“Hey.” Casey came over and sat down beside her. “You okay?”
“I guess not. But you already know that.” Claire shot her a helpless look. “Why am I letting myself feel this way and how do I stop it?”
“I’m not sure you can.” Casey’s smile was wan. “Relationships are hard. They’re complicated and confusing. And they make you feel and act like you usually don’t.”