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“It wasn’t a sleep night for me, either.” Hutch poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the counter beside Casey. “I was too busy putting pieces together.”
“That whole lipstick thing is really bothering me,” Casey said, gripping her coffee mug. “I hope we get the chemical analysis back soon. Because I know in my gut that it was my shade. And if it is...”
“Then it makes you question Suzanne Fisher’s role in all this.”
Casey angled her head toward Hutch. “Does that mean you were thinking along the same lines?”
“I was thinking about Suzanne Fisher as a whole. She’s an enabler, which makes her a perfect victim for Glen Fisher’s abuse. She’s a conduit to what he needs to get done. We knew that. But now we’re taking it a step further. Now we’re wondering if she actually has some input into the murders.”
“Creative input, in this case,” Casey clarified. “Men don’t come up with the idea of matching lipstick shades. That’s a female thing.”
Hutch nodded. “A man would think about the overall concept of d
ressing up a victim to make her look like a gift to satisfy his ego. He might even zero in on making her look like you. But a specific color or brand of lipstick? Doubtful.”
“So if that added touch belonged to Suzanne Fisher, what other contributions is she making?”
Hutch’s expression was grim. “Right now, I’m more concerned with how she knew what makeup you wear. Did she follow you when you bought it? Or did she somehow get her hands on your things?” His eyes narrowed. “Do you remember where and when you last bought your lipstick?”
Casey racked her brain. “About a month ago, I guess. I bought it in Macy’s.”
“That’s a huge store. It would be easy enough to eavesdrop on your purchase.” Hutch processed that piece of information. “Do you remember any time your lipstick was missing? When you dropped it or thought you’d misplaced it?”
“No. And I’d notice that. It’s always in my purse. I use it all the time.”
“Then I opt for the spying at Macy’s. Which, like we said, tweaks the profile on Suzanne Fisher. She might be much cleverer and less passive than we’ve been assuming. Obeying instructions, yes, but also coming up with her own ways to help.”
“Do you think she’s sick enough to have an actual hand in murdering these women?”
“Not directly, no.” Hutch shook his head. “She’s not dominant or vicious enough. More likely, she sees her husband as some kind of wronged hero. That would make it possible for her to justify his abusive behavior toward her. And, if she does view him in that light, she can also convince herself that he’s doing the world a service, ridding it of women he’s labeled as evil, including—no, especially—you.”
“That’s sick.”
“So is Glen Fisher.” The more Hutch considered that theory, the more sense it made. “It’s clear that Suzanne adores her husband, no matter how terrified of him she might be. He manipulates. She rushes to his aid. And if she’s smart and creative, she could be doing anything from scouting victims to researching your ties to people...”
“...to finding out what lip gloss I wear so she can add a special touch to the posing of the victims.” Casey shuddered. “How twisted.”
“Did any hatred come through when you interviewed her?” Hutch asked.
Casey considered that, and then wiggled her hand from side to side. “That’s a hard question to answer. There was definite anger and wariness. I had no doubt that she blamed me for her husband’s conviction. I played with her head a little, so she vacillated from livid to uncertain to vulnerable. Most of her attention was focused on Claire. She was fascinated with the whole psychic angle. That might have watered down any rage directed at me. The woman is a psychological and emotional wreck.” Casey paused. “Speaking of which, Claire is going back to visit Suzanne tonight. She’s not calling ahead. She wants to go for the element of surprise. That, combined with Suzanne’s open reaction to her last time, could pay off.”
“Smart move.” Hutch’s cell phone rang. “Hutchinson,” he answered. A lengthy silence. “Okay, thanks.” He disconnected the call. His expression was not happy.
“What is it?” Casey demanded. “It must have been pretty important for whoever it was to call you at 5:30 a.m.”
“It was.” Hutch took a belt of coffee. “The chemical and the DNA analyses are back. You were right. The lipstick is your shade. But that’s not all that’s yours. So is the hair.”
“The hair?” Casey stared. “You mean the second clump of hair tucked under the ribbon on Trish’s neck?”
“That’s the one. Now how the hell did the killer get it?”
Casey didn’t have to ponder that question. “I got a haircut the other day. There were pieces of my hair all over the floor. He could have taken it from the floor or the garbage or... Wait a minute.” She clutched Hutch’s arm. “There was a repairman in the salon that day. I didn’t give it a second thought until now. My view was obscured. But he walked by me. He could easily have picked up a piece of my hair.”
“That means the killer stood right beside you.” A muscle worked in Hutch’s jaw. “Shit. Even with our tight security, he got that close.”
Casey swallowed hard. “I’ll talk to the salon receptionist, and see what I can find out about the repairman. I doubt she’ll know much, though. He probably just walked in, did whatever he was there to do and left.”
“I’ll go with you.” That was Hutch’s no-choice tone.
