by Andrea Kane
“Don’t look so dubious.” Casey responded to the expression on Ryan’s face. “You’re welcome to call me on the carpet if I get off track.” A quick glance around the room. “You all are.” She opened the file. “I’ve scanned the notes from my two interviews with Daniel Olson, plus all the documents in this file. Yoda?”
“Everything is stored on the Forensic Instincts server dedicated to current investigations,” Yoda replied. “Including several photos of Jan Olson at age nineteen. All the pertinent material is indexed and readily available to the entire team.”
“Good.” Casey nodded. “I’ve divvied up initial assignments.” She looked from Ryan to Marc. “Jan was a typical college kid. She didn’t exactly confide in her father. So he’s not the best source of information. But he did give me the name of Jan’s best friend. It’s Brenda Miller. I don’t know where she is, if she’s married or single or if she still goes by that name. Ryan, you find out. Marc, you go and talk to her. Get the full picture on Jan Olson. Boyfriends, friends, roommates, favorite hangouts, state of mind—anything Brenda can remember. Including enemies.”
“Done,” Marc responded.
“Once Marc has that info, I’ll track down all those people,” Ryan said.
Casey’s gaze flickered to Patrick. “After that, you and Marc split the list and interview each and every person on it. We need to build a real profile on Jan Olson.”
“And fast,” Patrick said. “So, at the same time, Ryan can build a real timeline on her activities.”
“No problem.” Ryan scribbled down some notes. “Besides setting up that database, I’ll start poking into Jan’s college schedules. Her transcripts will be on file. That’ll give me her coursework and her professors. It’s a good start.”
Casey nodded again. “Claire, you, Hero and I are meeting with Daniel Olson early this evening at his home in Brooklyn. Jan grew up there. Her bedroom is still relatively unchanged. Mr. Olson has agreed to let you explore her room and handle any personal articles you’re drawn to. He’s also agreed to let Hero sniff out the area. We’ll make some scent pads. I know it’s been fifteen years. But they still might come in handy.”
“Hell, yes,” Ryan agreed. “Hero can isolate her scent in a dorm or apartment where hundreds of people have lived since. Right, boy?”
The bloodhound gazed at Ryan and let out a quiet woof. He recognized his name. He knew he was being discussed. And he sensed the serious atmosphere in the room. Thanks to his training in the FBI Canine Unit, he’d be as disciplined about performing his job as any other FI team member.
“Casey, did you request your friend Holly’s file?” Marc asked.
“Yes. The precinct is going through their fifteen-year-old cold case files to hunt it down. I should have it sometime today. I doubt there’s anything substantive in it. It’s probably a one-page complaint and a one-page police report. But definitely review it once we have it in our hands. Maybe you’ll see a fact or a correlation there that I missed or have forgotten.”
No one said it aloud, but they all knew that Casey hadn’t forgotten a damned thing about Holly’s murder. She had a steel-trap mind even when it applied to cases she wasn’t personally vested in. And in this situation? She’d recall every minute detail.
“We’ll all review it as soon as it comes in,” Marc replied, tactfully sidestepping the obvious. “We’ll also dig more deeply into Holly’s life. There might be things about her you didn’t know, things that match up with Jan Olson’s life—incidents, activities, people. Ryan’s database will be key in determining that. But, in the interim, if one of us spots a clue or a connection, you’ll hear about it. Also, while we wait, I’m going to review the details of your second interview with Daniel Olson. Maybe I can find another starting point we haven’t considered.”
“And I’m going to do an in-depth search on Holly Stevens.” Ryan stated his intentions up front. “I want to have a workup to go along with your memories and that skinny police report. The more we know about her before the file even reaches us, the faster we can act.”
If Ryan expected Casey to be upset, he was wrong.
“I agree with you,” she told Ryan. “Find out whatever you can. Patrick and I pored over Jan Olson’s file last night, and nothing jumped out at me. You’re right. Holly and I were friends. But she could have been involved in any number of things with any number of people I knew nothing about. So dig hard. If there’s even the slightest parallel between Holly’s and Jan’s lives, I want to pounce on it.”
* * *
Tim Grant was a prison guard at Auburn Correctional Facility. He didn’t make a hell of a lot of money, and he had two daughters in high school whom he wanted to put through college. Lacy was an All-State soccer player and Sarah’s grades were sky-high. But in today’s world, neither was enough to ensure a scholarship to a good school. So he worked a second job for a private security company. One of the guys he worked with, Bob Farrell, was a retired NYPD detective from the Twenty-sixth Precinct, the precinct in which Columbia University fell. Bob had a beautiful vacation house in the Thousand Islands, and a new young wife who spent money faster than his retirement checks could pay the credit card companies. Not to mention his whopping alimony checks and four grandkids he liked to spoil. So he needed extra cash—lots of it.
Bob had kept up his ties to the precinct and nurtured relationships with others, more than enough so that he could gain information about current cases—especially ones that precinct captains were way too busy to care about. The Jan Olson case fell into that category, particularly since it had been farmed out to Forensic Instincts. So when Tim asked him to dig into the investigation and find out what was going on, it was an easy assignment to fulfill. And it came as no surprise that the information was being requested, given that part of his job was to keep tabs on whatever Forensic Instincts was doing.
Passing along whatever he learned to Tim was a welcome task, considering the generous payment he got in return. He knew that Tim made a bundle from the arrangement, and that was just fine with him. After all, Tim was the one who took the risk and delivered the information. Bob didn’t know the name of the prisoner who received it. And he didn’t want to know. He had a creepy feeling that the guy pulling the strings was one scary felon.
Tim was thinking much the same thing as he approached Glen Fisher’s cell that afternoon. He glanced inside, caught a glimpse of Fisher lying on his cot and found his gaze drawn to the sketch the inmate was working on. The minute he saw it, he flinched, wishing he’d never looked. The perverse drawing was like all the others. It depicted the figure of a woman sprawled on the ground, covered by more slashing strokes of bright red than his stomach could take. The guy was a psycho. Tim didn’t doubt it for a minute. He not only saw it in his drawings, he felt it every time Fisher stared him down, emotionlessly reiterating what was expected of him. The look in Fisher’s eyes was terrifying—empty as death. With his usual sense of dread, Tim did what he had to, comforting himself with the fact that this nutcase was never getting out of here and could therefore do nothing with the information he was given but indulge his sick fantasies. At least that was what Tim prayed.
“Hey,” he said quietly, standing close to the cell.
Fisher rolled over and rose from his cot, putting down his drawing materials and walking over to face Tim through the iron bars.
“What do you have for me?” he asked—a demand, not a question.
“The Stevens girl’s file is being dug up from the Twenty-sixth Precinct’s cold cases and sent to Forensic Instincts,” Tim reported in a low tone. “It might take a little time, since the crime happened fifteen years ago. In the meantime, Casey Woods talked to Olson again last night. From what I’m hearing, she’s definitely looking for some kind of connection between the past and the present.”
“Good. That’ll keep her busy. What about the cops?”
Tim shook his head. “There’s no buzz at the Twenty-sixth Precinct about any connections to recent crimes.
The same goes for the Ninth,” he added, referring to the precinct that had jurisdiction over Tompkins Square—the district where Fisher had been set up and arrested.
“So Casey Woods is spinning her wheels.” Fisher shrugged. “Just as well. It’ll kill time. And make things interesting...”
He didn’t elaborate. And Tim didn’t ask.
Fisher continued to study him with that lethal stare. “I hear that things are going well for you. If that Lacy of yours keeps scoring goals like she did at last night’s soccer game, you can spend my money on a nice vacation for you and the missus, because you won’t need it for college. And Sarah? Between her GPA and that gorgeous red hair I keep hearing about, she’s got an equally bright future. Incredible daughters you’ve got. Pretty, too. You should be very proud—and very careful. It’s a scary world out there.”
Tim’s fingers curled so tightly around the cell bars that his knuckles turned white. He wished he could choke the life out of Fisher.
“Calm down,” Fisher said, his lips curving a bit at Tim’s reaction. “You already have high blood pressure. You don’t want to make it worse. Besides, not to worry. You’re doing your job. I’ve already arranged to have a payment wired to your bank account tomorrow.” A long, drawn-out pause. “But we’re just getting started. I want you to keep on this every waking minute.”
Tim said nothing. He just turned and walked away.
He might be protecting his family.
But he had a sick feeling that he was digging himself an early grave.
Chapter Four
Daniel Olson’s house was a typical home in the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn. A two-story Cape Cod on a quiet side street, it sat on a small parcel of land between two similar houses, and had a tiny front lawn and a stone pavement leading to the front door.
Olson opened the door himself when Casey, Claire and Hero arrived, along with a tote bag and their STU-100—or “canine vacuum,” as Ryan called it—from which Casey would make scent pads for Hero. Casey introduced Claire and then Hero, both of whom Mr. Olson had expected.
Claire shook the older man’s hand, almost wincing with pain upon contact. Casey had described his condition to the whole FI team. Still, Claire could feel death emanate from every pore of his body. She also felt a wave of bleakness when she looked at him. It didn’t take a psychic to know that the man had very little time left. He was frail and wan, with deep, dark circles under his eyes. But the sadness in those eyes had nothing to do with death, which Claire sensed he’d made peace with. It had everything to do with finding closure with regard to his daughter.
“Come in,” he invited them, stepping aside so they could cross the threshold into the foyer. “Can I offer you anything? Maybe some water for your dog?”
“Nothing, thank you.” Casey spoke up for the three of them. The last thing they wanted was for this poor ill man to wait on them. “As I told you last night, we just want to see Jan’s room, physically handle anything of hers that had special meaning and make scent pads for Hero. We’ll stay only as long as necessary.”
Olson picked up on the compassion in Casey’s voice and gave a slight shake of his head. “I appreciate your consideration. But please, take your time. Anything that can help you, any opportunity you see that can aid you in finding out what happened to Jan—please take it. Quite frankly, you truly are my last hope.”
“We’ll do everything we can.” Casey could already feel the knot in her stomach tightening. She wanted to dash upstairs and uncover their answers in one fell swoop. It wasn’t going to happen. She had to be patient. But she wasn’t going to fail, either. She was going to give this man the closure he needed, and maybe find that same closure for herself.
They all filed upstairs. Mr. Olson led them to the bedroom on the left side of the corridor that belonged to Jan, gesturing for them to go in. He himself hesitated in the doorway, glancing from Claire to Casey.
“I don’t know how this works,” he confessed. “Is it better if I leave you to your own devices? Or is it better if I stay? Whatever Ms. Hedgleigh’s process is, I don’t want to interfere.”
Claire gave him that gentle smile of hers. “Please stay,” she said. “I might have questions for you. If I’m drawn to a particular object, I want you to tell me about it—everything you remember about its place in Jan’s life. You’re her father. You helped raise her. You’d be surprised how helpful your input can be.”
The older man sighed. “I wish Jan’s mother was still alive. She’d remember far more than I do. She was a traditional housewife. She believed in staying home during Jan’s younger years. She was so much more familiar with the details of her life than I am.”
“Jan is an only child?” Claire asked, careful to use the present tense. There was no point in upsetting Mr. Olson, not until they had concrete proof that Jan was dead.
He nodded. “We wanted more children. But it wasn’t meant to be.”
Casey gazed at the room as Claire made her way slowly around. It was the bedroom of an average teenage girl—white furniture, peacock blue walls, a matching comforter and curtains and possessions that ranged from the eye shadow and lip gloss of a young adult to the figurines and stuffed animals of a young girl.
“When did Jan last redecorate?” Casey asked.
“In high school,” her father replied. “The furniture hasn’t changed, just the arrangement of the pieces. She painted the walls and picked out the matching bed and window coverings. But she kept her favorite things from childhood.”
“Is this one of them?” Claire was holding a child’s jewelry box, which, when opened, displayed a little spinning ballerina.
Olson nodded. “That was a gift from her grandparents. She got it when she was six. The jewelry that went inside it changed over the years, but the box itself stayed the same, right down to its position on her dresser.”
Claire was only half listening. She wore a look of intense concentration. “Happy memories,” she murmured. “Lots of warm, positive energy.” She fingered a few of the pieces inside—a slim bangle bracelet, a silver chain necklace, a pair of gold stud earrings—then placed the box back on the dresser and turned to squat beside a book bag. “When did she get this?” she asked, letting her fingertips brush the dark maroon canvas.
Mr. Olson’s expression clouded. “Right before she left for college. Her mother and I used to tease her that it weighed more than she did because of the number of books she dragged around.”
“How did it get to your house?” Casey asked at once. “Did Jan leave it here on her last trip home, or was it returned to you after she disappeared?”
“The latter.” He swallowed. “Columbia returned it to us when they cleaned out her dorm room.” He gestured at the book bag. “Feel free to look inside. Lord only knows that I have, dozens of times. Textbooks, notebooks and her calendar are all you’ll find. I searched every nook and cranny.”
“A calendar?” Casey jumped on that one. “You didn’t mention that in our last conversation. And it wasn’t in the material you brought me.”
Olson sighed. “Like I said, I pored over it time after time. There’s nothing in there but assignments that were due. No names, no specific dates, nothing. I saw no purpose in bringing it. If you feel otherwise, if you think I might have missed something, it’s yours to review.”
Casey nodded. She was watching Claire as she unzipped the book bag and searched the contents. She recognized the expression on Claire’s face. And it didn’t mean anything good.
“We’ll take it with us,” Casey responded. “Plus whatever else Claire zeroes in on.”
Claire raised her head. “Do you have any other items that were returned to you by the university?” she asked.
“Jan’s clothes. Her books. Anything she left at the school.” Mr. Olson spoke painfully. “I’m not a material person. When Jan didn’t come home for a year, I donated most of her clothes to our church, thinking she could buy new ones when she returned. But if you’re looking for whateve
r’s left of her wardrobe, it would be hanging in her closet.” He pointed to the double sliding pocket doors.
Claire opened them and studied a few articles of clothing, reaching for an occasional sleeve or collar. After a time, and in a deliberate manner, she squatted, picking up a pair of well-worn running shoes. “She wore these a lot. And not just to get around campus. She was an athletic girl.”
“Yes,” Mr. Olson said. “She played on several teams in high school. I’m not sure how many of them she continued on with at Columbia. Her workload was steep. But, yes, she wore those running shoes constantly. They were too beaten up to donate to charity.”
“I see,” Claire murmured. And she was clearly seeing a lot more than just the objects themselves. She didn’t comment aloud, just turned the running shoes over in her hands and studied the soles. Then she glanced back at the book bag. Her fingertips skimmed Jan’s belongings in a tentative, searching manner. Finally, she stopped. Still clutching the running shoes and book bag, she rose. “May I take these with me?”
“Of course,” Mr. Olson said. “Why? Do you sense something from them?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Claire was hedging. Mr. Olson didn’t see it. But Casey did. Claire was picking up something specific—and negative—from those particular objects.
“I’d also like to take the jewelry box. It’s energy is so positive, it’s an ideal means of comparison.” There was clearly more to that than Claire was saying. But, again, Casey remained silent. She waited for Mr. Olson’s nod, and watched Claire add the jewelry box to her growing collection of Jan’s possessions. “What about the rest of Jan’s textbooks and notebooks? Whatever she wasn’t carrying around?”
Mr. Olson pointed at a cardboard box that was nestled in the corner of the closet. “Anything like that would be in there. You’re welcome to go through it.”
“I’d like to take it with me,” Claire said. “I want to sit quietly by myself and go through all the contents of the box as slowly and thoroughly as possible. Rushing the process would be a mistake. I need to get as strong an awareness of Jan as possible.”
