Andrea Kane - The Stranger You Know

Patrick arched a brow. “This is me you’re talking to. Who’s more apt to understand your internal conflict and ambivalence?”

Casey tucked a strand of shoulder-length red hair behind her ear. Patrick was right. He’d understand better than anyone. He’d lived through it firsthand.

He’d been an FBI agent for over thirty years before coming on board at Forensic Instincts. His joining the team had been the direct result of a child kidnapping case that had haunted him since early in his career and had resurfaced in a new form that was investigated by FI. The emotional reverberations had eaten away at him.

“This situation is different,” Casey said. “You had no idea you were treading on my Achilles’ heel. There’s no need to feel guilty.”

“I don’t feel guilty. I feel responsible.”

“You shouldn’t. Captain Sharp is your friend.”

Patrick nodded. He’d spent a chunk of his FBI time working the Joint Robbery Task Force with NYPD Captain Horace Sharp. They’d become tight. So when Horace had been approached by a dying neighbor, Daniel Olson, begging him for closure, convinced that his long-missing daughter had been murdered and pleading with him to find her body, Horace had agreed to try—if Forensic Instincts agreed to work the case jointly with his detectives. FI had the money and the manpower to give to this case-that-wasn’t-a-case. The NYPD didn’t. As a result, the retainer was an IOU—a favor to be redeemed sometime in the future. And the stipulation was that Forensic Instincts would work with the police detectives, not alone.

So, yes, Patrick had brought the case to the FI team. But from the minute they’d sat around the table discussing it, he’d picked up on some weird vibes. He’d waited patiently for someone to fill him in. No one did. Not in three days. So he’d finally taken the bull by the horns and called Marc. And now he got it. This was close to home for Casey—maybe too close.

Watching her now, seeing how conflicted she was, only substantiated his concerns.

“Should I tell Horace we can’t help Mr. Olson?”

“No.” Casey gave a hard shake of her head. “You shouldn’t. Our team has the skills. I have the insight. My reaction is my problem. Not yours.” She paused for a moment. “But at least now you know the reason for my crazy behavior. I should have told you myself. I just wasn’t ready.”

Casey rose, walking over to the windows and folding her arms across her chest. “I’m not handling this well. It pisses me off that, after all this time, I’m still so emotionally affected.”

“Stop beating yourself up. It is what it is. Delving back into the past is both a blessing and a curse. It reopens old wounds. It makes them bleed. But sometimes it also helps them heal.”

A hint of a smile. “When did you become so philosophical?”

“It’s called the voice of experience.”

“Yes, well, your experience held you emotionally hostage for thirty-two years.”

“You’re right. It did. Which is precisely why I’m the person you should be talking to.”

Casey couldn’t dispute that. “In your case, you found closure. I thought I’d found some level of closure with my case, too—when they located Holly’s body. But I was wrong. I guess I’ll never get closure. Because the bastard who raped and killed Holly when we were in college was never caught. And that’s what I’d need to find peace.”

“I know.” Patrick, as always, was blunt. “I also know that might never happen.”

“Unless it turns out that Jan Olson was murdered and that her killer is the same offender who raped and killed Holly,” Casey said quietly. “It’s possible, Patrick. The facts are closely related. Maybe our investigation into Jan Olson’s disappearance will lead us to Holly’s killer.”

Patrick didn’t look surprised by Casey’s theory. He’d obviously expected her mind to veer in that direction. It was natural, given the circumstances. “I hear you,” he responded. “And I’m not arguing that the parallels are strong. But identifying the murderer after fifteen years? It’s a long shot. And we were hired to find a body, not an offender.”

“You don’t need to remind me.” Casey’s jaw tightened. “Our job is to find the body of Daniel Olson’s daughter. To help him find peace. Stage four pancreatic cancer is a death sentence. He’s only got weeks or months to live.”

“By giving him what he needs, we’ll be paying tribute to your friend Holly,” Patrick said. “You could look at it that way.”

“My head knows that’s true. But I’m having problems separating my head from my heart. I need objectivity in order to run this investigation.” She turned to frown at Patrick. “And if you suggest that I take a backseat and let you head up this case—or worse, Marc, Ryan or Claire—I’ll punch you first and call you a hypocrite second.”

“Then lucky for me I wasn’t going to do that. You’ve got a mean right hook.” Patrick gave a wry smile—one that rapidly faded. “But, Casey, you’re thrown by this. Badly. You’ve got to work through that. Why don’t you tell me the details about your friend Holly? Marc was his usual tight-lipped self. He gave me just the need-to-know basics. You’ve discussed the details with him, and maybe even Ryan and Claire, but I think, in this situation, I’m the one who can help you focus.”

“Marc knows more than anyone, except Hutch. Hutch is the only one I’ve totally broken down to.”

Marc had introduced her to Hutch—Supervisory Special Agent Kyle Hutchinson—who was currently with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, and who’d become the man in Casey’s life.

“Okay, so Hutch and Marc know,” Patrick acknowledged. “Now it’s time you talked to a kindred spirit—me.”

“You could have researched the case yourself,” Casey pointed out. “You certainly have the contacts.”

“You’re right. I do. But they could only supply me with facts. They couldn’t offer me your perspective. Only you can. So I’m listening.”

Casey nodded, walking over to make two cups of black coffee from their Keurig, then returning to the conference room table.

She handed a cup to Patrick, then took her own cup and sat down.

“I was a freshman at Columbia. My friend Holly Stevens lived off campus. She was a loner, very shy and reserved. She had a few close friends. I was one of them. We met in Psych 101 and hit it off. One day, she told me she sensed she was being followed, even stalked. I urged her to go to the police. She did. They had nothing solid to work with, so they arranged for a few patrol cars to keep an eye on her apartment. It wasn’t enough.”

Casey drew a slow, unsteady breath, staring into her coffee as she spoke. “Holly’s body was found wrapped in a canvas tarp and tossed in a Dumpster a few weeks later. She’d been raped and murdered. It was a nightmare—one that could have been avoided with the proper resources.”

“You weren’t those resources, Casey. Not back then.”

“But I was the one Holly confided in. Irrational as it might seem, I always felt that maybe I missed an opportunity to prevent what happened.”

“That irrationality is what’s getting in your way now. Lose it. You may not have had the right resources to do what should’ve been done then, but you have the right tools for what you need to do now. You have Forensic Instincts.”

“Which is why I can’t let this case slip through my fingers. Not that I blame the police for what happened to Holly. I don’t. They did all they could. But a private investigative firm with our expertise could have done more. We could have focused our manpower and our skills on her predicament, dug deeper, put enough security on her to keep her safe. But, as you said, we didn’t exist, not then. Now we do. And now I’ve been approached to help a dying man find his daughter’s body—a man whose daughter could very well have been killed by the same psycho pervert who killed Holly. The time frame fits. The location fits. The victimology fits. If I’m right, that would make this bastard a repeat offender, maybe a serial killer. Which paints an even more gruesome story. He was never caught. Jan Olson’s body was never found. How many others were there?”