The Stranger You Know (29 page)

Chapter Thirty

Glen was horny as hell.

He made his way to a secluded area along Shore Road Park in Brooklyn near the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. The view was spectacular, as was the memory of the redheaded jogger he’d raped and killed there just over a year ago.

It was the perfect place to call Suzanne.

He’d told her to expect his call—right about now.

He pulled out his burn phone and punched in the number.

Suzanne answered on the first ring. “Hello?” Glen had taught her never to say his name, just in case there was a crosswire.

“It’s me.” Glen didn’t waste any time. “Are you wearing the wig?”

“Yes.” Suzanne tucked a strand of it into place. Glen liked it just so. She made sure to keep it that way.

“Good. Very good.” He settled himself on the bench.

* * *

Ryan was in his lair, poised and ready when the phone call went through.

It didn’t take ten seconds to recognize what the call was about. Ryan wanted to puke. Lucky him. He’d be spending the next ten minutes listening to Glen Fisher having phone sex with his wife. Well, puking wasn’t an option. Not when time was of the essence. He’d just block out the content and get the information he needed.

Taut with frustration, Ryan kept banging the table with his fist, trying with each thud to encourage his hacking script to pierce the wireless carriers’ billing systems and triangulate the location of Glen and his cell phone, based on cell tower geometry. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Finally the coordinates appeared in a small window on the screen.

“Yes,” Ryan hissed. He cut and pasted the coordinates into a widget he’d written—one that translated the longitude and latitude into a large red X superimposed on Google Maps. Ryan zoomed in. Son of a bitch. Fisher was practically underneath the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, in Shore Road Park.

Majorly pissed off, Ryan headed upstairs to the conference room to tell Casey and the rest of the team the bad news.

“My system worked perfectly,” he announced. “Unfortunately, Glen Fisher was having phone sex with his wife and jerking off on a park bench in Brooklyn. By the time I could’ve gotten there, the perv would have been long gone.”

“So we’ve got nothing,” Marc said in disgust.

“Not a fucking thing.”

* * *

Suzanne Fisher put down the burn phone, removed her red wig and curled up on her bed as soon as the call was over.

Wearing it during her more explicit talks with Glen wasn’t her favorite thing. But it put him in such a good mood, and made the phone sex so much more intense, that it was worth it.

She’d have to buy a backup wig before they left the country.

She’d just stood up to put the wig away when a knock sounded on her apartment door.

She froze, uncertain what to do. The police had backed off on their interrogations, the press had been pretty successfully blocked and she’d followed Glen’s instructions and told all her friends and coworkers that she needed her privacy when she was at home. So who could be at her door?

Timidly, she walked into the living room, hovering near the sofa, trying to decide what to do.

“Mrs. Fisher?” Claire called out. “It’s Claire Hedgleigh. I came to see how you are. May I come in?”

It was that lovely young woman who was a psychic.

Suzanne felt an unexpected surge of relief. There was something about Claire Hedgleigh that she found very comforting. She was a kind person, with a generous soul and an amazing gift. She’d obviously sensed that Suzanne needed female companionship—someone to share a cup of tea with—and she’d responded to that awareness.

And if Suzanne was wrong, if Claire had come as a member of Forensic Instincts and had concocted some kind of offensive agenda, she’d be swiftly shown out.

But somehow, Suzanne didn’t think that was the case.

“Just a minute,” she called back.

She was halfway to the door, when she realized she was still holding the wig. Hurrying over to the sofa, she stuffed it under the closest cushion and returned to the hallway.

She unlocked and opened the door, giving Claire a guarded smile—one that curved her lips but didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” she greeted her.

Claire drew her brows together in a quizzical look. “I hope I’m not intruding. I know this is a difficult time for you. I just got the feeling I should drop by.”

So she was right, Suzanne thought. This wasn’t a fishing expedition. It was simply a caring gesture—one that was based on the gut feel of a psychic.

“That’s very nice of you,” Suzanne said. “I
was
feeling out of sorts tonight. I was just about to make myself a cup of tea. Would you like one?”

“That would be wonderful.”

“Please, come in. Sit down.” Suzanne swept her arm in a welcoming gesture.

“Thank you.” Claire entered the apartment, crossed over and settled herself on the sofa.

“I have every kind of tea imaginable,” Suzanne told her. “I was about to brew chamomile to help me relax.”

“That’s my favorite for relaxing, too.”

“Then I’ll make two cups.” Suzanne disappeared into the kitchen.

While she waited, Claire folded her hands in her lap and gave herself a stern talking-to. For whatever reason, she was having a hard time staying put and keeping her expression serene. She hadn’t expected this kind of reaction. She hadn’t had it the last time she’d been here. But this time, there were new and complicated energies filling the rooms—energies that screamed of Glen Fisher.

He hadn’t physically been here. Claire felt certain of that. But his presence was as powerful as if he had. Recently. Which meant he’d definitely been in touch with his wife and that he was calling the shots about whatever was going on. His personality was so strong that Claire could hardly breathe. And his aura was so evil that it caused her physical pain.

There was the panicky feeling again. Claire swallowed hard, determined to go with the feeling and not to follow her instincts and bolt. She had to figure out the source of that suffocating panic.

She was exposed, in danger. It was a very personal danger, not one that was routed to her from another source. No one was touching or assaulting her. Yet she was at the mercy of the evil that enveloped her. She couldn’t escape it. She was desperate to run—now, right now—to get away from this apartment and the threat that existed here.

But she didn’t.

She remained where she was, seated on the sofa, battling to understand. Suzanne Fisher wasn’t going to harm her. No one else was in the apartment. So what was causing the panic that kept coursing through her?

Eyes shut, Claire forced her body to relax on the sofa.

That made things worse.

Prickles of fear shot up her spine. Besides the panic, she started picking up an odd and creepy heated sensation on the underside of her thighs. Rather than dissipating, the sensation intensified, and then spread upward to her bottom. It closed in on her from the waist down and it took all her mental strength not to leap to her feet.

Instead, she focused on the sensation. It wasn’t actually painful, but it came damn close. And it was more frightening than painful. Again, there was no sense of being touched or violated by human hands, just that insistent heat.

Claire ignored the fine sheen of perspiration that broke out all over her body. She shifted on the sofa cushion, wondering if her position would alter the feeling. Resettling herself on a diagonal, she crossed her legs and waited.

A burst of heat.

Her eyes flew open, and she bit her lip to restrain the startled cry that rose in her throat.

In her peripheral vision, she spied a flash of red under the original spot where she’d been seated. Her head turned in that direction.

A cap of hair shoved beneath the sofa cushion. Red hair.

Claire didn’t think. She just glanced behind her to confirm that Suzanne was still in the kitchen. Seeing that she was, Claire grabbed the hair and tugged it out.

A red wig. Shoulder-length. Expensively made. And screaming with myriad energy. Claire realized that some of the energy was the heat that had been building up beneath her and was now rapidly fading.

For a brief instant, she stared at the wig. Then she shoved it into her tote bag, pushing it way to the bottom and covering it up with the rest of the bag’s contents.

She now had to conduct a civil, believable conversation, and then get out of there as fast as she could.

She wasn’t sure she could pull this off. She wasn’t much of a con.

Time to become one.

“Here we are.” Suzanne returned to the living room with a tray containing two cups of tea, milk and sugar, two linen napkins and a dish of cinnamon cookies. “I thought you might like to try these. I baked them myself. They’re very light.” She set down the tray, serving Claire like a proper hostess.

“How thoughtful.” Despite her best intentions, Claire was operating on only a few cylinders. Her mind was in emotional chaos. But the few prevailing instincts she still had cautioned her that she couldn’t give herself away—not when she’d just stolen something crucial from Suzanne Fisher’s house.

“I can’t think of a more relaxing snack,” she added, reaching for a cookie and a napkin. First eat. Then drink. Both would keep her mouth occupied and her emotional turmoil from registering on her face. She took a bite of the cookie. “Mmm. These are delicious.”

Suzanne looked pleased. She settled herself on the opposite side of the sofa, taking her own napkin and cookie. “I’m delighted you dropped by.”

“I took a chance that you’d be home,” Claire said. “As I mentioned, I had the feeling you needed some company.”

“Was it a psychic premonition?” Suzanne asked eagerly.

This was familiar turf. Trying to explain to people the nature of her gift. Normally, this conversation was a frustrating one for Claire. Right now, it was a welcome reprieve.

“No, it wasn’t a premonition, just a gut feeling. Some of it was based on fact—you’ve been bombarded with difficult stimuli these past few days—and the rest of it was instinct. I felt a connection with you the first time we met. Maybe that’s why I sensed what you were feeling. I don’t know.”

Suzanne’s eyes were wide with interest as she sipped her tea. “It must be wonderful and frightening at the same time to know things without actually knowing them.”

“I wouldn’t say that I
know
things. I just sense them. Sometimes I’m right. Sometimes I’m wrong. Either way, it’s a huge responsibility. And, yes, it can be frightening.” Claire answered that one with total candor. “As for wonderful, it’s only wonderful when it produces positive results. When it agitates me and leads nowhere, it’s more upsetting than it is good.”

“I see your point.”

“I’m glad. It’s a hard one to explain.” Claire sipped her tea. “Speaking of frightening, has the press backed off and left you alone?”

A shrug. “The police have kept them in check. I wish they’d just go away. I want to live a normal life, to go to work, or to the market, without being followed and harassed.”

“It’ll die down. Right now, it’s overwhelming because your husband just escaped. Once that’s resolved, he’ll be in custody and you’ll be able to go back to your normal life.”

Suzanne’s back stiffened, and a flicker of suspicion darted across her face. “I don’t want to talk about Glen’s escape or the posse that’s after him. If that’s what you came here to discuss, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“On the contrary.” Claire kept her composure calm, shaking her head from side to side. “To be frank, I’m just as happy not to discuss your husband at all. I assumed you were feeling isolated and wanted to express your feelings for him. If you don’t, all the better. Because the truth is, you love and believe in him. I don’t. So why should we be uncomfortable or argue? I’m sure we have other things in common besides the issue of your husband’s guilt or innocence.”

Relief flickered in Suzanne’s eyes, and the tension in her body abated. “I appreciate your sensitivity. It would be refreshing to talk about something else for a change.”

“Great. Why don’t you tell me about your interest in the piano? When did you learn to play? And what made you decide to teach?”

Claire’s digression worked. Suzanne spent the next half hour talking about how she’d played the piano since kindergarten, how her love for it had been passed down by her mother and how much she enjoyed educating others in the beauty of classical music. Especially children, who were more open and eager to explore—even if they did hate practicing during the week.

From the piano they went on to discuss the symphony, and how much Suzanne loved both that and the theater.

Every time Claire lifted her cup of tea, she glanced at her watch.

When a little over an hour had passed, she knew she could leave without arousing any suspicion.

“This has been lovely,” she said, setting down her empty teacup. “Can I help you with these dishes before I go?”