The Stranger You Know

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.