The Stranger You Know. Andrea Kane
Marc has that info, I’ll track down all those people,” Ryan said.
Casey’s gaze flickered to Patrick. “After that, you and Marc split the list and interview each and every person on it. We need to build a real profile on Jan Olson.”
“And fast,” Patrick said. “So, at the same time, Ryan can build a real timeline on her activities.”
“No problem.” Ryan scribbled down some notes. “Besides setting up that database, I’ll start poking into Jan’s college schedules. Her transcripts will be on file. That’ll give me her coursework and her professors. It’s a good start.”
Casey nodded again. “Claire, you, Hero and I are meeting with Daniel Olson early this evening at his home in Brooklyn. Jan grew up there. Her bedroom is still relatively unchanged. Mr. Olson has agreed to let you explore her room and handle any personal articles you’re drawn to. He’s also agreed to let Hero sniff out the area. We’ll make some scent pads. I know it’s been fifteen years. But they still might come in handy.”
“Hell, yes,” Ryan agreed. “Hero can isolate her scent in a dorm or apartment where hundreds of people have lived since. Right, boy?”
The bloodhound gazed at Ryan and let out a quiet woof. He recognized his name. He knew he was being discussed. And he sensed the serious atmosphere in the room. Thanks to his training in the FBI Canine Unit, he’d be as disciplined about performing his job as any other FI team member.
“Casey, did you request your friend Holly’s file?” Marc asked.
“Yes. The precinct is going through their fifteen-year-old cold case files to hunt it down. I should have it sometime today. I doubt there’s anything substantive in it. It’s probably a one-page complaint and a one-page police report. But definitely review it once we have it in our hands. Maybe you’ll see a fact or a correlation there that I missed or have forgotten.”
No one said it aloud, but they all knew that Casey hadn’t forgotten a damned thing about Holly’s murder. She had a steel-trap mind even when it applied to cases she wasn’t personally vested in. And in this situation? She’d recall every minute detail.
“We’ll all review it as soon as it comes in,” Marc replied, tactfully sidestepping the obvious. “We’ll also dig more deeply into Holly’s life. There might be things about her you didn’t know, things that match up with Jan Olson’s life—incidents, activities, people. Ryan’s database will be key in determining that. But, in the interim, if one of us spots a clue or a connection, you’ll hear about it. Also, while we wait, I’m going to review the details of your second interview with Daniel Olson. Maybe I can find another starting point we haven’t considered.”
“And I’m going to do an in-depth search on Holly Stevens.” Ryan stated his intentions up front. “I want to have a workup to go along with your memories and that skinny police report. The more we know about her before the file even reaches us, the faster we can act.”
If Ryan expected Casey to be upset, he was wrong.
“I agree with you,” she told Ryan. “Find out whatever you can. Patrick and I pored over Jan Olson’s file last night, and nothing jumped out at me. You’re right. Holly and I were friends. But she could have been involved in any number of things with any number of people I knew nothing about. So dig hard. If there’s even the slightest parallel between Holly’s and Jan’s lives, I want to pounce on it.”
* * *
Tim Grant was a prison guard at Auburn Correctional Facility. He didn’t make a hell of a lot of money, and he had two daughters in high school whom he wanted to put through college. Lacy was an All-State soccer player and Sarah’s grades were sky-high. But in today’s world, neither was enough to ensure a scholarship to a good school. So he worked a second job for a private security company. One of the guys he worked with, Bob Farrell, was a retired NYPD detective from the Twenty-sixth Precinct, the precinct in which Columbia University fell. Bob had a beautiful vacation house in the Thousand Islands, and a new young wife who spent money faster than his retirement checks could pay the credit card companies. Not to mention his whopping alimony checks and four grandkids he liked to spoil. So he needed extra cash—lots of it.
Bob had kept up his ties to the precinct and nurtured relationships with others, more than enough so that he could gain information about current cases—especially ones that precinct captains were way too busy to care about. The Jan Olson case fell into that category, particularly since it had been farmed out to Forensic Instincts. So when Tim asked him to dig into the investigation and find out what was going on, it was an easy assignment to fulfill. And it came as no surprise that the information was being requested, given that part of his job was to keep tabs on whatever Forensic Instincts was doing.
Passing along whatever he learned to Tim was a welcome task, considering the generous payment he got in return. He knew that Tim made a bundle from the arrangement, and that was just fine with him. After all, Tim was the one who took the risk and delivered the information. Bob didn’t know the name of the prisoner who received it. And he didn’t want to know. He had a creepy feeling that the guy pulling the strings was one scary felon.
Tim was thinking much the same thing as he approached Glen Fisher’s cell that afternoon. He glanced inside, caught a glimpse of Fisher lying on his cot and found his gaze drawn to the sketch the inmate was working on. The minute he saw it, he flinched, wishing he’d never looked. The perverse drawing was like all the others. It depicted the figure of a woman sprawled on the ground, covered by more slashing strokes of bright red than his stomach could take. The guy was a psycho. Tim didn’t doubt it for a minute. He not only saw it in his drawings, he felt it every time Fisher stared him down, emotionlessly reiterating what was expected of him. The look in Fisher’s eyes was terrifying—empty as death. With his usual sense of dread, Tim did what he had to, comforting himself with the fact that this nutcase was never getting out of here and could therefore do nothing with the information he was given but indulge his sick fantasies. At least that was what Tim prayed.
“Hey,” he said quietly, standing close to the cell.
Fisher rolled over and rose from his cot, putting down his drawing materials and walking over to face Tim through the iron bars.
“What do you have for me?” he asked—a demand, not a question.
“The Stevens girl’s file is being dug up from the Twenty-sixth Precinct’s cold cases and sent to Forensic Instincts,” Tim reported in a low tone. “It might take a little time, since the crime happened fifteen years ago. In the meantime, Casey Woods talked to Olson again last night. From what I’m hearing, she’s definitely looking for some kind of connection between the past and the present.”
“Good. That’ll keep her busy. What about the cops?”
Tim shook his head. “There’s no buzz at the Twenty-sixth Precinct about any connections to recent crimes. The same goes for the Ninth,” he added, referring to the precinct that had jurisdiction over Tompkins Square—the district where Fisher had been set up and arrested.
“So Casey Woods is spinning her wheels.” Fisher shrugged. “Just as well. It’ll kill time. And make things interesting...”
He didn’t elaborate. And Tim didn’t ask.
Fisher continued to study him with that lethal stare. “I hear that things are going well for you. If that Lacy of yours keeps scoring goals like she did at last night’s soccer game, you can spend my money on a nice vacation for you and the missus, because you won’t need it for college. And Sarah? Between her GPA and that gorgeous red hair I keep hearing about, she’s got an equally bright future. Incredible daughters you’ve got. Pretty, too. You should be very proud—and very careful. It’s a scary world out there.”
Tim’s fingers curled so tightly around the cell bars that his knuckles turned white. He wished he could choke the life out of Fisher.
“Calm down,” Fisher said, his lips curving a bit at Tim’s reaction. “You already have high blood pressure. You don’t want to