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That didn’t feel right. Fisher was anything but a stupid man. He hadn’t so much as called his wife these past few days. And, with the apartment crawling with cops, he’d never take the risk of walking into their trap.
Could Suzanne herself be a threat?
That was a more viable possibility. True, Claire had picked up more sadness and fear than hostility the first time she’d been in the woman’s presence. But things had changed since then. Suzanne’s husband was out and free. What details of his plans had he shared with her? How much, if anything, had she contributed to those plans?
All of that was untapped information.
Still, Claire had something working in her favor. Suzanne believed in her abilities. That much, Claire had sensed from the onset. So, if Suzanne was curious enough, if she let her guard down enough—there was no telling what Claire might gain from this visit.
She rose and walked over to her yoga mat. A solid one-hour session. A hot shower. And then a subway ride to midtown.
She wasn’t leaving that apartment without getting answers to her questions.
Chapter Thirty
Glen was horny as hell.
He made his way to a secluded area along Shore Road Park in Brooklyn near the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. The view was spectacular, as was the memory of the redheaded jogger he’d raped and killed there just over a year ago.
It was the perfect place to call Suzanne.
He’d told her to expect his call—right about now.
He pulled out his burn phone and punched in the number.
Suzanne answered on the first ring. “Hello?” Glen had taught her never to say his name, just in case there was a crosswire.
“It’s me.” Glen didn’t waste any time. “Are you wearing the wig?”
“Yes.” Suzanne tucked a strand of it into place. Glen liked it just so. She made sure to keep it that way.
“Good. Very good.” He settled himself on the bench.
* * *
Ryan was in his lair, poised and ready when the phone call went through.
It didn’t take ten seconds to recognize what the call was about. Ryan wanted to puke. Lucky him. He’d be spending the next ten minutes listening to Glen Fisher having phone sex with his wife. Well, puking wasn’t an option. Not when time was of the essence. He’d just block out the content and get the information he needed.
Taut with frustration, Ryan kept banging the table with his fist, trying with each thud to encourage his hacking script to pierce the wireless carriers’ billing systems and triangulate the location of Glen and his cell phone, based on cell tower geometry. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Finally the coordinates appeared in a small window on the screen.
“Yes,” Ryan hissed. He cut and pasted the coordinates into a widget he’d written—one that translated the longitude and latitude into a large red X superimposed on Google Maps. Ryan zoomed in. Son of a bitch. Fisher was practically underneath the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, in Shore Road Park.
Majorly pissed off, Ryan headed upstairs to the conference room to tell Casey and the rest of the team the bad news.
“My system worked perfectly,” he announced. “Unfortunately, Glen Fisher was having phone sex with his wife and jerking off on a park bench in Brooklyn. By the time I could’ve gotten there, the perv would have been long gone.”
“So we’ve got nothing,” Marc said in disgust.
“Not a fucking thing.”
* * *
Suzanne Fisher put down the burn phone, removed her red wig and curled up on her bed as soon as the call was over.
Wearing it during her more explicit talks with Glen wasn’t her favorite thing. But it put him in such a good mood, and made the phone sex so much more intense, that it was worth it.
