The Stranger You Know

  “Leilah’s gorgeous,” Claire blurted out, listening to the tinkling laughter of the curvaceous, dark-haired beauty as it emanated from the kitchen. “Even Hero’s transfixed.”

  “Hero’s transfixed by her family recipe. But, yeah, she is gorgeous.” Casey wasn’t going to lie to her friend. “And she’s being pretty obvious about what she wants. But it takes two to make that happen. And I think Ryan has too much respect for you to respond to Leilah’s one-liners.”

  “We’re like day and night,” Claire said, referring to herself and Leilah. “And I’m not about to compete, no matter how crappy this makes me feel.”

  “You don’t have to compete.” Casey paused, carefully weighing her next words. “Ryan cares about you a lot more than even he realizes. He hates clingy women. Before you, he’d never think of giving any woman he was involved with an explanation of his actions. It wouldn’t even be on his radar that she might be hurting. And if it was, he wouldn’t feel any responsibility to alleviate that hurt. I see a whole new Ryan these past months.”

  Claire fell silent. “You’re right,” she said at last. “Relationships are hard. I liked it better when I was—” She broke off, dropping her plate to the carpet and letting out a gasp. “Oh, no.”

  “What is it?” Casey recognized the frightened, faraway look in Claire’s eyes.

  “It’s happening again,” Claire whispered, still staring off into space, her breath fast and ragged. “Another woman. Feeling terror. And pain. She’s clawing to get away. But she can’t. She can’t.” Claire covered her face with her hands, as if by doing so she could block out the images.

  Casey’s own heart was racing, the fear that had dominated her life all week consuming her yet again. “Can you see the surroundings? Think, Claire. Try to concentrate. Is it indoors? Outdoors?”

  “Indoors,” Claire said in a shaky whisper. “Institutional setting. Cinder-block walls. Woven multicolored area rug. He’s dragging her down onto it. There’s nothing she can do.”

  Casey’s mind was processing. Institutional setting with cinder-block walls. Not an apartment. A college dorm? Maybe. But which college? Which dorm?

  They could call the police. But they had nothing to give them, nothing concrete.

  They were helpless.

  Casey’s cell phone rang. She didn’t need to look at the caller ID for the all-too-familiar “unavailable.” She knew who it was.

  Woodenly, she punched the phone on. “Don’t bother,” she said in a tortured voice she couldn’t conceal. “I already know.”

  “Really?” the scrambled voice answered. “I’m impressed. That psychic of yours is worth her weight in gold.”

  “Who’s the victim?” Casey was past the point of playing games. “Just tell me.”

  “And ruin the fun? Not a chance, Red. You’ll find out soon enough. She respected you, you know. You’d be proud. She fought hard. Just as you will. This one’s ironic. We’ve come full circle.”

  The sound of the connection ending sent chills up and down Casey’s spine.

  Full circle? What the hell did that mean?

  * * *

  It was 10:00 p.m.

  Robbie chained his bike to a pole on Third Avenue, and lifted the soft, thermal box out of the basket. He headed for the familiar dorm, where he made a meat lover’s pizza delivery at least once a week. Deirdre Grimes was predictable. She always ordered the same thing, and she always gave him a generous tip.

  He climbed the two flights of stairs to her second-floor dorm room. He then headed down the corridor, stopped outside her room and rapped at the door.

  No response.

  “Hey, Deirdre,” he called, knocking again. “It’s Robbie. I’ve got your pizza. Eat it while it’s hot.”

  Again, no reply.

  Robbie glanced up and down the hallway. He spotted Anita Lerner, another of his college customers, on her way to the showers.

  “Hey, Anita,” he yelled out to her. “Have you seen Deirdre?”

  Anita stopped and shook her head. “I’ve been locked in my room studying. Deirdre was about to do the same the last time I saw her.” She sent him a grin. “Probably fell asleep. Knock louder. She wouldn’t want to miss her meat lover’s.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Robbie turned back to the door as Anita continued on to the showers. He knocked loudly and repeatedly, calling out Deirdre’s name a few more times.

  Nothing.

  He tried the doorknob. It turned, and the door swung open.

  “Deirdre?” Robbie was greeted by a semidarkened room. He wasn’t about to just march in, but he could reach the light switch from the doorway. He flicked it on.

  The overhead lit up the place, revealing an empty room. There was blatant evidence of a scuffle. An overturned desk chair, a throw pillow on the floor and a potted plant knocked down and spilled across the woven rug.

  And that wasn’t all. There was a large red stain on the rug.

  Blood.

  Robbie stood dead still for a moment. Then, he took out his cell phone and called 9-1-1.

  * * *

  There was none of the merriment of a few short hours ago at the Forensic Instincts brownstone. All of that had come to a grinding halt after Casey had gotten her chilling phone call. She’d immediately called Captain Sharp with as much information as she had—which wasn’t much. Now all they could do was wait.

  The phone rang at ten-thirty.

  Casey punched the phone on speaker. “Yes,” she responded. “Do you have something for us?”

  “There’s been an incident at NYU,” Captain Sharp informed them. “The pizza delivery boy called it in about a half hour ago.” He described the condition of the door room that Robbie had walked into. “The crime scene unit is doing its job. I have nothing solid to give you. But Claire’s description of the scene was accurate. The only difference is that, this time, the body was removed. We’ve got cops combing the area to find it.”

  Casey sucked in her breath and asked the question she dreaded the answer to. “What’s the name of the girl who’s missing?”

  “Deirdre Grimes.”

  “Oh, no.” Casey sank down on a chair, her face as white as a sheet.

  “Obviously you know her.”

  “She’s one of the students in my evening class.” Casey provided the information on autopilot, bile rising in her throat. “She’s bright, enthusiastic...and a redhead.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Damn this scumbag. Why doesn’t he just go after me and leave these poor girls alone? Deirdre is nineteen. She had her whole life ahead of her.”

  “We haven’t found a body yet,” Sharp reminded her gently. “Maybe there’s hope.”

  “No. There’s not,” Claire replied. She turned away, her lashes damp with tears. “He killed her. And then he moved the body and prepared it for us.” A shudder went through her. “Somehow the body is close to me.”

  “In Tribeca?” Casey demanded.

  Claire shook her head. “No. Not close to the office. Close to me.”

  “He dumped the body near Claire’s apartment,” Hutch concluded. “Think about it. The killer already left bodies in both Ryan’s and Patrick’s neck of the woods, and one body in Tribeca, as well. All that’s left of the FI team’s neighborhoods are Claire’s and Marc’s. NYU isn’t far from Claire’s apartment. Following the killer’s pattern, I think we should concentrate our search in the East Village.”

  Abruptly, he broke off, a flicker of realization dawning in his eyes.

  “You already know where the body is,” Casey deduced.

  Hutch met Casey’s gaze. “He told you that you’d come full circle. We thought he meant it emotionally. But he meant it in a real sense—full circle from where Glen Fisher first attacked you.”

  “Which was in the East Village,” Casey breathed. “He put Deirdre’s body in that alley near Tompkins Square Park.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tim Grant peered up and down the prison corridor. It was nighttime. No one in sight. And a
ll the prisoners were confined until morning.

  He approached Glen Fisher’s cell and glanced inside. Fisher was visibly impatient, pacing back and forth, pausing only long enough to finger the lock of hair Tim had brought him the day before.

  That damned lock of hair had made Fisher terrifyingly happy. It was as if he was a predator, and the hair was a trophy from one of his quarries. Tim didn’t know the details. And he didn’t want to. He just shut them out and did his job.

  Tonight he had another delivery that would brighten Fisher’s night, thanks to some help from Bob Farrell, his NYPD contact.

  “Fisher,” he muttered, his lips close to the bars.

  Glen’s head whipped around. “You have something for me?”

  “The iPhone you asked for.” As always, Tim felt a wave of relief when he satisfied Fisher’s demands. The alternative wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate.

  “Excellent,” Fisher said, a victorious smile curving his lips. He reached through the bars and took the slim cell phone. “This is precisely what I needed. You can go now.”

  Tim didn’t need to be told twice.

  He turned around and retraced his steps, getting as far from Fisher as he could.

  Glen waited until the sound of the prison guard’s steps faded away and disappeared. Then he went to the far side of his cot and squatted down, where he couldn’t be seen. He huddled over the iPhone and turned on the power. Waiting only until it was ready to go, he punched out a text message. It read: Is “Find iPhone location” visible?

  He waited, knowing that an answer would be forthcoming.

  He wasn’t disappointed. A few minutes later, a return text arrived. Auburn State NW, it said.

  Those were just the words Glen Fisher wanted to see.

  He leaned back against the bed frame, taking out the lock of Casey Woods’s hair and rubbing each silky red strand between his fingers.

  The contact felt good.

  The real thing would feel better.

  * * *

  Casey lay quietly in Hutch’s arms, listening to the sounds of the city outside her window, yet hearing only the cries of pain that her mind conjured up—cries that Deirdre Grimes must have made before they were choked into silence.

  For reasons she couldn’t explain, Casey had insisted on visiting the crime scene. Hutch had gone with her. The crime scene unit was still at the dorm room, as was Robbie the pizza guy, who looked green at the gills. He’d answered the detectives’ questions, but had agreed to hang around for a while, just in case something else turned up that he might be able to help with. The poor guy was a wreck. He couldn’t pull it together, nor could he stop staring at the bloodstain.

  Casey didn’t blame him. The image was horrible. What it implied was worse.

  Sure enough, Deirdre’s body was found in the exact alley near Tompkins Square Park where Glen Fisher had attacked Casey last year. She’d been posed just the same as the others, right down to the red ribbon, lipstick and the lock of hair. The hair would be checked for DNA. They all knew that the DNA would belong to the killer’s previous victim. The only difference between Deirdre’s murder and the previous murders was the evidence of blood at the crime scene. The police were certain the bloodstain they’d found on Deirdre’s dorm room rug would match the bloodstain on the tarp she’d been wrapped in and the clumps of blood that were matted in her hair. She’d put up one hell of a fight, and it was clear that the killer had had to slam her head against the floor repeatedly to gain control of the situation.

  In the end, her brave struggles hadn’t mattered. The killer had won. Deirdre was dead.

  Casey closed her eyes, bombarded by feelings of rage, anguish and guilt.

  “It’s not your fault,” Hutch murmured. “You’re on his victim list, too.”

  “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  Hutch reached for her hand, which was on his chest, her fingernails digging into his skin. “Because you’re stabbing me. You only do that when you’re angry at yourself.”

  She smiled faintly. “Sorry.” Casey relaxed her hand. “But how can I not blame myself? Deirdre—as well as the others—they were all killed because of me.”

  “You did everything in your power to stop it. Deirdre was on the list of redheads you know that you made up for Marc,” Hutch reminded her. “In fact, almost all the victims were on that list. And we ran checks on every one of those young women—to see if they were being followed, harassed, even in a bad relationship. They all came up clean.”

  “Yet they all wound up dead,” Casey said. “How many more of them are there going to be?”

  “My guess? One. Someone to dump near Marc’s place and complete the circle. After that...”

  “After that, it’s my turn.” Casey finished his thought.

  “It’s not going to happen.” Hutch had that hard edge to his voice.

  “We don’t know, Hutch.” Casey spoke softly. “He’s good. And between his skill and Fisher’s direction—we might not be able to stop it.”

  Hutch rolled Casey onto her back, gazing down at her with fire in his eyes. “We’ll stop it. I’ll stop it. However good he is, I’m better. And I’m not going to lose you. So don’t even think of going down that path.”

  Casey smiled and gave a sarcastic salute. “Yes, sir, Supervisory Special Agent Hutchinson. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Hutch didn’t smile back. “You threw Fisher off his game when you got in his face. He’ll make a mistake.”

  “He’s not the one doing the killing—at least not currently.”

  “But he’s the lynch pin. If he screws up, his partner will screw up.”

  “We still don’t know the connection between them—or even who this supposed partner is.”

  “We will. In the meantime, you’re never alone. No one can get at you.”

  Casey gave a small nod.

  “It’s okay to be scared.” Hutch’s tone grew gentle. “I know you keep your emotions locked up tight, but when you’re with me, you can let down your guard.”

  “Look who’s talking. You, who are always in total control.”

  “Not always.”

  “True,” Casey conceded. “Not when we’re in bed.”

  The intense look was back on Hutch’s face. “No,” he agreed. “Not when we’re in bed. Maybe that should tell us something.”

  He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his, passion laced with tenderness.

  That poignant tenderness dominated their lovemaking—each kiss, each caress, each movement, of their joined bodies speaking volumes and overshadowing all else.

  When it was over, they lay quietly together, their fingers intertwined. There was a very new, very raw emotion that permeated the room, speaking volumes about what just happened between them, what was still happening in the aftermath.

  Hutch found his voice first.

  “Don’t you think it’s time we acknowledged what we have?” He spoke roughly into Casey’s hair. “We dance around it. We exert boundless energy and maximum effort to avoid giving it a name—even though we both know it’s there.”

  “I’m not afraid of saying it.” Casey put her hands on Hutch’s shoulders and pushed him slightly away so she could gaze straight into his eyes. “I’m afraid of what happens once it’s been said. What do we do with it? Where do we go from there? Our lives are so complicated. Our worlds are so different and so far apart. How do we reconcile that?”

  “The same way we reconcile it when we avoid saying the words—day by day, need by need.”

  Casey swallowed. “Okay. Here it is. I’m insanely in love with you. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

  Hutch’s knuckles caressed her cheek, an incredibly intimate expression crossing his face. “I’ve been in love with you since I first laid eyes on you. You’re as impossible as our situation. But I wouldn’t change you or the way I feel about you. This will be hard work. But we’re both die-hard perfectionists. We’ll make it right.?
??

  “I’m too stubborn to accept anything less. And so are you.” Casey’s lashes were damp. “This killer doesn’t stand a chance, does he?”

  “Nope. Not with us closing in on him. He’s as good as done.”

  * * *

  Hutch visited both crime scenes the next day—the dorm room where Deirdre was killed and the alleyway where her body was left. Patrick—who was a trained pro at this after three decades of FBI investigative work—joined him.

  The dorm room yielded nothing. From there, the two men searched every inch of the alley, hoping one of them would find the tiniest something that might have escaped the crime scene unit.

  No such luck.

  “This murder was more violent than the others,” Patrick commented, hunkering down beside the trail of blood that ran across the cracked concrete. “Based on what I got from the police, he really brutalized her.”

  “Sexually, as well,” Hutch said. “The details were pretty gruesome. I kept them from Casey. She’s got enough to deal with. The killer is getting angrier and more violent. Something is provoking him. The question is what?”

  “Casey’s visit with Fisher?” Patrick suggested. “Couldn’t that have set him off?”

  “It definitely set Fisher off,” Hutch responded. “But there’s a disconnect here. If it was Fisher who’d committed this crime, your theory would make a world of sense. But it wasn’t. It was our unsub.” Hitch resorted to FBI-speak, using the common term for Unknown Subject. “And even if that unsub is taking orders directly from Fisher, this is the kind of rage that’s personal. It’s not a third party delivering a message.”

  Patrick’s expression was grim. “So this lunatic is either furious at Casey or furious at law enforcement.”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “Hey.” A male voice from the sidewalk summoned them. “Are you the police?”

  Both Hutch and Patrick turned to see a well-dressed guy in his mid-to-late twenties hovering just outside the alley. His hand was wrapped around a leash with a Boston terrier at the end of it. The dog sat patiently while his owner talked.