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“The Olson girl. One of my first. Before I knew exactly the victim type I wanted. I like to think of her as practice.”
Oh, dear God. Casey felt bile rise in her throat. “You killed...” She swallowed hard. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“I’ll give her to you. It’s ironic. You’re doing such a thorough search, and she’s right in your backyard. Worth Street, near Broadway. The newly renovated office building near the pharmacy. In a crawl space in the basement. She’s still there. Pretty well preserved. I made sure of it.”
Casey didn’t—couldn’t—speak.
“Worry about the present,” the chilling voice continued. “I’ve just solved your old case. Put all your efforts where they belong. This new one—I’ve still got her blood on my hands. Find her while the body’s warm. And know that it’ll soon be your turn. Get ready for me, Red.”
The line went dead.
It took Casey a few moments to get herself under control. Then she called Patrick’s friend, Captain Sharp, at the Twenty-six Precinct, so that the NYPD could start digging for Jan Olson’s body.
She had no doubt it would be where her caller had said.
* * *
Patrick was watching TV in the living room of his Hoboken brownstone when Claire’s call came through. She was so overwrought he could barely understand her.
“Claire, calm down,” he instructed, muting the sound. “Are you telling me there’s been another murder?”
“Yes.” Claire swallowed some water to compose herself. “It wasn’t as clear as the last time. I couldn’t see or hear anything to give me a clue as to where it was. But I had to call you. I had to...” She broke off, as if something were coming to her. “It happened nearby.”
“Nearby where? The office?” Now Patrick was getting nervous. “Marc’s with Casey. She should be safe.”
“No. Not the office. Near you.”
“In Hoboken?”
“Yes.” Claire was getting agitated again. “Patrick, do you know anyone at your local precinct?”
“Of course.”
“Call them. Now.”
* * *
Casey nearly collided with Marc in the hall outside her bedroom. He was in special-ops mode, his entire body geared like a missile.
“Are you okay?” he demanded.
Still trembling, Casey stood there, white-faced, wrapped in her terry-cloth robe, her hair damp and tousled. “You know?” she asked Marc.
“I know there was allegedly another victim. Patrick called. He’s worried about you. You didn’t answer your phone. So he called me.”
“I was talking to the police.” Casey dragged a hand through her hair, trying to get her bearings. “I don’t understand. How did Patrick know?”
“Claire. She says the crime happened in Hoboken.” Marc’s eyes bore into Casey. “You heard from the killer.”
She nodded. “He told me about the new victim—and the old one.”
Marc looked puzzled. “Old one? Which old one? Kendra?”
“No. Jan Olson. He told me where we could find her body. He said she was one of his first kills.”
“Shit,” Marc hissed. “He’
s claiming to be the same serial killer? Casey, there’s a fifteen-year gap between the murders of Jan Olson and Kendra Mallery.”
