by Andrea Kane
“Yup,” Hutch agreed. “That’s why Suzanne took off for their little tête-à-tête first thing yesterday, before news spread that Fisher had escaped. That way, Suzanne could leave her apartment and go to him, and no one would be watching her yet.” He frowned. “We all know that Fisher doesn’t plan on hanging around upstate. He’s heading for Manhattan. But when? And what’s his agenda? Is he operating alone or teaming up with Jack? Is he going straight for Casey or does he have other interim victims in mind?”
“At least one more interim victim,” Claire supplied in a haunted, faraway tone. “One who’s vivid enough for me to pick up on. I’m not getting much, just a vulnerable, exposed energy. But I do know that Fisher has selected a target and a timetable. Soon. I just can’t sense who or where.”
“Well, it doesn’t take a sixth sense to know where we’re going to find this body.” Marc looked and sounded grim. “I’m the missing link.”
“Bensonhurst,” Hutch muttered. “Somewhere near your place. We’ll share that probability with the task force. Still, it doesn’t give us a hell of a lot to go on.”
“No, it doesn’t. Not to mention that we’d be finding our victim dead, not alive.” Claire swallowed. “What good is that? It’s not the disposal site we want to get a jump on, it’s the assault site. Dammit.” She slammed her fist on the table. “I hate this. I get snatches of energy, but never enough to prevent a crime. Innocent women are dying, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Claire-voyant,” Ryan said, covering her hand with his and giving it a squeeze. “We’re all still one step behind Fisher. But one thing’s for sure. He’s not getting his hands on Casey. Not on our watch.”
Ryan’s words echoed with confidence.
He just wished the reality was as certain as the intent.
* * *
Glen and Jack Fisher walked down Ninth Avenue right on time.
Their contact was equally prompt.
The streets were dark. Nobody driving by would pay the slightest attention to the three men talking and the one old black Honda Civic parked next to a fire hydrant, engine running.
In mere minutes, the transaction was complete. The duffel bag was handed over, and the money was counted. The car keys were given to Glen. Eddie’s guy strolled off into the night.
Glen and Jack hopped into the car and took off, heading for the Lincoln Tunnel.
On the other side of the tunnel was their next victim.
* * *
“You didn’t have to cook dinner for me.” Claire was sitting on Ryan’s sofa, her head leaning back against the cushion. Eyes shut, she sipped the glass of wine he’d poured her. Reflexively, she pulled up her legs and folded them under her in lotus position.
Under the circumstances, this was about as relaxed as she was going to get.
“You needed the break—and the meal,” he said. “I haven’t seen you eat a bite of food all day.” Ryan checked the vegetable lasagna to see if it was cooked enough. Perfect.
“Are you sure you’re not just showing off your culinary talents?”
“Very sure. I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you,” he added, cutting and transferring portions of food onto plates. “I’m not exactly a gourmet. It’s a pretty basic meal. On the other hand, if you thought I ate out of a can every night, you’ll find this very impressive.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Ryan carried the two plates over to the coffee table and put them down. Then he refilled their wineglasses and sat across from Claire. “Voilà.”
“This is lovely.” Having lifted her head, Claire glanced at her plate and smiled. “And not a speck of trail mix to be found. Here I thought I’d finally discovered all your hidden talents. Looks like I was wrong.”
“You were. My talents are limitless.” Ryan gave her a wink, settled in and prepared to eat. “I’m starving. You must be about to faint. Dig in.”
Claire tasted the lasagna and made an appreciative sound. “Mmm... Delicious. And you’re right. I’m a lot hungrier than I realized.” She paused, staring at her plate. “I’m really torn up over this case. I not only feel horrible about the murders, I feel guilty that I can’t pick up precise enough energy to stop them before they happen. And worst of all, I’m coming up empty on anything that would protect Casey. It’s like...it’s all just out of my grasp.”
Ryan set down his wineglass. “You’re not the only one who feels like you’re coming up short. I’ve got some of the best forensic tools around and I’m still a step behind Glen Fisher. If science can’t do it, I doubt metaphysical energy can,” he said with a rueful look. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to diss you. Your insights have been dead-on.”
“No problem.” Claire wasn’t insulted. As much as Ryan tried to accept the value of her gift, Claire knew the whole thing was hard for him to swallow. “It doesn’t really matter whose technique comes through in the end. As long as one of them does.”
“Agreed. Now let’s change the subject,” Ryan suggested. “That was the whole point of this dinner. Shutting out the frustration and the intensity of this investigation. Just for a few hours. We’re entitled to that.”
“You’re right. We are.”
From that moment on, they intentionally kept the conversation light, steering clear of anything relating to Glen Fisher. There was nothing more they could do that night, and recouping their emotional and mental acuity was important.
“Thank you,” Claire said as she finished her cup of herbal tea. “Dinner was wonderful. I didn’t realize how badly I needed it. But I did.”
“Me, too.” Ryan rose and closed the gap between the two sofas, taking Claire’s hand and pulling her to her feet. “There’s one thing I did know I needed. And that’s this.”
He kissed her, long and hard, tangling his hand in her hair and deepening the joining of their mouths.
Claire responded, wrapping her arms around his neck and returning the kiss with the same level of passion.
Ryan backed her across the apartment to his bedroom, never breaking contact as he did. They broke apart only to tug off each other’s clothes, and then fell onto the bed.
It was the way it always was—mind-blowing, all-encompassing sex. Sex that wasn’t just sex at all, but a kind of raw joining that dominated their senses and took them by surprise every time it happened.
Afterward, they lay quietly together, their legs entwined, Claire’s head pillowed on Ryan’s chest.
“Wow,” he said in a harsh rasp.
Claire nodded, too winded to speak.
“I don’t know what the hell this is,” Ryan said bluntly. “But it’s like nothing I’ve experienced before.”
“Me, neither.” Claire was quiet for a moment. “I swore I wouldn’t tell you this, but I was insanely jealous of Leilah,” she blurted out. “It was irrational and totally out of character for me. But I couldn’t shake it.”
“Well, shake it. Whatever Leilah and I had is over.”
“That’s good. But it’s not enough. I don’t want you with other women.” Claire stunned herself with the unyielding quality of her tone. “I realize that’s contrary to everything you’re used to. But I’m not willing to share—not this time.” She tilted back her head, gazed up at Ryan. “Is that a deal-breaker?”
Her choice of words made him grin. “No.” He shook his head, feeling as bewildered as she obviously was as he spoke the truth. “Ever since you and I have been together, I haven’t wanted anyone else. And if you hooked up with any guy but me, I’d probably beat the shit out of him. I never saw this coming. But it’s here.”
“Yes. It is. Whatever it is.”
“Does it matter?”
“No.”
Ryan pulled Claire over him. “I say we celebrate it.”
“I second the motion.”
During the hours that followed, all of Claire’s senses were alive and focused on Ryan.
There was no room for anything else—not even the powerf
ul dark energy that she would normally have felt like a knife twisting in her gut.
* * *
Trish Brenner stayed at the library longer than usual.
When she glanced up, the stacks were almost empty, and a few last-minute students were packing up and getting ready to leave.
She sighed, rubbing her eyes, and making peace with the fact that she needed some sleep in order to continue at her current pace.
Wearily, she pushed back her chair and rose from the table, shoving a strand of red hair behind her ear as she gathered up her work and slid it into her book bag. After analyzing a half dozen of Shakespeare’s tragedies, she was still grappling with the psychology of his antagonists, the mastery of which was a crucial part of her grade.
She paused, playing with the same thought she’d been entertaining all week long. She had an older cousin who was a specialist in human behavior and had even formed an investigative firm around it—a really renowned one. Casey Woods’s office was in Manhattan, just a train ride away. Problem was, their families had been estranged for so long that Trish and Casey didn’t know each other, and never spoke. So reaching out to her would take balls.
What if Casey got pissed off about being bothered by a college kid she barely remembered?
Trish weighed the options. She needed this grade. She knew someone with expertise. What was the worst that could happen? Casey would blow her off. And as the saying went, if you don’t ask, the answer is always no.
Trish would call Casey tomorrow.
With that, she scooped up her cell phone, slung her book bag over her shoulder and headed back to her dorm for some sleep.
She never made it there.
* * *
The last vestiges of night were lingering outside Ryan’s bedroom window. His bed was in shambles, as very few of the long, dark hours had been spent in slumber.
“Stay,” Ryan murmured into the tangled cloud of Claire’s hair.
“I think I already did.” Claire opened one eye, sensing that night would soon be turning into day. “What time is it?”
Ryan glanced at the illuminated dial of his clock radio. “Four-fifteen.”
“And you’re not grumpy? You, who needs his solid eight hours to function?”
“Some things are worth losing sleep over.”
A small smile curved Claire’s lips. “I’m honored.” She gave a huge yawn. “Also half-dead.”
“That’s because you ravaged my body.”
“Me? I think you’ve got that backward. My body aches in places it never knew it had.”
Chuckling, Ryan pulled the blanket up around them and settled Claire by his side. “We’ll call it a draw, okay?”
“Okay.” She was already drifting off.
“Good night, Claire-voyant.”
“Good night, techno-whiz.”
* * *
Casey’s cell phone rang.
She felt Hutch tense up next to her even as she jolted awake.
Her gaze fell on the alarm clock on her nightstand—4:35. That could mean nothing good.
She grabbed the phone, looking at the illuminated screen. Another blocked call.
Her insides went cold.
“Who is this?” she demanded.
“It’s me, Red.” The scrambled voice rasped against her ear. “But you already knew that.”
“What do you want?”
“Didn’t your psychic come through for you this time? I guess not. Too bad she slacked off. This one was worth watching.”
“Who was it? Who’s the girl?”
“Let’s just say that your next family get-together is going to be short a member.”
Casey felt as if she was going to vomit. “Tell me who your victim was,” she managed.
“It was obvious she had your blood running through her veins. Feisty little thing. She put up quite a fight. That made the whole experience better. It was the best one yet.”
“You bastard.” Casey had jumped to her feet, gripping the cell phone so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
“Don’t spend too much time grieving, Red. You’re next. Start saying your goodbyes.”
The line went dead.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Casey stared at the phone for a long moment before turning to Hutch. “It was one of my relatives.”
Hutch rolled off the bed and went directly to her. He gripped her shoulders tightly, calming and steadying her all at once. “Let’s figure out who. We know the victimology. Who in your family is a redheaded female, younger than you—probably late teens to early twenties—most likely living within a reasonable driving distance of here?”
“I have a small family.” Casey was still reeling with shock. “And we never see one another. There was some kind of falling out between my mother, my aunt and my uncle years ago. I don’t even know what it was about. But I never got to know my cousins. And my father has no family at all.”
“Small means less work for us. We’ll go through every family member, estranged or not. Start with the nucleus.”
“There’s me, my brother, my sister and my parents.”
“Kids?”
“My brother and sister-in-law have one—a son. My sister and brother-in-law opted not to have kids.”
“Move on to your aunt and uncle,” Hutch said. “I know you don’t have relationships with them. But let’s review their kids.”
Casey frowned. “My aunt and her husband live in Boston. They have a son and a daughter who live near there, too.”
“Daughter’s age? Description?”
Casey frowned again. “I haven’t seen her since I was in my teens. Her name’s Allison. She’s either a year older or younger than I am. And she’s got short black hair.”
“So if she has kids, they wouldn’t be teenagers.”
“No.” Casey shook her head. “And her brother’s younger than she is. No spouses. No kids.”
“Move on to your uncle.”
“My uncle is the major outcast of the family. He and his wife moved out to Seattle. I think their two daughters live there, too.”
“Daughters?”
“Yes.” A niggling thought popped into Casey’s mind. “My uncle’s the baby of the family, so his kids are a lot younger than I am.”
“How young?”
The color drained from Casey’s face. “College age.”
“What can you tell me about them?”
“I don’t remember.” Casey drew a hand through her hair. “But I’ll call my mother and find out. Falling out or not, she keeps tabs on everyone.”
She reached for her phone and punched in her mother’s number.
Five minutes later, she disconnected the call. Her hands were shaking. “My cousins are in college, like I thought. They’re both girls, and both redheads. Maggie is twenty and goes to Williams. Trish is twenty-one and goes to Princeton.”
“Let’s run with that.” Hutch snatched up his own cell phone. “You track down one. I’ll track down the other.”
It didn’t take long to discover that Maggie had spent the night out with a bunch of her friends—and that Trish was nowhere to be found. Not a single one of her friends had seen her since she left for the library early that evening.
Hutch called the Princeton police department so they could begin a localized investigation and search.
But both he and Casey knew that wasn’t where the body would be.
Even before making the painful call to her uncle and aunt, Casey called Marc.
“Yeah, Casey,” he answered, instantly alert.
“I got a call from the killer.” She went straight to the point. “He said there’d been a new victim and that she was a member of my family. Hutch and I made some calls. My twenty-one-year-old cousin Trish is missing. She’s a student at Princeton. No one’s seen her in hours.”
“I’ll get a hold of the guys I know in the Sixty-second.” Marc referred to the police precinct that serviced the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn. “They’ll
contact the other precincts already involved in this case. Hutch will call in the Bureau’s New York field office. The more law enforcement we have out there searching, the better.” The muffled sounds in the background told Casey that Marc was getting dressed. “We don’t need to guess. The body’s somewhere in Bensonhurst.”
* * *
Trish’s lifeless body was found stuffed behind a trash can between two apartment buildings on 79th Street.
Casey and Hutch were already in Bensonhurst, working with the FBI, when the call came in. Casey took off by foot, racing to the crime scene before anyone could stop her. She pushed her way through the crowd until she reached the spot where the medical examiner was squatting down, examining the body.
“Oh, no,” Casey whispered, staring at her cousin. Even if she hadn’t pulled Trish’s Facebook photo, she’d know her. The family resemblance was undeniable.
Trish was crammed inside a canvas tarp, her head drooping awkwardly to one side, a chunk of her hair cut away. Stripped naked, her body was battered from what had obviously been a brutal rape. Her throat had heavy bruises on it—the signs of a vicious strangulation. Some of those bruises were hidden beneath the red ribbon that was neatly tied around her neck. In the center of the bow, two locks of hair had been tucked, side by side, at the base of her throat. And lipstick had been carefully applied to her mouth.
This time, Casey couldn’t control herself. She turned and leaned over the garbage pail, heaving until there was nothing left inside her. Shoulders still bent, she dragged air into her lungs, tears pouring down her cheeks.
Hutch came up behind her, gently rubbing her back in an effort to soothe her. There was no point in telling her it was all right when it clearly wasn’t. Casey’s cousin—a vibrant young woman with her whole life ahead of her—had been horribly violated and murdered. There were no words to make that reality go away.
