The Stranger You Know

by Andrea Kane

  “...to finding out what lip gloss I wear so she can add a special touch to the posing of the victims.” Casey shuddered. “How twisted.”

  “Did any hatred come through when you interviewed her?” Hutch asked.

  Casey considered that, and then wiggled her hand from side to side. “That’s a hard question to answer. There was definite anger and wariness. I had no doubt that she blamed me for her husband’s conviction. I played with her head a little, so she vacillated from livid to uncertain to vulnerable. Most of her attention was focused on Claire. She was fascinated with the whole psychic angle. That might have watered down any rage directed at me. The woman is a psychological and emotional wreck.” Casey paused. “Speaking of which, Claire is going back to visit Suzanne tonight. She’s not calling ahead. She wants to go for the element of surprise. That, combined with Suzanne’s open reaction to her last time, could pay off.”

  “Smart move.” Hutch’s cell phone rang. “Hutchinson,” he answered. A lengthy silence. “Okay, thanks.” He disconnected the call. His expression was not happy.

  “What is it?” Casey demanded. “It must have been pretty important for whoever it was to call you at 5:30 a.m.”

  “It was.” Hutch took a belt of coffee. “The chemical and the DNA analyses are back. You were right. The lipstick is your shade. But that’s not all that’s yours. So is the hair.”

  “The hair?” Casey stared. “You mean the second clump of hair tucked under the ribbon on Trish’s neck?”

  “That’s the one. Now how the hell did the killer get it?”

  Casey didn’t have to ponder that question. “I got a haircut the other day. There were pieces of my hair all over the floor. He could have taken it from the floor or the garbage or... Wait a minute.” She clutched Hutch’s arm. “There was a repairman in the salon that day. I didn’t give it a second thought until now. My view was obscured. But he walked by me. He could easily have picked up a piece of my hair.”

  “That means the killer stood right beside you.” A muscle worked in Hutch’s jaw. “Shit. Even with our tight security, he got that close.”

  Casey swallowed hard. “I’ll talk to the salon receptionist, and see what I can find out about the repairman. I doubt she’ll know much, though. He probably just walked in, did whatever he was there to do and left.”

  “I’ll go with you.” That was Hutch’s no-choice tone.

  Casey didn’t argue with it.

  “Maybe the receptionist will remember something about the way he looked,” Hutch suggested. “Glen Fisher was still in prison at that time, so this was killer number two. Anything we can learn about him would be a plus.”

  “The salon opens at nine.”

  “We’ll be waiting at the door.”

  * * *

  Claire gazed around the Princeton dorm room that had been Trish’s home for the school year. The energy here was strong. Trish’s aura was everywhere. This room was her nest. That made it easier to connect with her.

  Claire stood there for a long minute, immersing herself in the energy. Then she walked straight to the desk. Her fingers brushed over the textbooks lying there. She picked up one general psychology book and one small, well-worn copy of Othello.

  “What a sad, ironic choice,” Claire murmured, her tone hollow. “Of all Shakespeare’s works, this was Trish’s favorite—the play in which Othello suffocates Desdemona.” A shiver ran through her. “There’s a lot of Trish in this room. She spent hours studying, sitting right here at this desk. She was a good student. She pushed herself hard.”

  A pained pause, during which Claire pressed her lips together. “More irony. She was working on something that involved psychology. She planned on calling Casey. She was thinking about that last night when she left the library. But it never happened.”

  Ryan wasn’t sure whether or not he was supposed to comment. He had no idea what Claire was seeing, if it was fact or fiction, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a hundred questions. He was clueless about how psychic connections worked. And he didn’t want to break the chain of whatever Claire was feeling. So he kept quiet.

  “The library...” A series of images flashed through Claire’s mind, and that faraway look came into her eyes. “Trish dropped her backpack when they grabbed her. It was still at the crime scene, which was between the library and the chapel. She tried to scream. They chloroformed her. She put up quite a fight. It took both of them to subdue her and get her off campus. The rest of it—the torture, the rape, the strangulation—that all happened in the alley where they found her body. What they did to her was barbaric.” Claire’s lashes were damp with tears.

  Ryan couldn’t remain silent anymore. He touched Claire’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes, I do.” Claire’s breath was coming faster, and she switched to the present tense. “I can make out their forms. I want to see their faces, but I can’t. I can tell that one man is older, in good physical shape, solid. He’s the cruel one when it comes to mind games. The other guy is younger, leaner. He moves faster. And he hurts harder. God, the physical pain—it’s excruciating. Twice. First one man, then the other. Oh, God, Ryan, they’re tearing her apart.”

  Claire was gasping now, but she refused to stop. “She can’t fight them anymore, not when she’s fighting for her life. She can’t breathe. She’s struggling for air.” Reflexively, Claire’s hand went to her throat. “Their hands keep squeezing. Squeezing. The blackness is coming. She’s going limp. Fading away.” She paused, suddenly very still. “It’s done,” she managed. “She’s dead. They’re not even waiting. The older guy is getting the tarp ready. The younger one is doing the artistry—the ribbon, the hair, the lipstick. I can feel both their energies. Why can’t I see them? Why can’t I see them?”

  “Claire, no more.” Ryan couldn’t watch her go through this. He turned her around and gave her a shake. “It’s enough. Stop torturing yourself.”

  Dazed, Claire looked up at him, still caught in her vision. “I can make out their bodies, their builds, their actions—all but their faces.” She blinked, and the vague look faded from her eyes as realization struck. “This is the first time I was able to envision everything. I experienced it from inside the victim’s head and from a third-person angle, as well. I’ve never seen the killers before, not in any way. I’m getting closer. But how do I close the distance, go the rest of the way?”

  She noted the helpless expression on Ryan’s face, and smiled. “Who am I asking? The man who thinks Yoda is human but psychic energy is bullshit?”

  “You’re right, I’m probably the wrong person to ask. Still, logic tells me that your plan to meet with Suzanne Fisher tonight is the next step. Maybe the two experiences back-to-back will give you what you need.”

  Claire gave a thoughtful nod. “While I’m linked in with the killers’ aura, I might be open to receiving more. I also have Glen Fisher’s pen that I took from his apartment. Now that he’s out of prison and taking part in these rapes and murders, I might get something off that.” Her chin came up and she met Ryan’s gaze with a look of sheer determination. “Let’s go home. I have work to do.”

  * * *

  Ryan dropped Claire off at home, and then headed back to the office to see if anything was up. The team was milling around in the conference room, reviewing theories. Ryan described Claire’s experience at Princeton and her plans for that evening.

  “That’s good,” Casey said. “It seems as if we’re all focusing on Suzanne. Especially since we got the chemical breakdown from the lipstick applied to Trish’s mouth.” She went on to tell Ryan about the lip gloss and the lock of hair. “Hutch and I spoke to the salon receptionist this morning. She didn’t remember much. Just a guy in his midtwenties wearing a uniform. She was pretty sure he was on the thin side, but his cap covered up his hair and shielded his face. So there wasn’t much for her to tell us.”

  “We also called the plumbing company he allegedly worked for,” Hutch added. “No servic
e call was requested, so no technician was dispatched. We even checked with the landlord, and with the store that supposedly had a water problem. All fictitious.”

  “You think Suzanne did recon at the salon?” Ryan asked. “It would be seamless. She’d go for a haircut, and figure out the layout of the place while she did. She’d make the appointment under an assumed name. She could even have checked the appointment book to see when Casey was coming in. And she’d have done all of this while Fisher was in prison, so the police wouldn’t be following her yet.”

  “I definitely think that’s the case,” Patrick agreed. “Because the cops are having absolutely no luck with their tail. Suzanne goes to work, does her chores on the way home and then holes up in her apartment. She hasn’t so much as seen a friend, much less her husband. And the wiretapping has yielded nothing, either. According to that, there’s been zero contact between husband and wife. It’s looking more and more like she and Fisher have burn phones. And how do we deal with that? It’s frustrating as hell.”

  Ryan was quiet for a long moment. His thoughts were coming faster than he could keep up with.

  “Suzanne is at work,” he announced abruptly. “So are her neighbors. That gives us all afternoon.” He turned to Marc. “I’ll need your help.”

  “You’ve got it. What do you need me to do?”

  “Give me two hours. Then meet me in my lair.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ryan was hunched over his workbench. Periodically, a plume of white smoke would rise, along with the acrid smell of solder and flux as he connected several miniature circuit boards inside a waterproof, black metal box.

  He’d chosen the box specifically for this purpose.

  He leaned back and inspected his work. “Yes,” he said aloud, congratulating himself on his success. The results were damned good.

  “I take it from your smug smile that you’re ready,” Marc said, standing in the doorway to the lair.

  “Yup. Just need to run a test.” He twisted a co-ax cable onto a spare connector on the wall marked “Time Warner Cable raw” and from there to the co-ax connector inside the box. Next, he connected the power cable to the battery and waited as his contraption came alive.

  Blinking red lights turned solid as the device completed the boot cycle. “Yoda,” Ryan called out. “Initiate sniffing.”

  “Sniffing on,” Yoda responded seconds later.

  With that, Ryan took out his iPhone and placed it on the workbench, then dialed Claire’s cell and pressed speakerphone.

  “Hi.” Claire seemed surprised. Ryan knew full well how involved she was this afternoon. “Everything okay?”

  “Just sniffing you.”

  “Excuse me?” Claire sounded as if she was about to drop the phone.

  “A technical term.” Ryan grinned.

  “Very cute. In that case, I’ll give you my scarf to carry with you. Then you can sniff me whenever you want.”

  Marc nearly choked with laughter.

  “Okay, okay. Sorry I interrupted.” Ryan quickly said bye and hung up.

  “Call intercepted,” Yoda announced. “But I did note Claire’s surprise, and it does make logical sense. Why did you choose her to call after initiating sniffing?”

  “Just a test, Yoda.” Ryan rolled his eyes. “No explanation required. Sniffing off, okay?”

  “Very well, Ryan. Sniffing off,” Yoda replied.

  “Nice pickup line,” Marc commented dryly as he helped Ryan pack up the tools they would need. “Remind me to use it sometime.”

  “Don’t bother.” Ryan ignored the loud inhaling noises Marc was making. “You couldn’t pull it off.”

  “Obviously, neither can you. Claire’s reaction trumped your line.”

  Ryan shot Marc a look. “Let’s put on our workmen’s clothes and get going.”

  * * *

  A half hour later, Marc and Ryan left their van and made their way toward Suzanne’s building.

  As Ryan had predicted, the street was busy but the building was quiet. The entrance door, however, was locked, able to be accessed only by residents.

  Ryan blocked Marc from view, so no passersby could see him pick the lock. A minute or two later, the task was done. Marc carried the extension ladder through the hallway and toward the back door, which led to a common backyard for all the residents of the building. Ryan followed behind with a large toolbox and a black metal box.

  Once in the backyard, Marc raised the ladder and placed it strategically against the brick wall and alongside a metal conduit that ran from top to bottom. Ryan opened the toolbox, removed a leather tool belt and strapped it to his waist. He scaled the ladder, carrying the black metal box. Halfway up the wall, Ryan attached the metal box to the conduit, using large cable ties. Not a permanent solution, but strong enough to suit his purposes. Next, he removed the access cover on the conduit junction and saw the CATV lines. Selecting one, he quickly cut the line, crimped a co-ax connector on each end and inserted a splitter between the two. Ryan reached around to a pouch, removed a portable tester then clipped it to a metal ring on his tool belt. Finally he connected the attached cable to the empty connector on the splitter and glanced at the test gauge.

  Internet tested perfect.

  After disconnecting the test cable, he went down the ladder, drilled a hole in the access cover and inserted a rubber grommet in the hole. Then he made up a short cable to connect his box to the cable company’s line. He inserted it through the grommet. Heading back up the ladder, he connected the cable between his metal box and the splitter. He unlocked his metal box, plugged the loose connector to the + terminal on the battery inside and watched as the series of circuit boards powered up and all status lights turned solid.

  Satisfied, he locked the metal box, reattached the access cover and climbed down the ladder.

  * * *

  Ryan pulled out his iPhone, went to his contacts and selected Yoda. “It’s me again, Yoda. Begin sniffing.”

  Yoda replied, “Sniffing on.”

  “Okay, I have to ask.” Marc glanced from the contraption to Ryan. “What the hell is sniffing and how does this thing of yours work?”

  A corner of Ryan’s mouth lifted in a grin. “I figured your curiosity would eventually win out. Sniffing looks at network traffic by intercepting the flow of information and trying to decipher it. In this case, I’ve married two femtocells—one CDMA, the other GSM—to a Raspberry Pi computer and a cable modem for backhaul to our office.”

  “Well, now that that’s clear...” Marc shook his head in disbelief.

  “Okay, translation,” Ryan said. “I’ve created a short-range cell phone network that will intercept any calls Suzanne makes. The calls will be routed over the internet connection I just tapped into, while a mirror copy of the back-and-forth phone conversation will be sent to our office, where Yoda has just turned on my tracking and analysis system. Let’s see if it works. Try each of the burn phones I gave you.”

  Marc dialed Patrick.

  Yoda’s voice came on. “Call intercepted from 718-123-4567 to 347-123-4567.”

  The latter was Patrick’s cell number. The call went through. Marc could hear a muddied version of his own voice echoing through Ryan’s iPhone, as well as Patrick’s response. He hung up and tried the same thing again, using the other burn phone and placing the call to Casey.

  Yoda responded the same way, this time noting Casey’s as the transfer number. And this time it was Casey’s voice that came from Ryan’s cell phone.

  Marc gave another stunned shake of his head. “You’re good,” he told Ryan. “You amaze even me. Although, thanks to the past half hour, I’ve decided never to use my cell phone again, except to order takeout.”

  Ryan chuckled. “Yeah, this kind of stuff does tend to make you feel paranoid.”

  Marc retracted the ladder while Ryan removed his tool belt and packed everything back into the toolbox. Silently, the two men exited the building and returned with their equipment to the truck.
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br />   The waiting game would now begin.

  * * *

  Since she and Ryan had left Princeton, Claire had been plagued by the strong feeling that she was coming close to some kind of crucial energy that was just out of her reach. She determined that, by going home and shutting herself off to everything but that energy, she’d be able to grasp it. The more zoned in she was, the more productive her talk with Suzanne Fisher would be later.

  The key differences between this coming visit and the earlier one were that, first, the sphere of killings was now tightly wrapped around Casey, with all the pieces locked into place. That pushed Casey’s vulnerability—and the energy she exuded— to its peak. And, second, was the fact that, for the very first time, Claire had come in contact with Glen Fisher’s energy. She’d felt it powerfully when she’d touched Trish’s books, and when she’d envisioned the attack. Having that to work with opened a whole new door.

  Claire turned down the lights in her apartment, drew the blinds and lit a candle or two. She then went to her kitchen drawer and took out the pen from Fisher’s office. It was carefully wrapped in a Ziploc bag, so nothing could come in direct contact with it and compromise its integrity.

  The instant Claire removed the pen and touched it, she felt a jolt of negative energy shoot through her fingertips. The feeling was so strong she almost cried out. Evil. It was pure evil.

  Flashes of imagery ran through her head. Like an old-fashioned movie reel, they played out in fast motion, some of them so grotesque that they couldn’t disappear fast enough for Claire.

  Woman after woman. Rape after rape. Murder after murder. It was a barbaric collage of Fisher’s crimes that zigzagged in order of magnitude, with the more recent ones in chronological order, culminating with the two-man attack on Trish.

  Abruptly, an icy sense of total vulnerability and exposure came over Claire. She felt stripped naked, struggling, helpless, terrified.

  With a soft cry, she dropped the pen. It clattered to the floor, the sound echoing inside her head. Her breath was coming in frightened pants. But she didn’t care. Because now that she wasn’t holding the pen, the vision was fading. She was back in her apartment, safe, with no invasion of her person or her space.