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“I realize that. But I believe him. He didn’t miss a beat. He gave me the location of Jan’s body to get my focus off her and on to his current killing spree—with me as his finale.”
Marc seized Casey’s arm. “We’re going downstairs to the living room. I’m getting you a drink. Then we’ll talk.”
Casey didn’t protest. With Hero padding along behind her, she followed Marc down the staircase to the third floor, where the team’s cozy living room was located. They didn’t spend much time here; they were too busy doing other things that precluded relaxing. But the room was soothing, with decorative wood moldings and wainscoting, cushy sofas and a shag rug that Hero loved to roll around on.
He didn’t play now. He climbed up on the sofa next to Casey and put his head on her lap. He was keenly aware of her tension. And he knew something was up.
“Thanks, boy,” she said softly, stroking his head. “I could use the comfort.”
Marc came in, carrying two glasses of bourbon. “Here.” He shoved one in Casey’s hand. “Drink.”
“Yes, sir.” She took a deep swallow, closing her eyes as the warming effects of the alcohol spread through her. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
Marc lowered himself into the chair across from her. “Tell me exactly what he said.”
After another swallow, Casey complied, relaying the conversation as close to verbatim as she could.
Marc whipped out his cell phone. “I’m sure the pervert used a burn phone. But we can try to trace it.” He punched in Ryan’s cell on speed dial.
Ryan answered on the first ring. “I’m already on it. Yoda pinged me. Tracing the call is a near impossibility. But I’m trying.”
Ryan’s tone told Marc there was more. “And?” he prompted.
“And I didn’t mention it to Casey because she would’ve blown me away, but I installed an app on her cell phone. Every phone call she makes and receives is recorded and uploaded to our servers for analysis. I skip the calls with Hutch,” he added, striving, in his customary way, for a flicker of levity. “Even I have a moral code when it comes to that kind of invasion of privacy.”
“Admirable,” Marc said dryly. He then filled Ryan in on the rest—Claire’s intrusive vision and her call to Patrick.
“So the cops are searching for two bodies simultaneously.” Ryan gave a grunt of disbelief. “This is crazy. If that sick wacko isn’t lying—and I doubt that he is—we’re talking about a career serial killer.”
“Yup.” Marc took a gulp of bourbon. “So, assuming the call can’t be traced, what’s your strategy?”
“I’m analyzing the killer’s word pattern as we speak. The voice might be unrecognizable thanks to the scrambler, but the choice of words isn’t.” He paused. “How’s Casey?”
“Holding up.”
“Once I’ve got this running, I’m coming in. I’ll do the rest from my lair.”
“Good idea. I’ll call Patrick and Claire and fill them in on the pieces they’re missing. The whole team should be here.”
* * *
And they were, gathered around the conference table when the first call came in just after midnight. It was from the NYPD’s Twenty-sixth Precinct.
“We found her,” Captain Sharp reported. “The body was precisely where your caller said it would be. It took a while to get through that narrow crawl space. But it’s done. Now we wait for confirmation of her identity. We’ll compare the victim’s dental records to Jan Olson’s. Oh, and she was wearing a brass locket. We’re going to examine it for partial prints. Who knows? We might get lucky. Especially if she was strangled.”
“If?” Casey lost it. “Was she or wasn’t she? And not only strangled, but raped, tortured, naked?” She tried, unsuccessfully, to stem her emotional outburst. “I know the M.E. has to do his job. But give me something, Captain.”
The silence was oppressive. Obviously, Captain Sharp was taken aback by Casey’s over-the-top response.
“Just tell us what you can, Horace,” Patrick interceded. “We’ll wait for the rest. It’s been a rough night here.”
“Understood.” Captain Sharp accepted that, since he’d been made aware of the potential killer’s claim about the current homicides. “I can tell you the body was nude, other than for the locket. As to any evidence of rape or strangulation—that’s going to have to come from the M.E.’s office. We weren’t able to identify any ligature or finger marks around the throat area, not with fifteen years of decomposition.”
“The body’s with the M.E. now?” Patrick asked.
“Uh-huh. I’ll call you as soon as we get the report—after I notify Daniel Olson.”
“The poor man,” Claire murmured, disconnecting the call.
