The Stranger You Know (17 page)

Chapter Seventeen

There were very few things that made Casey relax.

Her monthly hair salon appointment was one of them.

As soon as they lowered her in the chair and cradled her head in the indented curve of the sink, her type A+ personality ebbed into an uncustomary type A–. She shut her eyes and let the warm water work its magic. The scent of the shampoo, the gentle massage of her scalp, it all eased the tension from her body. And then afterward, sitting in Louis’s chair—half watching him performing his artistry and half zoning out—it was a monthly experience that was like a minivacation for her.

Having a security guard reading a magazine in the waiting area and frequently eyeballing her for safety put a definite damper on things. But she refused to let that ruin her experience.

The next few days were going to be manic. This time was hers.

“I’m leaning toward creating a wispier look,” Louis announced. “I’ll take about a half inch off the bottom, and do more pronounced edging up the sides.”

“Sounds good.” The agreement was perfunctory. Louis did what he chose and his decisions were
not
open to debate. But that was fine with Casey. Louis was a genius with a pair of scissors. She was never disappointed when she left his chair. He went to work, alternately combing, snipping and scrutinizing his handiwork. Casey watched with half-shut eyes, thinking about grabbing a sandwich at the deli next door before she hailed a cab to NYU.

The salon was bustling. Upscale as it was, it attracted a high-end crowd, many of whom made their appointments for right after work. That gave them a chance to wind down before dinner.

None of the patrons paid much attention when the handyman entered the salon. He was wearing a gray uniform jacket and carrying a tool chest.

“Hi,” he greeted the receptionist. “I’m with Superior Plumbing. The deli next door is having water pressure problems. The landlord asked me to stop in here and measure your water pressure to make sure you’re not being affected.”

Charisse, the receptionist, looked worried. “Does he think we’re having an issue? We’re a hair salon. Any problems with our water would be a disaster.”

“Yeah, I know.” The guy nodded. “That’s why he wants to be sure. He doesn’t want you to have any disruption to your business.”

“I appreciate that.” Charisse cast a nervous glance around the salon. “Please, go ahead and check,” she urged, pointing toward the rear of the salon. “And, while you do, I ask that you do your best not to upset the clientele. They won’t react well to a snag in their salon experience.”

“Got it.” He snapped off a salute. “I’ll make it quick and painless.”

With that, he headed toward the back, well aware that the bodyguard sitting up front was scrutinizing him. Purposely, he walked past the workstation where Casey Woods was sitting, having her hair cut, without breaking stride.

The bodyguard went back to reading his newspaper.

The instant there were no eyes on him, the repairman let a pen drop from his pocket. It fell onto the marble tile floor with a clatter and came to rest near Louis’s station. The repairman squatted down and scooped up the pen—along with a few wisps of Casey’s hair. Rising, he continued to the back, going straight over to the deserted area where the water meter was situated. Making sure he had no audience, he slid Casey Woods’s hair in a small Ziploc bag and sealed it. He opened his toolbox and placed the small bag inside.

Mission accomplished.

He waited a respectable period of time, then returned to the front of the salon.

“All good,” he told Charisse. “Your water pressure’s fine.”

“Oh, thank you.” She heaved a sigh of relief. “And please thank the landlord for us.”

“Will do. Have a good night.”

He got out of there as fast as he could. Getting the hair was only step one in what he needed to do. He had to split the clump of hair in half, keeping a section of it for future use and arranging to have the other half delivered to Auburn Correctional Facility.

He glanced at his watch.

He had half an hour to meet his contact.

* * *

Glen Fisher was awake most of the night.

His moods cycled rapidly as he replayed his meeting with Casey Woods. Sometimes his rage would eclipse all else, forcing him to clench his fists at his sides to control the urge to choke her. Sometimes his lust took over, and he had to seek his own relief to calm the obsession to possess her. And sometimes, a smug sense of peace took over, reminding him that he’d have a chance to do it all, feel it all, inflict it all.

It was a relief when Tim the prison guard showed up at his cell.

“I have a few things for you,” he muttered through the bars.

Glen rose. “A
few
things?” He only knew about one, and he’d been itching to receive that since last night.

“Yeah.” Tim passed the Ziploc bag containing Casey’s hair through the bars. “You wanted this.” He hesitated, looking down at the papers in his hands. “I’m sure you
didn’t
want this. But I thought you deserved a heads-up. These legal documents arrived late today. The Manhattan D.A. is filing charges against you for the murders of Jan Olson and Holly Stevens.”

Glen snatched the documents and pored over them, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Then he raised his head.

Tim resembled a cringing child, as if he expected to be lambasted—maybe even threatened—for giving Glen the papers.

He was pleasantly surprised.

“I was expecting these,” Fisher said. “Casey Woods all but handed them to me herself.” He glanced briefly at the packet of hair, then back at the legal documents, that eerie look coming into his eyes. “This round is hers. The next one won’t be.”

Tim cleared his throat. “They’re transferring you to Rikers in a few days.”

“Excellent.” Glen turned that crucifying stare on Tim. “I want you to get me an iPhone. Immediately. I don’t care how much it costs. Just get one. Bring it to me tomorrow morning—same time as today.”

* * *

Leilah was prepped and ready.

She and Ryan left Tribeca around 11:00 a.m., making their way up West End Avenue in Ryan’s equipment-laden truck. Crawling up Tenth, they turned onto West 116th Street, headed east and parked a block away from the meat market. Climbing out of the van, Ryan paused long enough to place a forged “Clergy” card in the windshield—a personal statement on his part because he hated paying for parking in Manhattan.

Garbed in a traditional burka, Leilah walked ahead of Ryan, keeping a half block distance between them. By the time Ryan entered the store, Leilah was waiting in line, pacing up and down the length of the meat case. Ryan took his cue, and went over to examine some of the prepared foods—or at least pretended to. In reality, he was scanning the locations of the HVAC supplies and returns. It was a start. He’d need to get his hands on detailed drawings in order to put Gecko into play.

Leilah was still pacing. The owner of the store began darting irritated looks at her. By the time the patron ahead of her had completed her transaction, the shop owner was visibly agitated.

“May I help you?” he asked her in heavily accented English.

Leilah responded in Arabic. The owner reverted to his native Arabic, as well.

A heated conversation ensued.

Ryan had no clue what they were saying, but Leilah’s raised voice and her accusing finger pointing at the lamb kabobs in the case launched the owner on a tirade. He ended with a few tightly controlled, furious words, and then stormed into the back.

Leilah met Ryan’s eyes and nodded, letting him know that this was his opportunity. Ryan nodded back. He’d already used the time when Leilah was doing battle to select the ideal location to plant a bug—just beneath a wooden railing. To the untrained eye, it looked like a piece of used chewing gum. It felt like one, too. So, anyone coming across it by accident would leave well enough alone, too grossed out to touch or to closely inspect someone else’s disgusting leftover.

A man entered the meat market and glanced around, looking for the owner. On his heels, a woman with a shopping bag came into the small store, also gazing quizzically around. She asked Leilah where the owner was.

Before Leilah could respond, the owner returned, emphatically shoving what was clearly a newly cut batch of lamb kabobs at her. He turned to the two new customers, forced a smile and said he’d be with them in just a minute. Then he turned back to Leilah, who was peering at the bright red contents on the brown paper. After a thorough inspection, she gave a nod of approval.

The owner quickly weighed the meat, wrapped it up and told Leilah how much she owed him. She handed him a hundred-dollar bill. He rang up her purchase, pulled out change from the register and handed over the meat and her money.

It was blatantly obvious that he couldn’t wait for her to leave.

Ryan checked his watch, frowning as he ostensibly realized how late it was. He put down the container of prepared couscous that he’d planned on buying, and headed for the door.

A few minutes later, he and Leilah were back inside the van.

“What the hell happened in there?” Ryan demanded. “I thought the guy was going to bust a gut.”

Laughing, Leilah peeled off her burka, tossed back her head and shook out her full mane of hair.

“I told him the lamb in the case looked like a dead carcass cut up into pieces. I asked him if his meat was halal or did that just apply to the sign in the window. He was livid. He told me to go elsewhere to buy my meat. Then I told him I needed five pounds of kabobs—five
fresh
pounds—which I demanded he cut for me on the spot.” A lighthearted shrug. “I guess he wanted my money, so he forgot about my insult.”

Ryan began to laugh. “A brilliant strategy and an equally brilliant performance. I’m totally impressed.”

“I aim to please.” Leilah preened like a beautiful peacock.

“I knew you spoke Arabic. But where did you learn how to pull off a scene like that?”

“From my mother,” Leilah replied. “She was quite the force to be reckoned with. As a little girl, I would go with her to the meat market. The shopkeepers would cringe when we walked in. But they tolerated her badgering because she was a good customer.” She gave him a sunny smile. “And while we’re on the subject of badgering, you owe me five hundred bucks for my performance, another hundred for the meat, and I’m hungry. When are you going to cook these kabobs I so painstakingly acquired?”

“Later,” Ryan promised. “After we get what we came for. I promise I’ll fire up Big Bertha and char this lamb to perfection.” Big Bertha was Ryan’s homemade grill that looked more like a midnight requisition from an oil refinery than a typical gas grill. “In the meantime, I brought you a snack as a substitute.”

He opened a cooler, placed the meat inside for safekeeping and removed a Ziploc bag, offering it to Leilah.

She glanced down at the contents. “You remembered!” She leaned forward and gave him a long, sensual kiss—one that might have gone somewhere if Ryan had let it.

He eased back on his haunches, preparing to get the audio information off his bug.

“I hope you brought something else for yourself.” Leilah spoke between mouthfuls of the buffalo jerky that was her favorite.

“I’m fine. I just want our venture to pay off.” He fast-forwarded the digitally recorded audio stream from the bug he’d planted. Oddly, the woman who’d entered the store after the man was being helped by the owner first. The transaction seemed normal enough. She made her purchase, paid and left.

Ryan could hear the door slam shut. Immediately thereafter, the two men began speaking in Arabic.

Nudging Leilah, Ryan hissed, “Translate.”

Leilah nodded, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. She then translated, speaking in fits and starts. “The customer is talking.” A pause. “He said, ‘I want to send one thousand dollars to my uncle in Quetta, Pakistan, and another thousand to my brother in Dubai,’” she reported. “He asked the owner, ‘What are your fees?’”

Another intent pause. “The owner said ‘three hundred dollars.’ The customer told him that was a lot of money.” Leilah frowned, her forehead creased in concentration. “The owner is explaining. He’s saying that this is a very risky business, that the authorities are trying to pull the plug on all of them and throw them in jail. He wants to be paid for his trouble.”

Leilah reached for another piece of jerky. “This will take a while. The two guys are haggling over the fees.” She resumed her munching as the heated conversation continued. Eventually, she raised her hand, swallowing quickly. “The owner agreed to take only two hundred and fifty dollars, since he was dealing with a repeat customer. The man asked him when the money would be ready. The owner said three days for the brother in Dubai and five days for the uncle in Quetta. The men agreed.”

Leilah listened again. “The customer is counting the money out loud. Two thousand. Two hundred. Fifty. The owner is accepting payment and advising the man that his uncle and brother can pick up the money in the same places as before. He’s reciting the addresses.” One final pause. “Now they’re saying goodbye.”