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Casey didn’t argue with it.
“Maybe the receptionist will remember something about the way he looked,” Hutch suggested. “Glen Fisher was still in prison at that time, so this was killer number two. Anything we can learn about him would be a plus.”
“The salon opens at nine.”
“We’ll be waiting at the door.”
* * *
Claire gazed around the Princeton dorm room that had been Trish’s home for the school year. The energy here was strong. Trish’s aura was everywhere. This room was her nest. That made it easier to connect with her.
Claire stood there for a long minute, immersing herself in the energy. Then she walked straight to the desk. Her fingers brushed over the textbooks lying there. She picked up one general psychology book and one small, well-worn copy of Othello.
“What a sad, ironic choice,” Claire murmured, her tone hollow. “Of all Shakespeare’s works, this was Trish’s favorite—the play in which Othello suffocates Desdemona.” A shiver ran through her. “There’s a lot of Trish in this room. She spent hours studying, sitting right here at this desk. She was a good student. She pushed herself hard.”
A pained pause, during which Claire pressed her lips together. “More irony. She was working on something that involved psychology. She planned on calling Casey. She was thinking about that last night when she left the library. But it never happened.”
Ryan wasn’t sure whether or not he was supposed to comment. He had no idea what Claire was seeing, if it was fact or fiction, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a hundred questions. He was clueless about how psychic connections worked. And he didn’t want to break the chain of whatever Claire was feeling. So he kept quiet.
“The library...” A series of images flashed through Claire’s mind, and that faraway look came into her eyes. “Trish dropped her backpack when they grabbed her. It was still at the crime scene, which was between the library and the chapel. She tried to scream. They chloroformed her. She put up quite a fight. It took both of them to subdue her and get her off campus. The rest of it—the torture, the rape, the strangulation—that all happened in the alley where they found her body. What they did to her was barbaric.” Claire’s lashes were damp with tears.
Ryan couldn’t remain silent anymore. He touched Claire’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.” Claire’s breath was coming faster, and she switched to the present tense. “I can make out their forms. I want to see their faces, but I can’t. I can tell that one man is older, in good physical shape, solid. He’s the cruel one when it comes to mind games. The other guy is younger, leaner. He moves faster. And he hurts harder. God, the physical pain—it’s excruciating. Twice. First one man, then the other. Oh, God, Ryan, they’re tearing her apart.”
Claire was gasping now, but she refused to stop. “She can’t fight them anymore, not when she’s fighting for her life. She can’t breathe. She’s struggling for air.” Reflexively, Claire’s hand went to her throat. “Their hands keep squeezing. Squeezing. The blackness is coming. She’s going limp. Fading away.” She paused, suddenly very still. “It’s done,” she managed. “She’s dead. They’re not even waiting. The older guy is getting the tarp ready. The younger one is doing the artistry—the ribbon, the hair, the lipstick. I can feel both their energies. Why can’t I see them? Why can’t I see them?”
“Claire, no more.” Ryan couldn’t watch her go through this. He turned her around and gave her a shake. “It’s enough. Stop torturing yourself.”
Dazed, Claire looked up at him, still caught in her vision. “I can make out their bodies, their builds, their actions—all but their faces.” She blinked, and the vague look faded from her eyes as realization struck. “This is the first time I was able to envision everything. I experienced it from inside the victim’s head and from a third-person angle, as well. I’ve never seen the killers before, not in any way. I’m getting closer. But how do I close the distance, go the rest of the way?”
She noted the helpless expression on Ryan’s face, and smiled. “Who am I asking? The man who thinks Yoda is human but psychic energy is bullshit?”
“You’re right, I’m probably the wrong person to ask. Still, logic tells me that your plan to meet with Suzanne Fisher tonight is the next step. Maybe the two experiences back-to-back will give you what you need.”
Claire gave a thoughtful nod. “While I’m linked in with the killers’ aura, I might be open to receiving more. I also have Glen Fisher’s pen that I took from his apartment. Now that he’s out of prison and taking part in these rapes and murders, I might get something off that.” Her chin came up and she met Ryan’s gaze with a look of sheer determination. “Let’s go home. I have work to do.”
* * *
Ryan dropped Claire off at home, and then headed back to the office to see if anything was up. The team was milling around in the conference room, reviewing theories. Ryan described Claire’s experience at Princeton and her plans for that evening.
“That’s good,” Casey said. “It seems as if we’re all focusing on Suzanne. Especially since we got the chemical breakdown from the lipstick applied to Trish’s mouth.” She went on to tell Ryan about the lip gloss and the lock of hair. “Hutch and I spoke to the salon receptionist this morning. She didn’t remember much. Just a guy in his midtwenties wearing a uniform. She was pretty sure he was on the thin side, but his cap covered up his hair and shielded his face. So there wasn’t much for her to tell us.”
“We also called the plumbing company he allegedly worked for,” Hutch added. “No servic
e call was requested, so no technician was dispatched. We even checked with the landlord, and with the store that supposedly had a water problem. All fictitious.”
“You think Suzanne did recon at the salon?” Ryan asked. “It would be seamless. She’d go for a haircut, and figure out the layout of the place while she did. She’d make the appointment under an assumed name. She could even have checked the appointment book to see when Casey was coming in. And she’d have done all of this while Fisher was in prison, so the police wouldn’t be following her yet.”
“I definitely think that’s the case,” Patrick agreed. “Because the cops are having absolutely no luck with their tail. Suzanne goes to work, does her chores on the way home and then holes up in her apartment. She hasn’t so much as seen a friend, much less her husband. And the wiretapping has yielded nothing, either. According to that, there’s been zero contact between husband and wife. It’s looking more and more like she and Fisher have burn phones. And how do we deal with that? It’s frustrating as hell.”
Ryan was quiet for a long moment. His thoughts were coming faster than he could keep up with.
“Suzanne is at work,” he announced abruptly. “So are her neighbors. That gives us all afternoon.” He turned to Marc. “I’ll need your help.”
“You’ve got it. What do you need me to do?”
“Give me two hours. Then meet me in my lair.”
