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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.”
“In Tribeca?” Casey demanded.
Claire shook her head. “No. Not close to the office. Close to me.”
“He dumped the body near Claire’s apartment,” Hutch concluded. “Think about it. The killer already left bodies in both Ryan’s and Patrick’s neck of the woods, and one body in Tribeca, as well. All that’s left of the FI team’s neighborhoods are Claire’s and Marc’s. NYU isn’t far from Claire’s apartment. Following the killer’s pattern, I think we should concentrate our search in the East Village.”
Abruptly, he broke off, a flicker of realization dawning in his eyes.
“You already know where the body is,” Casey deduced.
Hutch met Casey’s gaze. “He told you that you’d come full circle. We thought he meant it emotionally. But he meant it in a real sense—full circle from where Glen Fisher first attacked you.”
“Which was in the East Village,” Casey breathed. “He put Deirdre’s body in that alley near Tompkins Square Park.”
Chapter Nineteen
Tim Grant peered up and down the prison corridor. It was nighttime. No one in sight. And a
ll the prisoners were confined until morning.
He approached Glen Fisher’s cell and glanced inside. Fisher was visibly impatient, pacing back and forth, pausing only long enough to finger the lock of hair Tim had brought him the day before.
That damned lock of hair had made Fisher terrifyingly happy. It was as if he was a predator, and the hair was a trophy from one of his quarries. Tim didn’t know the details. And he didn’t want to. He just shut them out and did his job.
Tonight he had another delivery that would brighten Fisher’s night, thanks to some help from Bob Farrell, his NYPD contact.
“Fisher,” he muttered, his lips close to the bars.
Glen’s head whipped around. “You have something for me?”
“The iPhone you asked for.” As always, Tim felt a wave of relief when he satisfied Fisher’s demands. The alternative wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate.
“Excellent,” Fisher said, a victorious smile curving his lips. He reached through the bars and took the slim cell phone. “This is precisely what I needed. You can go now.”
Tim didn’t need to be told twice.
He turned around and retraced his steps, getting as far from Fisher as he could.
Glen waited until the sound of the prison guard’s steps faded away and disappeared. Then he went to the far side of his cot and squatted down, where he couldn’t be seen. He huddled over the iPhone and turned on the power. Waiting only until it was ready to go, he punched out a text message. It read: Is “Find iPhone location” visible?
He waited, knowing that an answer would be forthcoming.
He wasn’t disappointed. A few minutes later, a return text arrived. Auburn State NW, it said.
Those were just the words Glen Fisher wanted to see.
