The Stranger You Know (18 page)

Ryan took in everything Leilah had just said. He steepled his fingers as he thought about what was going on and how it related to Suzanne’s visit earlier in the week.

His gut told him that she’d be visiting the store again soon. His bug would then pick up the interaction between her and the meat market owner.

At that point, it would be time to put Gecko to work.

* * *

Glen Fisher despised waiting.

Nevertheless, in this case patience was essential. Things had to proceed in a precise order so that he could reap the rewards.

Outdoor exercise was over. Time to file in from the yard and go to the cafeteria for lunch. Dutifully, he got in line. While he waited, he groped inside the fold of his prison jumpsuit. His fingers slipped inside the Ziploc bag he’d crammed in there, rubbing her lock of hair between his fingers. A sense of power surged through him. He was so close he could taste it. Taste her.

Taste victory.

Chapter Eighteen

Deirdre Grimes put down her psychology textbook, rose from behind her desk and stretched.

She meandered over to her dorm room window and glanced down at Third Avenue. It was jammed, as usual. For her, that was one of the beauties of attending NYU. Growing up in a tiny rural Midwestern town where everything shut down at five, the constant activity of Greenwich Village was a whole new and exciting world.

Most of all, nothing beat New York City pizza.

She grinned, thinking that she ordered so many pizza deliveries, the guys at her favorite place knew her phone number by heart. It was always the same order—a meat lover’s pie with a delicious combination of sausage, pepperoni and meatball. She’d eat a few slices, after which she’d store the rest in her minifridge to enjoy over the course of the week.

She’d finished up her last slice yesterday. So she’d be placing her order in a little while—her reward to herself after completing her calculus problem set and beginning to tackle the assignment Ms. Woods had given them in Human Behavior.

Normally, Deirdre didn’t add to her already-heavy course load by taking evening classes. But she was a psych major and Ms. Woods’s course was totally fascinating. It delved into what made people tick, how to read body language and how to zero in on different “tells.”

Last night’s lecture had focused on passive-aggressive personalities. The class assignment was to write a short paper describing a specific interaction with that type of individual, and what the indicators were that defined the person in question as passive-aggressive.

The paper wasn’t due for two weeks. But Deirdre was actually looking forward to writing it. She knew just who she’d be writing about.

A knock on the door made her turn away from the window. She brushed a strand of red-gold hair off her face and crossed the dorm room, turning the knob to see who her visitor was.

Opening the door was the biggest mistake of her life.

* * *

The Forensic Instincts team desperately needed a break. They’d been working for days without rest. The wear and tear was beginning to take a major toll on them.

Ryan provided that break—for the team, for Hutch, for the security guys and for Leilah. He took over the patio out back, setting up an impromptu dinner courtesy of his and Leilah’s shopping spree at the meat market. He spent an hour or so tinkering with Big Bertha to get things rolling.

“Big Bertha” had earned her name. Ryan had built the huge contraption from two steel drums, strategically cut and welded into a fire trough. But the real magic of the grill was its custom burners that Ryan had fabricated along with an “oxygen” boost that almost doubled the flame temperature, searing the meat like no other cooking apparatus.

While Ryan was adjusting the flame thrower he called a grill, Leilah was busy in the FI kitchen checking on the lamb that had been immersed for hours in her family’s traditional marinade, a recipe passed down from generation to generation. The aromatic blend of lemon, garlic, mint and other spices permeated the town house, making everyone hungry for dinner and keeping Hero glued to Leilah’s side.

The meal was delicious, but there was an unmistakable tension.

Claire was visibly aloof to Ryan. He’d tried several times to approach her and neutralize the strain between them. But it was clear that while Claire completely understood why Ryan had summoned Leilah for her help, she did
not
understand the overtly affectionate nature of their interaction. Nor did she want to.

“You’re screwing things up,” Marc commented as he walked out to the patio and perched beside Ryan, who was doling out seconds.

Ryan’s jaw tightened. “Why? Is your meat too rare?”

“You know what I’m talking about. And it’s not the food.”

For whatever reason, that infuriated Ryan more than he already was. His head snapped up and he glared at Marc. “Are you about to give me relationship advice? You, who haven’t been involved with a woman in as long as I can remember?”

Marc was unperturbed. “Yup. Because, whether or not you admit it, your relationship with Claire is more than casual—which means you have parameters to adhere to.” He paused. “And for the record, just because I like to keep my private life private, it doesn’t mean I spend my nights alone.”

“Fine.” Ryan took it down a notch. “Point taken. Actually, both points taken. How the hell am I supposed to convince Claire-voyant that I’m not hitting the sheets with Leilah?”

“You could start by not being so responsive to her flirting. It doesn’t take a body-language specialist to figure out that she’s trying to rekindle whatever you once had. And you’re not exactly discouraging it.”

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed, having strolled over to join the men. “Cut the charm. I know you eat, drink and sleep it, but it’s not doing you any good tonight.”

“So what am I supposed to do—blow her off?”

“Just cool it, take it down a notch,” Hutch advised. “I don’t know what kind of arrangement you and Claire have, and it’s none of my business. But even if you’re keeping it light and easy, doesn’t mean she wants another woman shoved in her face. Do what you want, but do it on your own time—not when Claire’s around.”

A corner of Ryan’s mouth lifted. “Our boss has really taught you well. Nice analysis of the female brain. Okay, I’ll try my best.”

* * *

Back in the dining area, Claire sat by herself, playing with her couscous, and trying to deal with her own new and raw emotions. She was being unreasonable, and she knew it. Ryan had every right to renew whatever personal involvement he had with Leilah. There were no promises between them, no labeled relationship and no exclusivity clause. Still, all Claire could see was a beautiful, dark-haired woman all over Ryan. It was clear that they’d been hot and heavy at some point, and equally clear that Leilah was interested in picking up where they’d left off. As for Ryan, he was being too damned accommodating, despite needing Leilah’s help.

She had no idea how to approach this one.

“Hey.” Casey came over and sat down beside her. “You okay?”

“I guess not. But you already know that.” Claire shot her a helpless look. “Why am I letting myself feel this way and how do I stop it?”

“I’m not sure you can.” Casey’s smile was wan. “Relationships are hard. They’re complicated and confusing. And they make you feel and act like you usually don’t.”

“Leilah’s gorgeous,” Claire blurted out, listening to the tinkling laughter of the curvaceous, dark-haired beauty as it emanated from the kitchen. “Even Hero’s transfixed.”

“Hero’s transfixed by her family recipe. But, yeah, she is gorgeous.” Casey wasn’t going to lie to her friend. “And she’s being pretty obvious about what she wants. But it takes two to make that happen. And I think Ryan has too much respect for you to respond to Leilah’s one-liners.”

“We’re like day and night,” Claire said, referring to herself and Leilah. “And I’m not about to compete, no matter how crappy this makes me feel.”

“You don’t have to compete.” Casey paused, carefully weighing her next words. “Ryan cares about you a lot more than even he realizes. He hates clingy women. Before you, he’d never think of giving any woman he was involved with an explanation of his actions. It wouldn’t even be on his radar that she might be hurting. And if it was, he wouldn’t feel any responsibility to alleviate that hurt. I see a whole new Ryan these past months.”

Claire fell silent. “You’re right,” she said at last. “Relationships
are
hard. I liked it better when I was—” She broke off, dropping her plate to the carpet and letting out a gasp. “Oh, no.”

“What is it?” Casey recognized the frightened, faraway look in Claire’s eyes.

“It’s happening again,” Claire whispered, still staring off into space, her breath fast and ragged. “Another woman. Feeling terror. And pain. She’s clawing to get away. But she can’t. She can’t.” Claire covered her face with her hands, as if by doing so she could block out the images.

Casey’s own heart was racing, the fear that had dominated her life all week consuming her yet again. “Can you see the surroundings? Think, Claire. Try to concentrate. Is it indoors? Outdoors?”

“Indoors,” Claire said in a shaky whisper. “Institutional setting. Cinder-block walls. Woven multicolored area rug. He’s dragging her down onto it. There’s nothing she can do.”

Casey’s mind was processing. Institutional setting with cinder-block walls. Not an apartment. A college dorm? Maybe. But which college? Which dorm?

They could call the police. But they had nothing to give them, nothing concrete.

They were helpless.

Casey’s cell phone rang. She didn’t need to look at the caller ID for the all-too-familiar “unavailable.” She knew who it was.

Woodenly, she punched the phone on. “Don’t bother,” she said in a tortured voice she couldn’t conceal. “I already know.”

“Really?” the scrambled voice answered. “I’m impressed. That psychic of yours is worth her weight in gold.”

“Who’s the victim?” Casey was past the point of playing games. “Just tell me.”

“And ruin the fun? Not a chance, Red. You’ll find out soon enough. She respected you, you know. You’d be proud. She fought hard. Just as you will. This one’s ironic. We’ve come full circle.”

The sound of the connection ending sent chills up and down Casey’s spine.

Full circle? What the hell did that mean?

* * *

It was 10:00 p.m.

Robbie chained his bike to a pole on Third Avenue, and lifted the soft, thermal box out of the basket. He headed for the familiar dorm, where he made a meat lover’s pizza delivery at least once a week. Deirdre Grimes was predictable. She always ordered the same thing, and she always gave him a generous tip.

He climbed the two flights of stairs to her second-floor dorm room. He then headed down the corridor, stopped outside her room and rapped at the door.

No response.

“Hey, Deirdre,” he called, knocking again. “It’s Robbie. I’ve got your pizza. Eat it while it’s hot.”

Again, no reply.

Robbie glanced up and down the hallway. He spotted Anita Lerner, another of his college customers, on her way to the showers.

“Hey, Anita,” he yelled out to her. “Have you seen Deirdre?”

Anita stopped and shook her head. “I’ve been locked in my room studying. Deirdre was about to do the same the last time I saw her.” She sent him a grin. “Probably fell asleep. Knock louder. She wouldn’t want to miss her meat lover’s.”

“Yeah, okay.” Robbie turned back to the door as Anita continued on to the showers. He knocked loudly and repeatedly, calling out Deirdre’s name a few more times.

Nothing.

He tried the doorknob. It turned, and the door swung open.

“Deirdre?” Robbie was greeted by a semidarkened room. He wasn’t about to just march in, but he could reach the light switch from the doorway. He flicked it on.

The overhead lit up the place, revealing an empty room. There was blatant evidence of a scuffle. An overturned desk chair, a throw pillow on the floor and a potted plant knocked down and spilled across the woven rug.

And that wasn’t all. There was a large red stain on the rug.

Blood.

Robbie stood dead still for a moment. Then, he took out his cell phone and called 9-1-1.

* * *

There was none of the merriment of a few short hours ago at the Forensic Instincts brownstone. All of that had come to a grinding halt after Casey had gotten her chilling phone call. She’d immediately called Captain Sharp with as much information as she had—which wasn’t much. Now all they could do was wait.

The phone rang at ten-thirty.

Casey punched the phone on speaker. “Yes,” she responded. “Do you have something for us?”

“There’s been an incident at NYU,” Captain Sharp informed them. “The pizza delivery boy called it in about a half hour ago.” He described the condition of the door room that Robbie had walked into. “The crime scene unit is doing its job. I have nothing solid to give you. But Claire’s description of the scene was accurate. The only difference is that, this time, the body was removed. We’ve got cops combing the area to find it.”

Casey sucked in her breath and asked the question she dreaded the answer to. “What’s the name of the girl who’s missing?”

“Deirdre Grimes.”

“Oh, no.” Casey sank down on a chair, her face as white as a sheet.

“Obviously you know her.”

“She’s one of the students in my evening class.” Casey provided the information on autopilot, bile rising in her throat. “She’s bright, enthusiastic...and a redhead.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Damn this scumbag. Why doesn’t he just go after me and leave these poor girls alone? Deirdre is nineteen. She had her whole life ahead of her.”

“We haven’t found a body yet,” Sharp reminded her gently. “Maybe there’s hope.”

“No. There’s not,” Claire replied. She turned away, her lashes damp with tears. “He killed her. And then he moved the body and prepared it for us.” A shudder went through her. “Somehow the body is close to me.”