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“Law enforcement’s list,” Glen clarified. “Forensic Instincts is an entirely different animal. They’re the most challenging of adversaries. So, do I think they’ll come back? I know they will. In fact, I’m counting on it.”
Chapter Fourteen
“There’s next to nothing here. Not even a damned credit card statement.”
Hutch tossed down the monthly bills he’d reviewed for most of the night. He was perched at the edge of FI’s conference room table, gulping coffee and poring over all the paperwork that law enforcement had collected at the Fishers’ place.
It wasn’t much.
“Glen Fisher was all about cash,” he said. “Every month on the exact same day of the month, he withdrew precisely eight thousand dollars from the bank and used it to pay all his bills, including his rent. That’s weird, but not illegal. He had that generous trust fund from his grandparents, and a wad of cash inherited from his parents. The other half went to his brother, Clark, whose assets were inherited by his son, Jack. I have no idea if the kid blew it all or gave it to his uncle for managing.”
“I can fill in some of those blanks.” Ryan entered the conference room. “Yoda,” he instructed. “Display background check on Jack Fisher.”
“Retrieving requested information,” Yoda responded.
A moment later, up popped a webpage displaying a three-column table. In the first column were the dates of various documents in descending order. In the second column was the source of the information—everything from high school transcript to Experian. In the third column was the result of the background check. Where the query had returned some information, the result column displayed a link to a PDF document that contained the details of the search and the results.
The first PDF document stopped everyone in their tracks.
It was Jack Fisher’s death certificate.
“Shit,” Ryan muttered. “I was hoping this would be a productive avenue.”
“Well, it’s not,” Hutch said. “Put it on the back burner for now, and let’s focus on more viable leads. Is Patrick tailing Suzanne?”
“As of dawn today, yes,” Casey replied. “He hasn’t called in yet. But she probably hasn’t even left her apartment for work. It’s early.”
“I wish we’d started following her a few days earlier,” Hutch said, studying the bank statement again. “Yesterday she made her eight-thousand dollar monthly withdrawal. I’d love to know how she allocated it.”
“And I’d love to hear back from Claire.” Casey frowned. “I’m not going to bug her. She’d call if she had anything solid to tell us. But we really need her input—especially if it implicates Glen or hints at who his successor is. As for me, I’m waiting for official word that I’m on Fisher’s visitor list. Once that happens, I’ll be driving up to Auburn. My getting in his face might provide us with something.”
“Or it might provoke him to go after you sooner,” Hutch said, his expression as hard as his tone. He still wasn’t happy with Casey’s plan to see Glen Fisher.
“I’ll risk it. You’ll coach me as to how I can best approach him. If I piss him off enough, maybe he’ll lose it and inadvertently give us a lead.”
* * *
Glen Fisher was in a fine mood.
He hadn’t been sure that the cops would let Forensic Instincts take part in yesterday’s search. But clearly Casey Woods had the kind of connections that opened doors—including the door to his apartment.
He wondered just how frustrated she’d been to learn nothing, to actually be in his living space and yet not be able to capitalize on it. There was something deeply exciting about the thought of having her in his home, going through his things and still being a fly in his web. She was at his mercy. He was the master of her fate, whether she knew it or not.
She’d know it soon enough.
And she’d be begging to die.
* * *
Claire nearly jumped out of her chair when her doorbell rang.
She’d been sitting at her kitchen table, nursing a cup of green tea, and eyeing the ballpoint pen that was in front of her. She’d handled it a dozen times, and each time a barrage of dark energy had assailed her, nearly suffocating her with its intensity.
She was steeling herself to go through the onslaught again.
The doorbell was a startling, but in some ways relieving, interruption.
She rose, checking the wall clock as she did—8:30 a.m. She barely remembered when night had turned into day.
