It begins with a chilling phone call to Casey Woods. And ends with another girl dead.

College-age girls with long red hair. Brutally murdered, they’re posed like victims in a film noir. Each crime scene is eerily similar to the twisted fantasy of a serial offender now serving thirty years to life—a criminal brought to justice with the help of Forensic Instincts.

Call. Kill. Repeat. But the similarities are more than one psychopath’s desire to outdo another. As more red-haired victims are added to the body count, it becomes clear that each one has been chosen because of a unique connection to Casey—a connection that grows closer and closer to her.

Now the Forensic Instincts team must race to uncover the identity of a serial killer before his ever-tightening circle of death closes in on Casey as the ultimate target. As the stalker methodically moves in on his prey, his actions make one thing clear: he knows everything about Casey. And Casey realizes that this psychopath won’t stop until he makes sure she’s dead.

The Stranger You Know

Andrea Kane

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Mom and Dad—

always in our hearts, forever our nucleus, and forever connected.

I love you and miss you both more than words can say.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

April

Offices of Forensic Instincts, LLC

Tribeca, Manhattan, New York

Just one more body.

But this one had a name. And a grieving father who needed answers before he died.

Casey Woods shoved the dozens of newspaper clippings that she’d collected into the thick file and slapped it shut. Then she leaned back in her chair, pressing her fingers to her closed eyelids.

It was Sunday, just after dawn. The streets were sleepy, occupied only by ambitious joggers and early morning coffee drinkers headed for the nearest Starbucks.

The brownstone that housed the private investigative firm Forensic Instincts was quiet.

Casey—the company president—was alone in the building, other than her bloodhound, Hero, who was stretched out by her feet, resting but alert. Casey had been up and working all night. Sleep wasn’t on her agenda. Work was.

As usual, she sat at the large second-floor conference room table, her notes sprawled in front of her. There were plenty of smaller offices to choose from in the four-story brownstone. She could even have worked in bed, since the fourth floor was her apartment. But the main conference room infused her with a sense of discipline and productivity she didn’t get anywhere else.

She needed to be productive now.

She wasn’t doing a hell of a good job.

Purposefully, she picked up the notes she’d printed out last night after her client meeting and reread them. She was unnerved, not by the meeting but by the entire case. That didn’t make her happy. She liked being in control. She almost always was.

This time was different. It wasn’t because this new assignment had come from the NYPD rather than from the client himself, but because it established a connection that was both unexpected and shocking. Not in the eyes of the police, who would have no reason to spot the common thread. But in Casey’s eyes? Instant recognition. A major punch in the gut, and a throwback to a time of her life that had been traumatic.

The tragedy remained unbearably painful, even after fifteen years.

And now? A different case. A different victim. But the same university. The same year. The same basic physical descriptions. One victim was murdered. One was missing—possibly murdered.

How could all that be a coincidence?

The murder, which was branded in Casey’s memory, had been tagged a cold case. Still, for her, it had never gone away. Now, out of the blue, it was back, albeit from an entirely different angle, centered on an entirely different girl. The enormity of it had hit her hard.

The first case—her case, the one involving her friend—had been the driving force that ultimately led her to form Forensic Instincts. She’d never forgotten, never gotten over it. And now, after talking to Mr. Olson last night, seeing how gaunt he was, reading the anguish in his hollow eyes, she found her own memories crashing back....

Casey nearly leaped from her chair as a firm hand was planted on her shoulder.

Instinctively, she whirled around to defend herself. Hero leaped up and began to bark at her abrupt reaction.

“Hey, both of you, take it easy. It’s me.” Patrick Lynch, one of her valued FI team members, walked around the conference table and lowered himself into a chair. Hero followed, and Patrick leaned down to scratch his ears. The human-scent evidence dog—the sole canine FI team member—sat down to enjoy the attention.

Simultaneously, a wall of floor-to-ceiling video screens began to glow, and a long green line formed across each panel, pulsing from left to right. “Good morning, Patrick,” a computerized voice greeted him. The voice emanated from everywhere in the room, bending each line into the contours of the voice panel. “Casey, I apologize for not alerting you to Patrick’s arrival before you became alarmed. But you did put me in sleep mode. I responded the instant I sensed activity.” A pause. “Your heart rate has accelerated. There is no need.”

“I can see that now, Yoda,” Casey responded dryly. “A minute ago I thought I was being attacked.” She’d long since ceased questioning the artificial intelligence system built by team member Ryan McKay. She just accepted that Ryan was a genius and Yoda was omniscient.

Patrick did the same. “Not to worry, Yoda,” he said, addressing the voice. “I have a feeling Casey wasn’t in a good place even before I walked in.”

“Correct,” Yoda confirmed. “She is under duress.”

Casey didn’t deny it. “You should be home with Adele,” she told Patrick. “Your wife will have my head if she thinks I’ve got you slaving away on a Sunday morning without a damned good reason.”

“Adele knows where I am, and she’s fine with it.” Patrick studied Casey’s expression. “Besides, I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you drove in from New Jersey to visit, since you don’t already spend enough hours at work?”

“No. I followed a hunch and made a phone call to Marc.”

Marc Devereaux was Casey’s first hire for Forensic Instincts, and her right hand. He was a former navy SEAL, former FBI agent and former member of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, Virginia. He was the total package, and he’d been with Casey from the beginning.

“You haven’t been yourself in days,” Patrick continued. “Not since I introduced this case. Now I realize why. Marc was reluctant, but he finally filled me in on what he thought I should know. So here I am. I’m sorry, Casey. I never would have brought this case to the table if I had a clue what it meant to you personally, or what it would do to you.”

“How could you have? Talk about a bizarre coincidence. What are the chances of that happening? And now that it has, my personal feelings shouldn’t factor into it. The case is important. It has to be investigated.”

Patrick arched a brow. “This is me you’re talking to. Who’s more apt to understand your internal conflict and ambivalence?”

Casey tucked a strand of shoulder-length red hair behind her ear. Patrick was right. He’d understand better than anyone. He’d lived through it firsthand.

He’d been an FBI agent for over thirty years before coming on board at Forensic Instincts. His joining the team had been the direct result of a child kidnapping case that had haunted him since early in his career and had resurfaced in a new form that was investigated by FI. The emotional reverberations had eaten away at him.

“This situation is different,” Casey said. “You had no idea you were treading on my Achilles’ heel. There’s no need to feel guilty.”

“I don’t feel guilty. I feel responsible.”

“You shouldn’t. Captain Sharp is your friend.”

Patrick nodded. He’d spent a chunk of his FBI time working the Joint Robbery Task Force with NYPD Captain Horace Sharp. They’d become tight. So when Horace had been approached by a dying neighbor, Daniel Olson, begging him for closure, convinced that his long-missing daughter had been murdered and pleading with him to find her body, Horace had agreed to try—if Forensic Instincts agreed to work the case jointly with his detectives. FI had the money and the manpower to give to this case-that-wasn’t-a-case. The NYPD didn’t. As a result, the retainer was an IOU—a favor to be redeemed sometime in the future. And the stipulation was that Forensic Instincts would work with the police detectives, not alone.

So, yes, Patrick had brought the case to the FI team. But from the minute they’d sat around the table discussing it, he’d picked up on some weird vibes. He’d waited patiently for someone to fill him in. No one did. Not in three days. So he’d finally taken the bull by the horns and called Marc. And now he got it. This was close to home for Casey—maybe too close.

Watching her now, seeing how conflicted she was, only substantiated his concerns.

“Should I tell Horace we can’t help Mr. Olson?”

“No.” Casey gave a hard shake of her head. “You shouldn’t. Our team has the skills. I have the insight. My reaction is my problem. Not yours.” She paused for a moment. “But at least now you know the reason for my crazy behavior. I should have told you myself. I just wasn’t ready.”

Casey rose, walking over to the windows and folding her arms across her chest. “I’m not handling this well. It pisses me off that, after all this time, I’m still so emotionally affected.”

“Stop beating yourself up. It is what it is. Delving back into the past is both a blessing and a curse. It reopens old wounds. It makes them bleed. But sometimes it also helps them heal.”

A hint of a smile. “When did you become so philosophical?”

“It’s called the voice of experience.”

“Yes, well, your experience held you emotionally hostage for thirty-two years.”

“You’re right. It did. Which is precisely why I’m the person you should be talking to.”

Casey couldn’t dispute that. “In your case, you found closure. I thought I’d found some level of closure with my case, too—when they located Holly’s body. But I was wrong. I guess I’ll never get closure. Because the bastard who raped and killed Holly when we were in college was never caught. And that’s what I’d need to find peace.”

“I know.” Patrick, as always, was blunt. “I also know that might never happen.”

“Unless it turns out that Jan Olson was murdered and that her killer is the same offender who raped and killed Holly,” Casey said quietly. “It’s possible, Patrick. The facts are closely related. Maybe our investigation into Jan Olson’s disappearance will lead us to Holly’s killer.”

Patrick didn’t look surprised by Casey’s theory. He’d obviously expected her mind to veer in that direction. It was natural, given the circumstances. “I hear you,” he responded. “And I’m not arguing that the parallels are strong. But identifying the murderer after fifteen years? It’s a long shot. And we were hired to find a body, not an offender.”

“You don’t need to remind me.” Casey’s jaw tightened. “Our job is to find the body of Daniel Olson’s daughter. To help him find peace. Stage four pancreatic cancer is a death sentence. He’s only got weeks or months to live.”

“By giving him what he needs, we’ll be paying tribute to your friend Holly,” Patrick said. “You could look at it that way.”

“My head knows that’s true. But I’m having problems separating my head from my heart. I need objectivity in order to run this investigation.” She turned to frown at Patrick. “And if you suggest that I take a backseat and let you head up this case—or worse, Marc, Ryan or Claire—I’ll punch you first and call you a hypocrite second.”

“Then lucky for me I wasn’t going to do that. You’ve got a mean right hook.” Patrick gave a wry smile—one that rapidly faded. “But, Casey, you’re thrown by this. Badly. You’ve got to work through that. Why don’t you tell me the details about your friend Holly? Marc was his usual tight-lipped self. He gave me just the need-to-know basics. You’ve discussed the details with him, and maybe even Ryan and Claire, but I think, in this situation, I’m the one who can help you focus.”

“Marc knows more than anyone, except Hutch. Hutch is the only one I’ve totally broken down to.”

Marc had introduced her to Hutch—Supervisory Special Agent Kyle Hutchinson—who was currently with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, and who’d become the man in Casey’s life.

“Okay, so Hutch and Marc know,” Patrick acknowledged. “Now it’s time you talked to a kindred spirit—me.”

“You could have researched the case yourself,” Casey pointed out. “You certainly have the contacts.”

“You’re right. I do. But they could only supply me with facts. They couldn’t offer me your perspective. Only you can. So I’m listening.”

Casey nodded, walking over to make two cups of black coffee from their Keurig, then returning to the conference room table.

She handed a cup to Patrick, then took her own cup and sat down.

“I was a freshman at Columbia. My friend Holly Stevens lived off campus. She was a loner, very shy and reserved. She had a few close friends. I was one of them. We met in Psych 101 and hit it off. One day, she told me she sensed she was being followed, even stalked. I urged her to go to the police. She did. They had nothing solid to work with, so they arranged for a few patrol cars to keep an eye on her apartment. It wasn’t enough.”

Casey drew a slow, unsteady breath, staring into her coffee as she spoke. “Holly’s body was found wrapped in a canvas tarp and tossed in a Dumpster a few weeks later. She’d been raped and murdered. It was a nightmare—one that could have been avoided with the proper resources.”

“You weren’t those resources, Casey. Not back then.”

“But I was the one Holly confided in. Irrational as it might seem, I always felt that maybe I missed an opportunity to prevent what happened.”

“That irrationality is what’s getting in your way now. Lose it. You may not have had the right resources to do what should’ve been done then, but you have the right tools for what you need to do now. You have Forensic Instincts.”

“Which is why I can’t let this case slip through my fingers. Not that I blame the police for what happened to Holly. I don’t. They did all they could. But a private investigative firm with our expertise could have done more. We could have focused our manpower and our skills on her predicament, dug deeper, put enough security on her to keep her safe. But, as you said, we didn’t exist, not then. Now we do. And now I’ve been approached to help a dying man find his daughter’s body—a man whose daughter could very well have been killed by the same psycho pervert who killed Holly. The time frame fits. The location fits. The victimology fits. If I’m right, that would make this bastard a repeat offender, maybe a serial killer. Which paints an even more gruesome story. He was never caught. Jan Olson’s body was never found. How many others were there?”

“That’s a question we might or might not be able to answer.” Patrick took a deep swallow of coffee, continuing to share his thoughts with Casey in a calm, straightforward manner. “I know you want to go back and solve it all—catch the killer, assign names to all his victims and provide closure for all the families involved. Maybe we can make that happen. I don’t know. What I do know is that the best way to increase our odds is to fulfill our obligation.”

Follow the case that’s been handed to us. Find Jan Olson’s body.

“That’s how it was with me, remember? Start with the present, step back into the past. This process is going to take you down some dark alleys. You’re going to lose a lot of sleep and relive some painful memories. But you need this. Otherwise, you would have squashed the case the minute I brought it to the team. You knew it was too close to home, that you probably should refer it out. But you didn’t. You’re the president of Forensic Instincts. You made the call for us to take on the case—and you made it without missing a beat.”

“You’re right,” Casey conceded. “I couldn’t have lived with myself if I didn’t see this through. For many reasons. Daniel Olson is dying. And if his theory is correct, if his daughter really did suffer the same fate as Holly, then she was raped, killed and dumped...somewhere. No father should have to die with those kinds of unanswered questions, and without his daughter’s body being found. Plus, if the offender really was the same bastard who did that to Holly, then I have twice the motivation to solve this.”

“Agreed.” Patrick reached over and scooped up Casey’s notes. “So let’s review your interview with Daniel Olson. Then we’ll go over all the newspaper articles you compiled. I got a glimpse of them. You dug up everything, not only about Jan’s disappearance, but about the disappearances of all young women who lived in Manhattan during a five-year time span.”

“I’m going to give the whole pile of them to Ryan and have him set up a database. But I know it’s a stretch. Most of those young women probably just packed up and moved.”

“Well, it’s up to us to figure that out. So let’s go. If anything rings a bell or recalls a memory that in any way relates to Holly, we’ll zero in on it. Go with your gut. No one has better instincts than you do.”

Casey smiled. “You’d make a great life coach.”

“Not really. I’ve just been where you are. It took me thirty-two years to get my answers. Maybe we can come up with yours in half that time. Let’s figure out what happened to Jan Olson. And let’s find her.”

Chapter Two

Glen Fisher lay on his cot in the cell of Auburn State Correctional Facility, a maximum security prison in upstate New York.

He folded his hands behind his head and stared up at the concrete ceiling. First, six weeks in Downstate Correctional Facility undergoing all those ridiculous evaluations and test. And now? Seven months, two weeks and four days in here. More than half a year of his life shot to hell. Thanks to that firecrotch.

One day blended into the next. A meal. His job in the mail room. Another meal. Exercise. Mail again. Back to his cell. A gloomy little six-by-eight hole with a sink, a toilet, a cot, a shelf and bars that separated him from a dark hall equipped with a centrally controlled tear gas system.

Mundane. Boring. A waste of his life.

His lawyer had been a wimp. He should’ve driven home the coercion plea and gotten him off. Instead, the judge had thrown out the defendant’s plea, the evidence had been ruled admissible and here he was, facing a life sentence.

His lawyer was long gone. Good riddance. Representing himself was the smartest thing he could do. He continually found new loopholes. He’d filed another appeal last week. Eventually, maybe those idiots on the parole board would listen to him. All they kept reiterating over and over like some stupid litany was the list of rapes and homicides he’d been convicted of. They couldn’t see that he’d done the world a favor.

Considering law enforcement’s one-dimensional stupidity, he should have kept his fucking mouth shut when he’d been cornered. Even if that Neanderthal from Forensic Instincts had started the ball rolling by practically killing him in the alley. Uncharacteristically, Glen had been caught off guard.

Never again.

They’d found the bodies just where he said they’d be. And the jury—not one of whom had an ounce of brains—had labeled him scum. They’d focused only on the words rape and murder. Couldn’t see past them. Couldn’t know what he knew about those whores. Who they were. What they were. What they did to their victims.

The entire system was useless. It was up to him to bypass it and finish what he’d started.

He pulled out his drawing tablet and crayons and began another detailed sketch. It slowly came alive. Even the outline excited him. Especially when he made sweeping crimson strokes across the page.

A smug smile twisted his lips. Funny thing about life. It had a way of evening out.

He might have lost his freedom.

But Casey Woods was about to lose a whole lot more.

Columbia University

John Jay Hall

Cramming for exams sucked ass.

Nick Anderson opened his dorm room door, gazing sympathetically at the regular crowd—a half dozen of his bleary-eyed dorm mates. They all traipsed in and stuffed five-dollar bills into his empty beer stein to chip in for the pizza that was about to be delivered. The head count had been taken at around ten o’clock. Now it was almost midnight. They’d studied enough. Their brains were fried. It was time to stuff their faces, drink some beer and unwind.

“Did you get pepperoni?” Donna Altwood asked. She’d just come out of the shower. She was wearing damp sweats, with a wet mane of long blond hair hanging down her back. She looked scrubbed clean, stressed and cranky. Then again, she was premed, and studied more hours than there were in a day.

“Yup,” Nick assured her. “One deluxe, one half pepperoni, half sausage and one plain. You can tip me later.”

“Nice,” Charlie Green muttered. “The sausage and the pepperoni will give me heartburn. That’ll keep me awake. And if I’m awake, I’ll study.” He set down the case of Miller Lite he’d brought, since it was his turn to contribute the beer.

“No, you won’t,” Dominick Peretti said. “You’ll get wasted and sleep through your classes.” He grinned. Dom didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He was just Dom—direct, comfortable in his own skin. So no one was offended by his comments.

“Getting wasted sounds good.” Amy Sheehan wasn’t smiling. Then again, she didn’t need to. She was one of those girls every other girl wanted to look like—great body, long, thick black hair, huge blue eyes. Worse, she wasn’t even arrogant about it. That made it really hard to hate her. “My brain’s not taking in anything tonight. It’s done. So I might as well be, too, right?”

Kenny Bishop didn’t say anything. He rarely did. He didn’t hang out with this crowd, except to eat pizza and drink beer. He didn’t really hang out with anyone. He was a loner. Brilliant. Weird. And in his own world. Maybe he was high half the time. No one knew. Or asked. He just sat on the floor, his head against the bed frame, his curly hair a dark mop. His dark eyes were hooded but somehow intense as he watched the rest of the group talk and complain. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself. But he didn’t bother anyone, and he always paid promptly, so no one objected to him being there.

“My bio professor is a tool,” Nick complained. “The only one he makes sense to is him.”

“Serves you right,” Donna retorted. “You satisfied your science requirements two semesters ago. Who the hell takes advanced bio when they don’t have to?”

“Spoken like a dedicated future doctor,” Dom said, rising to get himself a beer.

Donna raised her brows. “I have to take those courses,” she reminded Dom. “Nick’s a history major. He doesn’t have to suffer.”

“True.”

“Have you ever studied ancient Greece?” Nick asked. “Trust me, that’s suffering.”

A knock interrupted the conversation. “Ah, finally. Provisions.” Nick headed over and opened the door. “Hey, Robbie.” He greeted the solid guy in the striped Pizza King T-shirt who was standing on the threshold with three steaming boxes. “You got here just in time. We were either going to starve or eat one another.”

“That’s pretty harsh.” Robbie grinned. “I’m glad I got here before any of that happened.” He looked a little like the Cheshire cat, stripes and all. Only he couldn’t perform magic, so he was paying his way through grad school by working late-night pizza delivery shifts.

“Hi, guys,” he said, glancing into the room and waving.

They all waved back. They liked Robbie, and they knew the feeling was mutual. And why not? They called three times a week to order pizza or hot sandwiches, and they always gave him a good tip. Nice frequency, nice amount of cash. And with the price of grad school credits skyrocketing, every little bit helped.

Robbie passed the boxes to Nick, along with a white bag. “Almost closing time means leftover garlic bread,” he explained. “I figured you’d want it.”

“Want it?” Dom piped up. “Pass it this way. I’ll make it disappear before we even settle up.”

Robbie chuckled. “Now why did I know you’d be the first voice I heard?”

“Because you know me. Garlic bread and I are like this.” Dom held up two crossed fingers.

“I wish I could say eat it all, there’ll be more pizza for us,” Donna said. “But you’re a bottomless pit. You’ll swallow all the garlic bread and half a pizza before I can finish my first slice.” She sighed. “It sucks that guys can eat like that and never gain a pound.”

“It also sucks that we chip in as much cash as they do, and eat a fraction of the amount,” Amy noted.

“True. I vote that we revisit the contribution breakdown,” Donna said.

“Forget it. I’m broke.” Nick placed the pizza boxes on his desk and tossed the bag of garlic bread to Dom. “Save some for the rest of us. And don’t expect us to wait. We’re eating all these pizzas, including your share, if you don’t hurry up.”

There was a tentative knock on the open door, and Josh Lochman poked his head around the corner. He was the star linebacker for the Columbia Lions and was built like a young Arnold Schwarzenegger, but with a thick head of dark hair and equally dark eyes. Josh wasn’t a frequent participant in these late-night pizza breaks, but he did drop by once in a while. And he never came empty-handed.

“Hey, guys,” he greeted them. He held up an extrawide pizza box, simultaneously clapping Robbie on the shoulder. “These calzones were delivered by the man himself a few minutes ago. Four extralarge. After a two-hour workout, I could eat them all myself. But I won’t. Am I welcome?”

“By all means.” Nick beckoned him in. “Join the party. Anyone bearing food is welcome.”

While Josh settled on the floor, Nick picked up the contributions container. He already knew how much the bill was; the cheery voice at the other end of the phone had told him when he ordered. He counted out the cash, then added twenty percent for Robbie.

“Here you go, my friend.” He handed it to him. “Although I could tell you a dozen things more worthwhile to spend it on than school.”

Robbie took the cash gratefully. He stuffed the bills in his money pouch and the rest in his pocket. “I’m sure you could. But I’m hell-bent on that degree.” He waved. “Thanks, guys. You have a good night.”

That wasn’t an issue. The minute the door shut, they attacked the pizzas, calzones and garlic bread as if they hadn’t eaten in days.

“Hey,” Amy complained. “Give Donna and me a head start next time. We can’t chew as fast as you male animals.”

“No chance.” Dom grinned. “Be happy I shared the garlic bread. I could have eaten the whole thing.”

Charlie glanced up, swallowing his mouthful of sausage pie. “Where’s Kendra?” he asked. “She said she’d be coming by on her way back from the library.”

Donna shrugged. “You know Kendra. She probably got involved in a philosophy book and lost track of time. But we’ll save her some pizza, right, guys?”

The guys exchanged reluctant glances. “We’ll give her fifteen more minutes. Then all bets are off,” Dom decided for them.

“Fine.” Donna rolled her eyes. “It’s touching how far you’re willing to go for a friend.”

Ten minutes later, Kendra opened the door and hurried in. She looked the way she always looked—rumpled and rushed. Her curly auburn hair was tousled, and her eyes were glazed from too much reading. She yanked off her coat, tossed it somewhere and grabbed the closest pizza box.

“What’s left—one slice or two?” she asked dryly.

“We fought for you,” Donna told her. “So there might be some hope of leftovers. What kept you—Plato?”

Kendra shook her head. “In this case, no. I was actually in the parking lot. Some sedan blocked in Robbie’s pizza delivery truck and he was having trouble getting out. I couldn’t see the driver because the windows were tinted. But whoever it was, he or she was in no hurry to move, and didn’t catch on until Robbie tapped on the window. The sketchbag only shifted over enough for Robbie to inch his way out and then went back to whatever he was doing.”

“Probably texting someone,” Amy said in disgust. “I feel sorry for delivery people. Same with maintenance workers. People treat them like they’re invisible. The hired help. It sucks.”

Kendra nodded. “I was half tempted to go over and rip the driver a new one. But Robbie waved me away, like it was no big deal. He’s too sweet for his own good. Anyway, he just drove off and probably chalked it up to another crappy aspect of the job.”

“Probably.”

They dropped the subject and returned to the important issue at hand—eating.

But outside, the dark sedan continued to sit there, motor running, the driver intently staring at their window.

Chapter Three

The entire Forensic Instincts team gathered around the conference room table, ready to begin their day and their morning briefing.

As of now, the team consisted of five members, six counting Hero. Marc and Ryan had been with Casey from the onset. Patrick and Claire had come on board last year, around the same time that Hero had been retired from the FBI Canine Unit and Casey had adopted him. Each team member was extraordinary in his or her own way. Casey was the behaviorist, whose sharp mind and keen instincts about people, their body language, their responses and reactions, was the cornerstone of Forensic Instincts. Marc was a true right hand—brilliant at everything from his mental to his psychological to his physical capabilities. Ryan was both a strategic and a technical genius. Claire was a gifted intuitive, a psychic in the eyes of most, although she hated that term, and preferred to refer to herself as a claircognizant. Patrick was a lifelong trained investigator. And Hero had an olfactory sense that was incomparable.

They were a very tight group, a real professional family. Any one of them would risk it all for the others. And that was a loyalty to which no dollar amount could be ascribed.

Now, Casey sat at the head of the table, fingers linked in front of her, and began the morning catch-up session.

“As you all know, I had my second meeting with Daniel Olson last evening. He’s convinced that something ugly happened to his daughter. And I’m apt to agree. He gave me every scrap of information he had on Jan’s life at the time of her disappearance. There’s nothing there to suggest that she’d just take off without ever contacting her family again. So I took it another step.”

She indicated the file on the table in front of her. “I put this together. It’s an assortment of newspaper articles relating to crimes—and potential crimes—against college-age girls in the New York City area during the five-year period surrounding the time when Jan vanished. Ryan, I’d like you to assimilate all this and set up a database we can follow.”

Ryan leaned back in his chair and eyed Casey for a second, then spoke up in his usual blunt manner. “Okay. But before we get into details, can we address the elephant in the room?”

Claire Hedgleigh winced. Ryan’s oblivion to sensitive subjects never ceased to astound her. He might be brilliant, but he was about as tactful as a freight train.

“I think we should stick to the facts of the case,” she said, shooting Ryan a hard stare. “We have an investigation to conduct.”

“Stick to the facts?” Ryan looked more amused than put off. “That’s a joke coming from you, Claire-voyant. You get inside people’s heads and play touchy-feely with inanimate objects. Now you’re suddenly the scientist of the group?”

“She’s just being sensitive to my feelings.” Casey broke up the argument before it could begin. She took a deep breath, then continued. “Look. You all know varying amounts about my personal connection to this case. I’ll lay out the whole thing for you in a short summary, and then we’ll all be on the same page. But, as Patrick so astutely pointed out to me, the only way I’ll find any level of peace or closure in my own situation is to throw myself into this investigation. So once I’ve spoken my piece, let’s leave it and get to what matters—finding out what happened to Jan Olson.”

Quietly and succinctly, she retold the story she’d told Patrick last night.

“So the man who raped and killed your friend and whoever’s responsible for Jan Olson’s disappearance—you do think it’s the same person,” Ryan responded the instant she’d finished. He’d known enough about Casey’s past to have skimmed the surface of Holly Stevens’s tragic murder.

“I don’t know anything,” Casey replied. “Other than the fact that the victimology is the same, as is the time frame. I don’t see any overlaps in the two girls’ lives. So I can’t allow myself to assume anything.”

“Yeah, but it’s a very real possibility.” Ryan studied Casey with those probing blue eyes. “The bottom line is, you’re never going to be objective about this case. Do you think you should turn over the reins to one of us?”

“Probably. But I’m not going to.” Casey spoke as bluntly as Ryan, meeting his stare head-on. She wasn’t offended by his directness; that was Ryan. He spoke his mind, but he didn’t have a mean or disloyal bone in his body. “I won’t lie and say that solving Holly’s murder wouldn’t be cathartic for me. But my main goal is finding out what happened to Jan Olson. My skill set makes me best qualified to run the show. Plus, I’m the boss.” A glint of humor glittered in her eyes. “That means the final decision is mine. And I’ve made it.”

Ryan nodded. This was one of those times when arguing would be futile. This wasn’t going to be put to a vote. Casey was making that infinitely clear.

“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 whatever’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.”

“Fine.” Mr. Olson waved his arm. “Take it. As I said, take anything that might help you find my daughter—or what happened to her.”

Casey sensed that Claire had finished her work here. She glanced down at Hero, who’d been sniffing the carpet this whole time.

“Besides the things we’re taking with us, would you mind giving me a few more items right now? Things you remember Jan having in her possession as close to her disappearance as possible? Before we take off, I’d like to make scent pads for Hero.”

“Of course.” Daniel Olson walked immediately over to the bed. He picked up a stuffed bear and a throw pillow. “Jan had these from when she was a child. She never went anywhere without them. She kept them on her bed at home and then at school.”

“Perfect.” Casey unzipped her tote bag, which contained gauze pads, jars, tongs and latex gloves.

She had this routine down to a science. She’d pull on the latex gloves, set the gauze in place and put Jan’s personal articles on them. Then she’d use the STU-100 to vacuum the articles for thirty seconds. The gauze would collect the necessary scents, after which she’d deposit them in the jar, storing Jan’s scent for Hero’s future use.

She wasn’t worried about the items they were taking with them. She could make scent pads for those back at the office. They would be the objects most likely connected to Jan’s disappearance, maybe even things she’d been wearing or carrying during an interaction with the offender. If that was the case, they could isolate the offender’s scent for Hero and, if they were lucky enough to close in on any suspects, let the bloodhound do his work.

For the umpteenth time, Casey reminded herself that this wasn’t supposed to be about apprehending the person responsible for Jan’s disappearance, just about locating the young woman or her body. But Casey couldn’t help herself. She was desperate to catch the scumbag who, if her instincts were right, was a serial killer. She wanted to give Daniel Olson the peace he required. At the same time, she wanted to nail Jan and Holly’s killer.

She worked methodically with the vacuum, and then handed the stuffed animal and the pillow back to Jan’s father. “Thank you. This is great for now. My whole team will be on this. I’ll get back to you as soon as we have a lead.”

“I appreciate it.” The dying man looked so grateful, it was emotionally painful to witness. “Time is working against me. I’m aware of your reputation. So I feel my first sense of hope.”

“Hang on to that,” Casey urged, zipping up her tote bag and giving Hero’s leash a light tug to let him know they were leaving. “We’ll find the answers you’re looking for.” She knew she was making a promise she might not be able to deliver. But she couldn’t help it. She had to give Jan’s father something to hold on to.

It was up to her and the FI team to make that something a reality.

Bottles, Wines and Spirits

Morningside Heights, NY

The liquor store was a few blocks away from Columbia. Kendra and her friend Marie made a quick trip there after classes were over. They were eager to buy a large enough quantity of booze to impress the upperclassmen at the frat party they were going to that night. Kendra had her fake ID, so the age restriction wasn’t an object. And they’d be paying in cash, so there’d be no credit card receipts to explain to their parents.

It didn’t take long to make their selections. This place was great, because it was cheap. They picked up five bottles—three of vodka and two of rum—and carried them up to the register.

The guy behind the counter was in his early-to mid-thirties. With dark hair slicked back in a ponytail and wearing a T-shirt with a name plate that said “Barry” on it, he looked grungy, as if he didn’t enjoy taking showers. He studied the two of them for a minute—during which Kendra was getting ready to produce her ID. Abruptly, he averted his gaze, ringing up their bottles one by one, and shoving them into two brown paper bags.

“Here ya go.” He handed them the bags, eyeing them again in a way that was somehow creepy. He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, when another customer interrupted, strolling up to the counter to make his purchase. So whatever he’d been about to say remained unsaid. He turned away, directing his attention to ringing up the next order.

The girls weren’t sorry to get away from him.

They made their way back to campus, chatting as they walked.

“How sketchy was that Barry guy?” Marie asked with a slight shudder.

“Totally sketchy,” Kendra agreed, grimacing. “I was happy to get out of there.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“I think I’ve seen him before,” Kendra mused. “It must have been at this store, although I didn’t make the connection. Anyway, he’s a creeper. I hope there’s someone else at the counter when I go back.”

Marie nodded. “What time do you want to meet tonight?” she asked. “And where?”

“Why don’t we meet up outside the frat house. Say, nine o’clock.”

“Works for me.” Marie nodded. “I live closer to the frat house than you. I’ll take the booze back to my dorm and bring it with me later.”

“Perfect.” Kendra handed Marie the bag she’d been carrying.

“I’ve got a take-home exam,” Marie said, rolling her eyes. “I can’t wait to finish it. Then I’ll pick out something to wear.”

Kendra grinned. “This should be a cool party.” The two girls split up and went their separate ways.

And once again, a pair of eyes followed their motions.

Chapter Five

Holly Stevens’s police report arrived at the Forensic Instincts office late that afternoon. The contents were immediately scanned and stored on the server. Pages were printed out for each team member, all of whom stopped what they were doing to read and analyze it. Then they had a brief meeting to see how—and who—could best utilize the information gleaned from the two-page report.

Ryan was elected as the starting point. He’d already run a basic timeline search on Jan Olson’s life. Now he’d cross-check it with Holly’s.

Before heading down to his lair, Ryan swiveled his chair toward Marc.

“I found Brenda Miller,” he informed him. “She’s married, listed under the name Brenda Reins and living in Greenwich, Connecticut.” He passed along a three-page printout. “I got a basic rundown on her, as well as digging up her address and phone number. She’s a typical suburban mom, juggling a job at a nonprofit organization with raising three kids.”

Marc glanced at his watch. “I can make Greenwich in a little over an hour—maybe longer, if I get caught in rush hour traffic.” He took the printout. “I’ll get on the road now.”

“Since I know you like to go for the element of surprise, I called ahead to make sure you wouldn’t be wasting your time,” Ryan said. “A tween kid answered. I pretended to be a telemarketer. I heard a woman in the background. So I’m guessing she’s home.”

Marc shrugged. “Even if she wasn’t, she probably would be once I showed up. There’s nothing like dinnertime to bring the family together. And if she happens to be out, I’ll wait.”

“She drives a dark green SUV.” Ryan gave Marc the year and the model, along with the license plate number. “So if you see the car in the driveway or the garage, you’re in luck.”

“Gotcha.” Marc glanced across the conference room table at Casey, who’d been unusually quiet during this minimeeting. “Does that work for you or do you need me here?”

“It works. And I’m going with you.” Casey set down Jan Olson’s date book, which she’d been studying for the past hour. “We need to really probe the boyfriend angle with Brenda. Whether Jan was seeing one guy or ten, I want as much info on them as possible. And Brenda is more apt to be open with another woman than with a man. You can question her about everything else, Marc. But I’m taking the boyfriend route.”

“Okay.” Marc’s eyes narrowed quizzically. He knew that expression on Casey’s face. She was focused on something in particular—something she thought might be significant. “Want to share?”

Casey pointed at the date book. “Daniel Olson was right. Jan was a typical teenage girl, who made typical entries in her date book. One of the most common notations is something a father would never notice.” She pointed at one page, then another, and finally a third.

“What are we looking for?” Ryan asked.

“Dots.” Claire spotted them in an instant. “Each of those pages has a dot on it.”

“And the dots show up every four weeks, almost to the day.” Casey indicated a few more pages. “Jan was keeping track of her periods. Most women do. And hers came like clockwork, right up until two months before her disappearance. Then they stopped altogether.”

“You think she was pregnant,” Ryan concluded.

“I think the timing is too coincidental to be ignored. No period for two months, followed by an inexplicable disappearance?” Casey frowned. “That connection definitely requires investigation.”

“Makes sense.” Marc looked thoughtful. “Although it feels like a reach. A single young woman becoming pregnant, even fifteen years ago, wasn’t an eyebrow-lifter. And it wouldn’t be difficult to take care of quietly, especially on a college campus. Health services would be right there to give her a hand, no matter what she decided. And they’d keep it confidential, by law.”

“True,” Casey agreed. “But the Olsons are a very traditional church-going family. There were childhood photos of Jan receiving her First Communion in the living room. And Mr. Olson mentioned that he’d donated Jan’s clothing to their church. If religion factored heavily into their lives, maybe Jan couldn’t cope with a pregnancy emotionally, even if she could take care of it physically.”

“Which brings us to the baby’s father.”

“Exactly.” Casey nodded. “Who is he and how far would he be willing to go to make this pregnancy—and the mother—go away?”

Marc still seemed pensive. “Did your friend Holly ever mention a boyfriend?”

Casey knew just where he was headed with this. “No. She definitely wasn’t seeing anyone. We were pretty close. She would have said something to me if there was a guy in her life.”

“Then if your theory turns out to be true, you’ve probably scratched the idea that we’re dealing with a serial killer. The motives in Holly’s and Jan’s cases would no longer match. Jan’s situation would be a personal, not a random, crime. For all we know, she took a fat check from the baby-daddy and disappeared. Or, at worst, he killed her. Either way, it dashes your hopes of linking this to Holly’s death.”

“I realize that.” Casey met Marc’s gaze. “And, no, it doesn’t make me happy. But I told you from the beginning that my first priority was to find out what happened to Jan Olson. And that’s what I intend to do—whether or not it links to Holly.”

“Fair enough. Then let’s interview Brenda together. Between the two of us, we’ll get everything she knows about her best friend.”

* * *

Brenda Reins was just popping a casserole into the oven when her doorbell rang.

She wiped her hands on her apron, glancing at the clock with more than a little annoyance. It was rare that her family was all together for dinner. Between Daisy Scouts, Little League, music lessons and sleepovers—not to mention Ronald’s endless hours at his law office—it was a battle to get the five of them home and gathered around the table at the same time.

She’d planned tonight for a week, synchronizing all the schedules so they could enjoy a fun evening at home—right down to the popcorn and the movie. The kids were already upstairs, finishing their homework. And Ron was wrapping up a meeting and heading home.

If the person ringing that doorbell was one of her younger kids’ friends, she was going to be one very irritated mom.

Determined to get rid of whoever was on her doorstep, Brenda marched into the foyer and flung open the front door.

Whoever she might have expected, it wasn’t the couple standing there. “Can I help you?” she asked, brows drawn in question.

“I hope so,” the woman replied. “I’m assuming you’re Brenda Reins?”

“I am. And you are...?” She waited for an answer.

“My name is Casey Woods.” Casey held up her New York private investigator’s license. “This is my associate, Marc Devereaux. We’re from the investigative firm Forensic Instincts. We’ve been hired to look into the disappearance of Jan Olson.”

“Jan?” Brenda was taken aback. “She vanished over fifteen years ago. Why are you checking into this now? Have you learned something new about what happened to her?”

“We’re not sure,” Marc said frankly. “But the investigation has been reopened. We understand that you were her closest friend. We were hoping you could take a few minutes to talk to us, to tell us more about her.”

Brenda hesitated. “You say the case has been reopened. By whom? Who hired you?” she asked.

“Technically, the NYPD hired us,” Casey responded. “They don’t have the resources to devote to such a long shot. We do. If you’re asking who requested the investigation, the answer is Jan’s father. He’s gravely ill. He’s desperate to find some closure to his daughter’s disappearance before he dies.”

Sadness clouded Brenda’s face. “Mr. Olson was such a kind man. He used to take a bunch of us out to dinner whenever he visited—and he always included the kids who lived far away and couldn’t get home to see their own families. I’m so sorry to hear he’s ill. Please, come in.”

“Thank you.” Casey preceded Marc into the house. It was a richly appointed colonial, with a grand foyer and French provincial furniture to match.

Brenda led them into the living room and gestured for them to have a seat on the sofa. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?”

Casey waved away the offer. “We appreciate your taking the time to talk to us. We’ll make this as brief as possible and then be on our way. Could you give us some insight into Jan Olson? Her personality, state of mind, friends, interests, classes—anything the two of you shared or that you were aware of?”

Brenda let out a long sigh. “It feels like a million years ago. Yet it still stuns me to think about it. Jan was a sweetheart with a heart of gold. I can’t imagine anyone who’d want to hurt her. She was shy and studious, with just a small circle of friends.”

“Did you know most of those friends?” Marc broke in to ask. “Would you able to compile a list?”

“Sure. Although, with the exception of our mutual friends, I have no idea where the others are now.”

“Finding them will be my problem,” Marc said, whipping out a notebook. “I just want you to detail every part of Jan’s life that you recall.”

“She wasn’t all that social. She spent most of her time buried in her textbooks, trying to decide between premed and nursing. There was a lot of academic pressure, enough to make her quit the swim team. The only thing she kept doing to clear her mind was her morning run.”

“What about guys?” Casey brought the subject right around to where she wanted it. “Did she have a boyfriend?”

A nostalgic smile touched Brenda’s lips. “Chris Towers. The two of them met at freshman orientation. They really, really liked each other, and hung out from day one in the fall. They were definitely a couple—but not the kind who were all over each other or who isolated themselves in their own little world. Chris was in prelaw and on the debate team. He invested as much time in his schoolwork as Jan did.”

“No other guys in Jan’s life?”

“None.” Brenda stated that definitively.

Casey cleared her throat. “Do you have any idea if Jan was pregnant?”

“Pregnant?” Brenda did a double take. “Absolutely not. Why would you ask that?”

“Because her father gave me her date book. And she kept meticulous track of her periods. Every month there was a dot marking the date. There were no dots the two months prior to her disappearance.”

“That was stress, not pregnancy.” Brenda shoved a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Like I said, the academic pressure was crushing, especially in Jan’s area of study. She was a wreck for weeks before she vanished. I remember her complaining that she’d missed her period. She went to health services. They confirmed that it was stress-related.”

“You’re sure?” Casey asked. “You said she was shy and quiet. She might have kept it to herself if she was pregnant.”

“Very sure. Jan was reserved, but she and I confided in each other. Besides, she came from a very religious family. She and Chris weren’t even sleeping together.”

“Okay, then, tell us about her behavior during the last weeks before she disappeared.” Marc took over from what he was obviously convinced had to be a dead end. “You said she was under pressure?”

“We all were. Jan more than others, because of her area of study. Plus, she was waitressing to make some extra cash. She was burning the candle at both ends and then some. That’s why she quit the swim team, and why she intensified her running schedule. It was just too much. I really believe the overall tension is what made her snap.”

“What do you mean by snap?” Marc asked.

Brenda’s shoulders rose and fell in a defeated gesture. “She started staying out all night studying. I couldn’t get her to take a break. She’d run a couple of miles at dawn, and then go from class to the library to her job and back. She barely stopped off at her dorm room, except to shower and change. And she withdrew—from me, from Chris, from everyone. Whenever I asked her to talk to me, she said she was too strung out. I was really worried about her. And then, abruptly, she disappeared.”

“So you’re saying you think she took off on her own?”

“We didn’t know what to think. Chris called the police. And, of course, Jan’s father. There was a brief investigation. But there was absolutely no evidence that Jan had been abducted—other than the fact that she didn’t take anything except her purse.”

“Nothing else was missing? No clothes or toiletries?”

“No.” Brenda’s brow furrowed. “Chris and I both practically ransacked her room. Neither of us could find anything out of place. That’s why we filed a police report. It didn’t make sense. But, given Jan’s state of mind, I knew what the cops were thinking—that she’d either run away or worse. They searched for a body. None was ever found.”

Marc didn’t reply. But Casey knew his wheels were turning—and she also knew exactly the way his thought process was going. Suicide didn’t fit. If Jan was going to kill herself, she wouldn’t have vanished in order to do it. And running away? That didn’t seem likely. Not without packing at least one bag of essentials. True, there was nothing concrete for the police to go on. But the lead detective on the case certainly hadn’t knocked himself out. All signs pointed to the fact that Jan Olson had been the victim of some kind of foul play.

Footsteps sounded from the second floor of Brenda’s house, and a little girl of about eight burst in. She seemed surprised to see guests with her mother, and stopped in the doorway, twirling a strand of long brown hair around her finger.

“It’s seven o’clock,” she reported shyly. “I’m ready. So are Ben and Pammy. I reminded them. And I just called Daddy. He’s ten minutes away.”

Brenda smiled, reaching out her arm for her daughter. “Thanks for rallying the troops, sweetheart. Dinner should be ready in five.” A quick glance at Casey and Marc. “This is my daughter, Annie. She’s keeping track of the time for me. It’s family dinner night.” She gave them an apologetic smile. “Is there any way we can continue this another time?”

“Absolutely. We’re heading out now.” Casey rose to her feet. “I’m sorry for interrupting you. But I’m also grateful for your time and your input.” She handed Brenda a business card. “My email address is there. If you could send me that list of Jan’s friends and any addresses or phone numbers you do have, it would be appreciated.”

“I’ll take care of it right away,” Brenda promised. “I’ll even pull out our college yearbook to double-check that I’ve included everyone.”

“Great.” Marc put away his writing pad and stood up. “One more question. You said that Jan waitressed. Do you happen to know where?”

“The Lakeside Restaurant at the Central Park Boathouse. It was close to Columbia and the tips were really good. Plus, it was convenient if Jan wanted to get in an extra run. She worked there for about six months.”

Marc nodded, adding that to his memory.

“Thank you again,” Casey said. She flashed a smile at Brenda’s daughter. “Enjoy your family time, Annie. We’re sorry to have kept your mom for so long.”

* * *

Outside the house, Casey turned to Marc. “Well, that shoots my pregnancy theory to hell. Brenda wasn’t lying. Nor was she hesitating. She knew everything—including the fact that Jan went to health services about her missed periods. Of course, I’ll want to interview Jan’s boyfriend, Chris. But I doubt he’ll give us a different story.”

“Agreed.” Marc nodded again. “But we have a lot of other ground to cover. Jan’s friends, her sports, her job. This wasn’t a suicide. Nor was it a random disappearance. There are too many indications pointing to an inciting incident, from Jan’s anxiety to her change in behavior. I need that list of friends. As for right now, I’m sure Ryan’s already found his way into the university’s records. That’ll give us insight into Jan’s academic standing and her course schedule. There’ll be professors to talk to and classmates to look up. And we’ll get Brenda’s list soon. Patrick and I are going to be very busy.”

“So am I,” Casey said. “Knowing Ryan, I have no doubt that he’s also run a cross-check on all the basic aspects of Holly’s and Jan’s lives. I want to look over those results and add any of the courses and activities I remember Holly being involved in.”

“You’re convinced the cases are related.”

“Do you blame me?”

“No.” Marc didn’t hesitate for a second. “Actually, I’m starting to agree with you. The coincidence is just too real to be accidental. If the pregnancy theory had held water, I would have felt differently. But it didn’t. Which means the parallel victimologies still stand, at least until a piece of evidence says otherwise.”

“It’s going to be another late night,” Casey said grimly. “I’m not going to sleep until I sort out all the pieces.”

* * *

Back in his cell, Glen Fisher pushed aside his empty dinner tray. The food sucked. But he wouldn’t have to live with that for much longer.

He glanced at his watch. Eight forty-five. A slow smile curved his lips.

The fun was about to begin.

Chapter Six

Kendra reentered the liquor store a little before nine, barely noticing the drunk who staggered out ahead of her, metal flask in hand. The wall clock reminded her to hurry. She realized she didn’t really need to be here, that it was probably overkill. But a handle of tequila would go a long way toward sweetening her and Marie’s reception, especially when added to their earlier purchases.

That creeper Barry was still at the counter, eyeing her up and down as she paid for the booze. She kept her gaze averted and got out as quickly as she could.

She was late and she knew it. The party was already under way, and Marie would be pissed off that she had to wait.

Tucking the tequila under her arm, Kendra crossed West 113th Street, and headed directly toward the brownstone where the frat house was located. She was excited. She didn’t go out often; she was too busy with her schoolwork. But she’d killed herself studying this week, all so she could have some fun tonight. All she could think about were the hot guys Marie had told her would be at the party.

She’d taken care with her appearance. Gone was the pathetic-looking geek who buried her nose in philosophy books. She’d straightened her curly auburn mane and tied it back neatly. She’d put on her favorite pair of skinny jeans, a V-neck sweater and some makeup. Not too much, not too little. Just enough to ensure that she wasn’t lost in the crowd.

That was important to her. She didn’t have much of a social life. She was an introvert and aware that people saw her as a bit weird. She studied not only to get A’s, but because the philosophers fascinated her. Tonight would be different. Tonight she’d actually cut loose and have some fun.

She picked up her pace, eager to meet Marie and check out what promised to be a great party.

A flicker of light flashed from the alley, like a lighthouse warning an approaching ship of impending danger. Kendra was oblivious to it, as well as to the beam of light that bounced off the alley wall. She never saw the dark silhouette or smelled the acrid contents soaking through a handheld rag.

The fraternity house was just down the street. Kendra passed the narrow alley between two buildings.

Abruptly, a figure in black darted out of the shadows and grabbed her. A damp cloth was clapped over her nose and mouth. A powerful arm locked around her waist, pulling her into the dark alley.

Kendra began to struggle the instant she realized what was happening. But it was too late. The handkerchief was held in place. And the sharp point of a knife pressed against her abdomen. She felt its sting just as the sickeningly sweet smell pervaded her nostrils. Too terrified to move, too groggy to fight, she ceased her struggles.

The world went black.

It would never grow light again.

* * *

The fraternity party was already crazy when Marie showed up at the path leading to the front doors. She waited there as she and Kendra had agreed, which was just fine with her. As enticing as the thundering base was coming from inside, it always felt better to have at least one friend along when you made an entrance. Anyway, the liquor would be as welcome as the two of them, no matter how hot they looked.

Still, she found herself growing impatient as the minutes ticked by. She called Kendra’s cell phone, but it went directly to voice mail. Marie hoped her friend hadn’t gotten lost in the library stacks, immersed in one of her beloved Aristotle books.

Three phone calls and thirty minutes later, Marie gave up. She hadn’t spent two hours tearing through her closet to find just the right outfit so she could stand outside and get odd looks from all the other partygoers. It was time for her to suck it up and go in on her own. She’d hand over the bottles and tell the frat guys that her friend was on her way. Then, she’d keep an eye out for Kendra. Hopefully, her friend would snap out of whatever trance had sidetracked her and show up.

On that thought, Marie marched up the path and went through the doors, ready to tackle the party on her own.

* * *

Claire had been sitting in a small dark office at Forensic Instincts all evening, handling Jan Olson’s personal items. The energies she’d been picking up were dark and complex.

Icy coldness. That was the prevalent aura that emanated from Jan’s clothing, her textbooks, even her notebooks. An icy coldness that was the absence of life. And the book bag, the running shoes—they held another energy. Fear. A powerful fear that Jan had internalized, shared with no one.

Whatever she’d been afraid of, it was key to their investigation.

A killer’s random learning curve. The awareness slid into Claire’s mind, then took root. Whatever had happened here, it was the initial part of a string of evil. Strategically planned. But a random choice of victims. At least it had been with Jan. Fine-tuning had brought with it a honed expertise. But Jan had been one of the first. A learning experience.

Claire could visualize Jan Olson running through a park. Water was glistening in the background. Her heart was slamming against her ribs. She’d peer over her shoulder, stumble on the uneven ground, then struggle on. Squeezing her eyes shut, Claire focused intently, trying to pick up something specific about Jan’s surroundings—a landmark, a street sign, anything that could tell her about the locale. Butterflies...birds...

Abruptly, there was a loud buzzing in Claire’s head, followed by an eclipse in time and a radical shift in scene. A jolt of ominous energy shot through her—one that was so powerful it caused her to physically double over.

Something horrifying was happening. Not in the past. Right this moment. Whatever energies Claire had been picking up from fifteen years ago had opened up a channel to a fatal crime that was occurring as she sat there. She fought her panic, trying desperately to zero in on the crime.

Pain. Agonizing pain. Terror. A woman. Struggling, clawing, fighting for her life. A monster who was overpowering her. The hard feel of a concrete floor. A warehouse? Yes, a warehouse. Dirty floor. Large wooden crates with shipping labels. The smell of the river. The sound of bells. The flash of a clock tower. Not right there. But close by.

Clothing was being torn. The woman was screaming, begging. She was pinned to the ground. Naked. Helpless. Violated.

Large hands locked around her throat crushing her air supply as he raped her. Searing pain. Paralyzing panic. Heightening more and more and more...

Claire almost screamed aloud, the violent energies she was experiencing were so acute. Beyond excruciating.

She couldn’t wait any longer. Drenched in sweat, she forced open her eyes and fumbled for her phone. Ordering her brain into rational action, she blocked out her vision and honed in on reality. Think. Think. The phone number. She’d called it a dozen times.

His direct line escaped her, so she settled for the general number and punched it in.

“Eighty-fourth Precinct,” a voice answered.

“Is Detective Werner in?” Claire made her voice sound relatively normal.

“Just a minute.” There was a short series of rings and then a familiar baritone.

“Werner.”

“Tom? It’s Claire Hedgleigh.”

“Ah,” Detective Thomas Werner replied with wry amusement. “The brilliant psychic addition to Forensic Instincts. I should be pissed that you’re not consulting for us anymore. But I can’t blame you for taking on a challenge like working for the FI team. How can I help you?”

“Something bad just happened. A rape. And an attempted murder. It could be a fait accompli already. I don’t know. But it’s in your district. A warehouse near the East River. Rows of wooden crates. And bells—I know those bells. They’re from the clock tower at Dumbo.” Claire pinpointed the enormously expensive Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass penthouse in Brooklyn. “That’s as specific as I can get. I wish I could tell you more. But I can’t. All I know is that it’s urgent. Search the area. And hurry.”

“I’m on it.” She could tell that Detective Werner was on his feet, ready to grab his partner and take off. He and his precinct had worked with Claire often enough to know she was the real deal.

“Please keep me posted.”

“I will.”

Claire disconnected the call, feeling ill as well as oddly attached to the vision. Like it was personal. But she’d never met the victim. She was sure of that. So why couldn’t she shake this sense of personal dread? She’d consulted for the NYPD and local police departments for years before coming on board at Forensic Instincts. She knew the drill. And this was out of the realm of normal. There was something more going on here.

And that something involved her Forensic Instincts family.

She knew what she had to do next.

* * *

Casey had just arrived back at the office. She was on her way down to Ryan’s lair to compare notes when her iPhone rang.

The number was blocked.

“Casey Woods,” she answered.

“You’re putting your energy in the wrong place, Red.” The weird tinny words told Casey that, whoever the caller was, he was using a voice scrambler. “That girl’s case is as cold as her body. But the one who just died? Her body is still warm.”

“Who is this?”

“The last person you’re going to see before you close your eyes forever.” A chilling laugh. “The blood chain is under way. It will end with you. Spin your wheels and try to stop it.”

The line went dead.

“Casey?” Marc had been parking the van. He walked inside and was standing behind Casey in time to see her ashen expression. “What’s the matter? You’re white as a sheet.”

Before Casey could answer, her phone rang again. She startled, then stared at the caller ID. It was Claire.

“Claire, I can’t talk now,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“You have to.” Claire was literally vibrating. “I just called the Eighty-fourth Precinct. Something’s happening. Someone’s being tortured and killed. It’s happening in Brooklyn. And it’s drawing me to you.” Claire’s voice broke. “Oh, my God—she’s dead. He killed her. He raped her and he killed her. He’s still with the body. He’s doing something to it. But she’s dead. And you have to know that. I don’t know why. But you do.”

Casey’s own stomach was turning over. “Claire. Listen to me. I need you to focus. Tell me everything. Everything.”

“I did.” It was clear that Claire sensed the rising hysteria in Casey’s voice. “Why?”

“Because I think I just got a phone call from the killer.”

Chapter Seven

The body was located just after 1:00 a.m. at a warehouse on Jay Street.

Identification was no problem, since Kendra’s purse hadn’t been touched, so neither had her driver’s license or student ID.

The medical examiner did his job and filed his report. The parents were notified. They lived locally, so they rushed over to identify the body. It was a heartbreaking scene.

Tom hated this part of his job.

Once he’d dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s, he dropped wearily back in his chair and rubbed his temples. His tired gaze fell on the phone and he stared at it for a long time. The case was now a wide-open homicide. No aspect of it should be discussed. But Claire had been instrumental in their discovering it. She had a right to know.

Tom picked up the phone and punched in her cell number.

Claire answered on the first ring. She was with the entire FI team, gathered around the second-floor conference table, downing cup after cup of coffee.

“This is an unofficial call, Claire,” Tom stated flatly. “I shouldn’t even be making it. But given our prior professional relationship and the fact that you initiated this entire search, I’ll tell you what I can.”

“Thanks, Tom.” Claire put down her coffee cup. “You found the girl. I don’t need to ask you if she was dead.”

“No, you don’t.”

Claire nodded sadly. “I’m with my team,” she informed him. “May I put you on speakerphone?”

“We’re really pushing the envelope here. But fine.”

Claire pressed the speaker button and set her phone in the center of the table. “Go ahead.”

“It was pretty much as you described. The body was in a warehouse on Jay Street.”

“Shit. That’s my neck of the woods,” Ryan muttered.

“She was nude,” Tom continued. “Her clothing was torn to shreds. Her wrists were bound together. There was physical evidence of rape. The hyoid bone in her neck was fractured, indicating strangulation. The body was wrapped in a canvas tarp. Pieces of her hair had been snipped off. There was a red ribbon tied around her throat in a bow. And he’d applied lipstick to her lips. It was almost like he was leaving us a carefully wrapped gift, as sick as that is.”

“Sounds like a signature mark of some kind.” Marc spoke up. “Detective Werner, this is Marc Devereaux, one of Claire’s colleagues. I realize this entire conversation is off the record. So can you give me a description of the girl?”

“Caucasian. Petite—about five foot three, a hundred and five pounds. Brown eyes, shoulder-length red hair.”

There was a long moment of silence at the conference table before Casey spoke up.

“This is Casey Woods, Detective. What else can you tell us about the victim?”

“Her name was Kendra Mallery. She was a freshman at Columbia. Her family’s been notified and they’ve ID’d the body, but they’re in shock and not able to tell us much. I haven’t spoken to any of her friends yet. So I don’t know too many details about her habits or where she was headed when she was abducted.” Tom paused. “I realize Claire is invested in this because she visualized the crime. But I get the feeling there’s more at stake here. Why is your team asking so many questions?”

“Because it’s possible the killer was in touch with me at the time of the murder.” Casey tried to keep the emotion out of her voice.

“What?”

She went on to explain the call she’d gotten, reporting it as accurately as possible. She also told Tom about the cold case they were investigating and her caller’s allusion to it.

“Shit,” Tom muttered. “That’s no coincidence. The killer is targeting you. And keeping tabs on you in the process. Do you have any idea who he is?”

“None.” Casey fiddled with her pen as she spoke. “But the description you gave of the victim? It could as easily be a description of me. And not just the physical elements. I got my undergraduate degree at Columbia.”

At this point, the tension in the conference room was suffocating.

“Look,” Casey said at last. “We can speculate all we want. But the truth is, we have nothing but an untraceable, voice-scrambled phone call and a series of coincidences. That’s not enough to take action.”

“It’s enough to assign you police protection,” Ryan said.

“Minimal protection,” Marc corrected. “Our team can provide a whole lot more.” He cleared his throat. “Tom, based on Claire’s tip, which led to your finding the body, along with the threats that were made against Casey—could you speak to your captain about Forensic Instincts working together with your precinct on solving this one? Our skills and resources can complement each other’s.”

“While working within the boundaries of the law?” Tom asked pointedly.

“That’s always our intention,” Marc responded. “We’re not interested in being at odds with law enforcement. Just understand that we’re protecting one of our own. Anything we do that falls into the gray area will be our responsibility and will in no way implicate the police.”

“Fair enough,” Tom agreed. “Let me finish the paperwork, including all the information you just gave me. We’re in the process of checking for latent fingerprints on the tarp. We could get lucky. This bastard might be in the system. But first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll take your request to my captain.”

“Thanks, Tom,” Claire said.

She disconnected the call. She didn’t need to look around the table to see what was reflected on her teammates’ faces.

With or without police assistance, they’d already taken on the case.

* * *

Claire remained in the conference room long after the rest of the team had taken off and even Casey had gone upstairs to make the attempt to catch some sleep.

No matter how hard she tried, Claire couldn’t get the crime images out of her mind. They flashed through her head, one image after the other, like some old horror movie.

The visualizations had begun in sequence as Tom elaborated on what he’d found at the crime scene. Claire could see it all—Kendra’s wrapped body, her hair, even the red satin ribbon tied around her throat. Worse, Claire could feel what Kendra had been feeling—everything from the panic to the blinding pain to the sense of futility, and then the moment when she’d given up.

The whole horrifying event had grabbed hold of Claire and wouldn’t let go.

She dropped her face in her hands and rubbed her eyes, as if by doing that she could make it all go away.

It didn’t work.

Shoving back her chair, Claire left the conference room, heading down the stairs, looking for escape. She had no desire to go home or to be alone in her apartment. She was totally freaked out and trembling, consumed by a sense of death.

She didn’t remember passing the ground floor and continuing downstairs to the basement. But once she’d done so... She had no idea how she knew Ryan would be there. She just did.

The door to his lair was half-closed. Claire stepped inside, glancing at his usual spot behind the computer. He wasn’t there. Instead, he was across the room, sitting on his bench and lifting weights. He was definitely a man with a mission, pumping iron with a vengeance, perspiration glistening on his bare chest.

He spotted Claire the minute she came in. Slowly, he lowered his weights to the floor and stood up.

“Are you okay?”

“No.” She shook her head.

He crossed over to her, studying her drawn expression and wide, frightened eyes.

Neither of them said a word.

Claire reached behind her and shoved the door closed, turning the lock with a loud click. Then she took the few steps that separated her from Ryan and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Make it go away,” she whispered. “Just for a little while. Make the pictures stop.”

He tilted back her head, kissed her once, hard, and then lifted her off the floor and flush against him. Claire wrapped her legs around his waist and they stumbled across the room, dropping onto the futon they’d used more than a few times for this.

Claire let her body take over, let the feel, taste and smell of Ryan permeate her senses. Making love with him was an all-encompassing experience, leaving no room for anything else. Which was exactly what she needed right now.

They drew it out as long as they could—blocking out the world, losing themselves in sensation. Claire’s climax was explosive, and she cried out, feeling Ryan’s body jolt with his own release.

Afterward, they were quiet, both of them loath to let go of the moment and allow reality to creep back in.

When Ryan spoke, it was in a rough, gravelly tone. “Don’t cry.”

Claire blinked. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying. But her cheeks and lashes were wet, as was Ryan’s shoulder where her face had been.

“I’m sorry.” She ran her palm across his shoulder, then wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “It’s the emotional energy.”

Ryan nodded, his chin pressed against the crown of her head.

Another moment passed, and Claire could feel the ugly ghosts threatening to crowd their way into her mind. Unconsciously, her nails dug into Ryan’s back.

Ryan picked up on her panic.

“It’s after three in the morning,” he said. “We have to be upstairs in a couple of hours. For you to go home now would be ridiculous. Stay here.”

Now that was unprecedented.

What Claire and Ryan had was very complicated. They were polar opposites in so many ways. They debated hard, they bickered constantly and they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Ryan was gorgeous and charismatic, with those smoldering Black Irish looks and the charm to match—all of which meant he attracted women like a magnet.

None of that impressed Claire. She was very much her own person, gentle and ethereal, yet strong and honest, unwilling to back down when she thought Ryan was wrong. They were, without a doubt, each other’s weak spot, and despite their best intentions to the contrary and the fact that the two of them were like day and night, they continued to wind up in bed together.

They’d fast become a habit each of them was finding impossible to break.

After months of being involved, they’d relegated their sexual relationship to its own inexplicable but inescapable niche.

That niche didn’t include spending the night together.

Still, what Ryan was saying now made complete pragmatic sense. It was hardly a romantic step forward. Just a time-saver and a few extra hours of comfort—hours Claire badly needed. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t have the energy to move. And she didn’t have the mental strength to battle her demons.

Ryan didn’t wait for Claire’s reply. He rolled onto his side and reached for the fleece throw he kept at the foot of the futon. He settled Claire against him and covered them both.

“Go to sleep, Claire-voyant,” he murmured. “Shut down that out-of-control mind of yours. You can pick up where you left off tomorrow.”

Claire would never admit how relieved Ryan’s words made her feel, or how grateful she was not to be alone. She commanded her mind and her body to release the negative energy, and they complied. “I’m so drained,” she heard herself whisper aloud.

“I know.” Ryan lay down beside her, wrapping one arm around her waist, pausing only long enough to set the alarm on his watch.

By the time he put down his head, Claire was fast asleep.

* * *

Upstairs in her apartment, Casey was having no such luck.

She’d taken a hot shower to relax the tension from her body, plumped her pillows about twelve times and now lay on her back, one arm folded beneath her head.

She wished that damned voice on the phone hadn’t been disguised. But the fact that it was—did that mean she knew the person at the other end? He wasn’t threatening Forensic Instincts. Even if this was a personal vendetta against Casey’s entire company, he was zeroing in on her as his target. That in itself was unnerving. But what unnerved her most was how detailed the offender’s planning had been. He’d plugged into her current investigation and where she stood on it. That took time, patience and connections. He obviously had all three. And with regard to tonight’s rape and murder? He’d carefully chosen a victim whose description matched Casey’s.

All those things together added up to a systematic mind and strategic planning—a lethal combination.

Last, but far from least, he’d made sure to call Casey either right before or, even more macabre, sometime during his horrific crime.

That added a perverse twist....

What was his motive? Was it personal? Professional? And if Casey was designated as the final target, what killing rampage did he have planned in the interim?

The questions bombarded Casey, growing more and more numerous as she lay there.

She had an impressive team in Forensic Instincts. They’d drop everything to work this crime and keep her safe. But there was only one person who had the expertise—and, yes, the personal investment—to get a handle on this case and solve it quickly.

She picked up her phone and punched in a number on speed dial.

Two rings, and then a sleepy voice answered. “Hutchinson.”

“It’s me. I need you.”

Chapter Eight

The FI team was exhausted, but vigilantly gathered around the conference table at 6:30 a.m. No single-cup Keurig today—they’d pulled out the big guns. There were two pots of coffee, neither of them decaf, already half-consumed within the first half hour of their meeting.

“I called Hutch last night,” Casey informed the rest of the group. “Unfortunately, he can’t get away from Quantico right away. But he’ll consult with us by phone and arrange to get to New York as soon as possible.”

“Good move,” Marc said with a nod. “No one’s better at profiling than Hutch. Although he’ll probably be less objective than even we are.”

“Probably.” Casey didn’t dispute that. “But it won’t stop him from getting inside this psychopath’s head.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “Let’s be blunt. We’ve been sitting here for almost an hour reviewing the details we know. We can continue ad nauseam, but we’re not going to come up with a concrete lead. There’s just not enough to go on.”

“We were invited in by the cops,” Marc said. “Or we will be once Tom speaks to his captain.”

“That’s not exactly the way it’s going to work,” Ryan corrected him. “We’ll be kept on a short leash, and told what they want us to know. This is still technically their investigation, not ours. And you know as well as I do that we can’t sit around waiting for them to toss us leads.”

“Which is why we’ll be making it our investigation.” Marc spoke for them all. “We’ll protect Casey. We’ll find the killer.”

“You can’t protect me around the clock,” Casey said.

“The hell we can’t.” Marc didn’t bat an eye. “I brought my stuff over this morning. I’ll be staying at the brownstone until we catch this son of a bitch. I’m the best qualified.”

No one argued with that decision. Marc was formidable with or without a gun. He had physical skills that scared the crap out of most people. He also had the hearing and dexterity of a cat.

“I put my stuff in the third-floor meeting room,” Marc informed Casey. “The couch in there is more comfortable than my bed. And I’ll be one floor below you. Not to mention that Hero will be in your room. Between us and the alarm system, this place will be like Fort Knox.”

“I’ll program Yoda to respond to the slightest noise,” Ryan said. “I’ll start poking into Casey’s cell phone records. And during the day, we’ll take shifts watching her.”

“That’s not necessary,” Patrick intervened. “Our efforts are needed in a proactive way. You know from our last case that I’ve got access to the best security guards in the business, all of whom are licensed to carry a gun. They’ll go everywhere Casey goes, and watch the outside of the brownstone at night. She’ll have 24/7 coverage. Ryan, that’ll free you up to run the technology and strategic end of things, and Claire to focus on her psychic connections.”

“I really appreciate all this.” Casey set down her coffee mug. “And I’d be lying if I said I won’t feel infinitely safer with all those plans set in motion.” She stroked Hero’s head. “But Patrick’s right. Running interference isn’t enough. Assuming the fingerprints turn up nothing, we have to put our efforts into figuring out who this guy is and why he has it in for me.”

“You need to make two sets of lists,” Marc told her. “One will be a list of everyone—both personal and professional—that you had even a slight disagreement with.”

“I’ll run all the FI case files,” Ryan said. “Plus any cases from your consulting days. That’ll give us the big-screen potential candidates.”

Casey nodded. “And I’ll dig into every nook and cranny of my life, every detail of my days, to add to that list.”

“The other list will be of the killer’s possible next target,” Marc continued. “I want you to write down every single person you interact with who’s a petite redhead.” He thought for a moment. “If you know whether they’re natural redheads, that would be better still. My guess is this killer wants the real thing if he can get it.”

“Makes sense,” Casey said. “I’ll have plenty of time to do this tonight, since I doubt I’ll be doing much sleeping.”

“Tonight?” Claire shot her a quizzical look. “What about today?”

Casey blew out her breath. “We still have Jan Olson’s case to pursue. I’m not being a martyr. I’m pretty fixated on what just happened. But there’s a dying man waiting for us to find his daughter’s body.”

“Let me talk to Tom,” Claire said. “I’ll see how much police assistance we can count on. We have to work on both cases simultaneously. But, Casey, your life is our priority.” She tapped the table thoughtfully. “I was connecting with Jan’s energy when Kendra’s murder took over. I sensed death. And fear. Fear that Jan wasn’t sharing with anyone. She knew she was in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Patrick asked.

“Someone was watching her. Following her. She didn’t know what to do.”

“Exactly like Holly,” Casey said at once.

“Yes.” Claire nodded. “Exactly like Holly. And the stalker was new to this. Jan was practice.” A deep breath as Claire let the recollections fill her mind. “I could see Jan running through a park. She was terrified. Stumbling. Looking over her shoulder. Her stalker wasn’t just looking anymore. He was chasing her.”

“Did he catch her?” Marc asked. “Rape her? Kill her? Could you make out his face?”

Claire shook her head in frustration. “I never got that far. Kendra’s energy took over. I was gripped with it. It eclipsed everything I was sensing before that. There was simply no room for anything else.”

At that moment, Claire’s cell phone rang. “It’s Tom,” she announced, after checking out caller ID. “I’ll put him on speaker.”

“Hi, Tom, you’ve got us all,” she greeted him.

“Good. Then I’ll write down the office number, since I’ll be dealing with the whole team from now on. After a lot of arm-twisting, my captain agreed to your request. He complained about getting some pressure from the captain of the Twenty-sixth.” Tom was referring to the precinct where Columbia was situated. “Apparently, Casey Woods has pull there.”

“I’ve consulted for them,” Casey explained. “They have a great squad.” No need to get into their ongoing partnership on the Jan Olson case.

“Well, we’ll be joining forces on this case, since Kendra could very well have been kidnapped or killed on the Columbia campus and her body disposed of at the Brooklyn warehouse.”

“What happened with the fingerprints?” Marc asked right away.

“Dead end. Whoever this scumbag is, he doesn’t have a record.” Tom sighed. “We were really hopeful on that score. Anyway, I also want you to know that, thanks to social media, word about Kendra’s murder has gotten out. None of the details I shared with you, just the rape and the murder. There are counselors on campus talking to whoever needs help. And our detectives are there interviewing Kendra’s friends.”

“Anything yet?”

“Only that she was a studious, quiet girl who spent most of her time in the library. Her major was philosophy, so we’ll be interviewing all her professors. As for her whereabouts last night, she was supposedly on her way to a fraternity party, but never showed up.”

Claire had tears in her eyes. “The students must be planning something.”

“Yeah, that’s the other thing I wanted to tell you. There’s a vigil being held on Morningside Campus at eight o’clock tonight. We’ll have plainclothes detectives and video surveillance there.”

“Since the killer will probably show up to get a firsthand look at the emotional devastation he caused.” Marc spoke from his BAU training.

“Exactly.”

“Our team will be there, too,” Patrick told Tom. “We’ll keep a low profile and let you do your thing.”

“I figured as much.” Tom’s tone was grim. “Sometimes this job really sucks. But it sure as hell makes you want to solve a case.” There was a pause. “Give me your office number. I’ll keep you posted as information turns up.”

Casey complied, giving him not only the office number, but each of their individual cell phone numbers, as well.

As soon as the call was disconnected, she glanced around the table, focusing specifically on Ryan. She knew what was coming.

And it did.

Ryan turned to Marc. “Our surveillance blows theirs out of the water.”

“No question.” Marc finished off his cup of coffee. “Looks like we’ll be treading into that gray area sooner than expected.”

* * *

It was 6:00 p.m. With two hours left before the vigil began, the area was deserted, except for Kendra’s photo and a small circle of flowers surrounding it.

Ryan glanced out the window of the van as he, Marc and Patrick approached the campus. “Tom’s right. This whole thing sucks.”

Marc said nothing, although he didn’t disagree. He’d seen some heinous things in his time. That didn’t make a brutal crime like this any easier to comprehend.

Security was tight, as the FI team had expected it to be. Patrick got out of the van a block away and walked toward the campus grounds. He was wearing business casual clothes and had left his gun at home. He’d been given the necessary law enforcement okay. He’d have no trouble getting in. And he’d look like any professor or father paying his respects.

That left Ryan and Marc to do their own jobs.

The FI van pulled up to the security guard. Ryan reached into his pocket and produced his ID from New York Sound, one of the many corporate aliases Forensic Instincts had created to allow them to conduct surveillance operations without raising suspicion. As expected, New York Sound was on the approved vendor list. Once the guard verified that, he handed Ryan back his ID and nodded.

Ryan paused long enough to gaze around the area on campus where the vigil was about to be held.

“Where’s the closest place for me to park?” he asked.

The guard pointed, uttering a series of lefts and rights, which Ryan memorized. Then he issued a mock salute and pulled slowly onto campus.

Situated where he wanted to be, Ryan turned and nodded at Marc. The two of them climbed out of the van, unloaded the tripod base speakers and positioned them strategically around the area where the vigil would soon commence. Next, Ryan connected the long cables to each speaker and attached the opposite ends to the special jacks protruding from the side of the van. He climbed inside and fired up the equipment.

Marc went from speaker to speaker, waiting to hear Ryan say, “Testing one, two, three,” before he waved to acknowledge that Ryan’s voice was coming through loud and clear. Next, Ryan gave Marc instructions at each speaker about how to position it. “Up five feet, turn left twenty degrees,” he directed the first time, his voice emanating from the elevated speaker. The two of them continued the process until it was done.

To a passerby, it would appear as if Marc was adjusting a sound system. But inside the truck, Ryan was checking the angles of security cameras he’d concealed inside the speakers. Once the process was complete, he’d have a three hundred and sixty degree view of the entire vigil area. The output from each video camera would be recorded, allowing Forensic Instincts to analyze the footage, and use facial recognition software if needed. Casey had instructed Ryan to make the video available to her on the FI server as soon as they returned to the office.

Marc opened the back door of the van and climbed in. The place looked like a mini TV production room.

“Ready?” he asked, glancing around.

Ryan sat back on his heels. “Show time.”

* * *

Kendra might have been a quiet and private girl. But the vigil was packed with students, some of them white with shock, some of them openly weeping. Whether or not Kendra was part of their individual social circles, her murder hit them all hard. She was one of their peers, one of their classmates. Any of them could just as easily have been the girl found in that warehouse. Knowing that, they hugged one another and stood in traumatized solidarity, overcome by the horror of the situation.

Patrick moved among the crowd, subtly but intently studying the vigil’s attendees. No one paid particular attention to him, since there were other people his age, most of them parents who lived locally. They, too, felt a fearful kinship with the other parents—and not only out of grief for Kendra, although that was a huge part of their reason for being there. But they were also well aware that if this psychopath was targeting Columbia students, their own children could be in danger. Kendra’s own parents were, understandably, absent. They were in no condition to be out in public when they were still utterly shattered and in shock.

Marie, Kendra’s closest friend and the last known person to have seen her alive, made a brief but heartbreaking speech. She spoke about Kendra’s kindness, her commitment to her family and friends, and her determination to graduate and make a difference in the world. When no more words would come, she wiped away her tears and bent down to place a bouquet of flowers at the foot of the pedestal holding the photo of Kendra.

After that, students all filed forward, placing everything on the grass from a single flower alongside Marie’s bouquet to Columbia notebooks and T-shirts. The “pizza crowd,” all of whom were among Kendra’s small number of close friends, were huddled together. They each put a yellow rose—Kendra’s favorite flower—on top of the pedestal, and then turned away, tears rolling down their cheeks. Even Robbie was there, squatting to place an empty pizza box near the flowers.

He walked over to Kendra’s friends. “I don’t know what to say,” he told them. “She was a terrific girl. This is a nightmare. I hope the cops find the motherfucker who did this to her and lock him up for life.” His voice got shaky. “The last time I saw her, she was trying to help me. Some car was blocking my delivery truck and I could barely get out. She would have gone up to the driver and blasted him if I let her.”

“She told us about that,” Amy said. “She went on and on about how miserably delivery people are treated.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve gotten used to that.” Robbie swallowed, obviously struggling to make mundane conversation. “I normally just let it roll off my back. But I would’ve been fired if the truck got dented. So I appreciated Kendra’s concern. I’d be screwed without that job. As it is, I just took on a second one. But this new one lets me deliver pizzas by bike.”

“That’s good.” Amy hadn’t really heard him and he knew it. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the senseless and brutal crime that had taken away their friend.

The candle-lighting aspect of the vigil got under way. Everyone had been handed a candle when they arrived. Now they all lit them, standing silently and bowing their heads in prayer.

Not far away, a dark sedan was parked. Its driver was scrutinizing the campus through a zoom lens, watching each attendee, one at a time.

Watching and planning.

Chapter Nine

Glen Fisher hadn’t felt this aroused in a long time.

Pacing back and forth in his cell, his erection hardened along with his thoughts. His juices were flowing. Blood was pumping through his veins. Pooling at his groin. The next attack—he could actually feel it. His hands were around her throat. His penis was throbbing. He stared into her eyes as he drove into her body, coming harder and harder as he choked away her life. He ground her into the concrete floor as the last spasm surged through him. He was triumphant. She was violated and dead. It was a power like no other. And the best was yet to be.

In the meantime, he needed release, and he needed it now.

Dropping down on his cot, he threw a blanket over himself and reached for his drawing tablet.

One hand went to his crotch. The other grabbed the red crayon. He began to draw furiously.

Each slash of crimson corresponded to a pulsing surge of his climax as it shuddered through him.

* * *

The next two days were long and tedious as the FI team worked with the police and on their own to identify the sick bastard who’d killed Kendra Mallery and was now threatening to extend his killing spree to Casey.

Having done her part—compiling the two lists Marc had asked for—Casey was going crazy. She’d watched the video of the campus vigil three times, and other than feeling sick to her stomach, she’d seen nothing incriminating. All that it had succeeded in doing was to bring back a flood of painful memories from the past as she relived the vigil she’d attended for Holly. Different victims. Same nightmare. Same sense of helpless frustration.

Casey’s existence was like being under house arrest. She was practically imprisoned in the brownstone, and when she went out, either Patrick or one of his hired bodyguards was glued to her side.

Her confinement only served to intensify the sense of responsibility she felt to solve the Jan Olson case. Jan’s father had called each day, several times a day, to see if there was any news, even a tiny lead, to tell them where his daughter or her body could be found.

Casey couldn’t ignore that. She’d made a commitment to this poor dying man. She intended to fulfill it.

She couldn’t just rely on Claire’s vision of seeing Jan racing terrified through a park, glancing fearfully over her shoulder. That was like looking for a needle in a haystack. There were countless parks in New York City, and that was assuming the attack had taken place here.

Holed up in one of the smaller conference rooms, Casey went through everything they had. She followed up on Brenda’s list, contacting as many people who’d known Jan as possible, particularly her boyfriend, Chris Towers, who now lived in Colorado with his wife and two kids. He was completely taken aback by the subject of Casey’s phone call, but he answered every one of her questions, and his take on Jan was similar to Brenda’s, only from a boyfriend’s point of view. He confirmed that he and Jan were pretty much inseparable, but not sexually active, so pregnancy was out. And he agreed with Brenda that, in the week leading up to her disappearance, Jan had been acting unusually jumpy and nervous. She’d assured him it was just academic stress. But when she’d vanished without a trace, he couldn’t help believing the two were related. He and Brenda had contacted the police, but no sign of Jan materialized. Eventually, they were forced to accept the fact that she’d taken off on her own. Any other theory was too horrific to live with.

“When was the last time you remember seeing Jan alive?” Casey concluded, asking it as a routine question. Frankly, she didn’t count on his answer to shed any light on things. If he and Jan were as inseparable as it seemed, he’d doubtless seen her on the day she’d vanished.

Sure enough, Chris replied, “The afternoon she disappeared. I walked her to work. We made plans to meet up in her dorm room around eleven o’clock that night. She never came back.”

Work.

Abruptly, something clicked in Casey’s mind. Jan had been a waitress at the Lakeside Restaurant at the Boathouse in Central Park. If you coupled that with Claire’s vision—a park with a backdrop of water—you got a strong potential scenario for the scene of the crime.

That was solid enough to act on.

Casey walked through the brownstone and found Claire in the main conference room finishing up a phone call with the police.

“Anything?” she asked.

Disconnecting the call, Claire shook her head. “Nothing yet.”

“Then that frees you up to go with me.”

“Go where?”

“To Central Park. To the restaurant Jan Olson worked in. We’ve been so wrapped up, we didn’t get around to going there and questioning the staff.”

Claire rose slowly from her chair, her mouth set in a firm line. “Number one, you’re not going to Central Park—that’s an open arena for people. Number two, Jan worked there fifteen years ago. Even if we find someone who’s still around from back then, I doubt anyone would remember a college girl who waitressed there that long ago.”

“I don’t know. But we’re going to find out.” Casey wasn’t letting this one go. “Take something of Jan’s, something you feel connected to. I’ll announce our outing to the team. I don’t care if they barricade the door. We’re going.”

A half hour and a huge shouting match later, Casey and Claire, together with Dave Brinkman—one of Patrick’s bodyguards—made their trip to Central Park. They walked all over the grounds, Claire tightly clasping Jan’s calendar in the hope of picking up some of her energy and connecting it to their location.

Casey scanned the various areas of the park—the wide-open grassy spaces and the darker wooded sections.

“Could this have been the park you were visualizing when you saw Jan running away?” she prompted Claire, having purposely omitted any mention of the connection between Claire’s vision and their trip to the Boathouse. She wanted anything that came from Claire to be spontaneous.

But now was the time to push it.

“Think,” Casey urged. “Could Jan maybe have left her job and been tracked down and chased through Central Park?”

Claire started. Then awareness dawned in her eyes. She thought for a moment, turning up her palm in an uncertain gesture. “It’s possible. I’m not sensing anything yet.” She continued to walk, her forehead creased in concentration. Casey followed, noticing that, without realizing it, Claire was heading toward the lakeside approach to the Boathouse.

Abruptly, Claire stopped dead in her tracks, staring at the rowboats and gondolas moving across the lake. “The water,” she murmured. “It was in the background when Jan was running. I’d forgotten. And there were butterflies. And birds. Those images are strong now—stronger than they originally were.”

“The area around the Boathouse is known for its bird-watching,” Dave commented. “There’s even a bird registry to record observations.” A corner of his mouth lifted when Casey turned to gaze at him, her brows arched in surprise. “I’m a trivia buff,” he explained. “In fact, I can also verify the butterfly part. The last I recall, twenty-six species of butterflies have been spotted here.”

“Wow.” Casey sent him an admiring look. “And all Patrick mentioned was that you’re a terrific bodyguard.”

He shrugged. “I’m multitalented.”

Claire was lost in her own world. “I’m starting to pick up on the sheer panic I sensed the other day. It’s getting stronger. But it’s still veiled—like there’s a layer of gauze over it. I can’t see through it.”

“Maybe the attack happened farther away,” Casey suggested. “Central Park is huge.”

“True.” Claire pressed her lips together. “I still need more.”

“Then let’s go inside and see if any of the staff remembers her.”

“It’s been fifteen years, Casey.” Claire reiterated her earlier point. “Isn’t that unrealistic?”

“Without a doubt,” Casey concurred. “But that’s why we’re here. And we have to try, especially given the connection you’re sensing.”

Claire couldn’t dispute that one. So she joined Casey and Dave as they went inside the restaurant.

But she was right. Interviewing people, seeking out information from fifteen years ago—it was like operating in a vacuum. Managers had changed, staff had come and gone and the clientele wasn’t even the same as last year, much less fifteen years ago.

The best that Casey, Claire and Dave could do was leave with a printout of longstanding employees. It was a stretch to think that any of those people would remember Jan, much less who she’d been afraid of. But Casey was confident of one thing—that whatever had happened to Jan Olson, it had happened in Central Park.

A very weak lead, but a lead nonetheless—one that required Forensic Instincts’ investigation.

The team wasn’t going to be happy.

Despite their professionalism, their loyalty to Casey superseded all else. And right now, Ryan was scrutinizing the video footage from the vigil, Patrick was grilling everyone at Columbia that Ryan’s research had spit out on the printer and Marc was poring over the two lists Casey had compiled.

The situation was lousy.

And Casey’s nightmares were filled with fear.

* * *

Hutch threw the last of his clothes into an overnight bag, gulped down the rest of his coffee and glanced at his watch.

It was eight-fifteen, pretty late at night to begin a five-hour drive. He didn’t give a damn. If he got on the road in the next few minutes, he’d be in Manhattan a little after one. He’d been working fourteen-hour days since the night Casey had called to say she needed him, just so he could get his piles of work done and get the hell out of Quantico. Yeah, it had been an exhausting stint, but he’d survived on next to no sleep before, and for less important reasons than this.

He was leaving—tonight.

It had taken him two meetings with the head of BAU-4 to agree to give him the days off. He’d accrued the personal time. But it wasn’t that simple. The work wasn’t going away. He’d had to plow through it in order to disappear for a while.

Casey hadn’t pressed him to come. But just the fact that she’d called... That was something she didn’t do. Hutch knew her well. They’d been involved for over a year now. The feelings were there. The words weren’t spoken. It didn’t matter. They both knew what they had. And it was more than enough to propel him to Manhattan.

He’d heard Casey’s tone.

She was scared.

And, in his opinion, she had reason to be.

Hutch zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Then he scooped up his car keys and headed for the door.

Ten minutes later, he was on the road.

* * *

Maura Harris loved her job.

She’d worked in all aspects of veterinary care since she was a teenager and had volunteered at an animal clinic cleaning out kennel cages. Now she was applying to veterinary schools, hoping to one day fulfill her dream and run her own animal clinic.

In the meantime, she worked at the Canine Palace, a posh full-service inn for dogs, located in Tribeca. She handled everything from long-term boarding to doggy day care. Her time there had reinforced what she already believed: dogs were far easier and more delightful to deal with than their owners.

She commuted from Hoboken, a short ride on the PATH train that she could do in her sleep. With her credentials, she could easily have gotten a job closer to home, but she was too attached to her regular “clientele” to make a move.

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