Hero, who was stretched out by her feet, resting but alert. Casey had been up and working all night. Sleep wasn’t on her agenda. Work was.
As usual, she sat at the large second-floor conference room table, her notes sprawled in front of her. There were plenty of smaller offices to choose from in the four-story brownstone. She could even have worked in bed, since the fourth floor was her apartment. But the main conference room infused her with a sense of discipline and productivity she didn’t get anywhere else.
She needed to be productive now.
She wasn’t doing a hell of a good job.
Purposefully, she picked up the notes she’d printed out last night after her client meeting and reread them. She was unnerved, not by the meeting but by the entire case. That didn’t make her happy. She liked being in control. She almost always was.
This time was different. It wasn’t because this new assignment had come from the NYPD rather than from the client himself, but because it established a connection that was both unexpected and shocking. Not in the eyes of the police, who would have no reason to spot the common thread. But in Casey’s eyes? Instant recognition. A major punch in the gut, and a throwback to a time of her life that had been traumatic.
The tragedy remained unbearably painful, even after fifteen years.
And now? A different case. A different victim. But the same university. The same year. The same basic physical descriptions. One victim was murdered. One was missing—possibly murdered.
How could all that be a coincidence?
The murder, which was branded in Casey’s memory, had been tagged a cold case. Still, for her, it had never gone away. Now, out of the blue, it was back, albeit from an entirely different angle, centered on an entirely different girl. The enormity of it had hit her hard.
The first case—her case, the one involving her friend—had been the driving force that ultimately led her to form Forensic Instincts. She’d never forgotten, never gotten over it. And now, after talking to Mr. Olson last night, seeing how gaunt he was, reading the anguish in his hollow eyes, she found her own memories crashing back....
Casey nearly leaped from her chair as a firm hand was planted on her shoulder.
Instinctively, she whirled around to defend herself. Hero leaped up and began to bark at her abrupt reaction.
“Hey, both of you, take it easy. It’s me.” Patrick Lynch, one of her valued FI team members, walked around the conference table and lowered himself into a chair. Hero followed, and Patrick leaned down to scratch his ears. The human-scent evidence dog—the sole canine FI team member—sat down to enjoy the attention.
Simultaneously, a wall of floor-to-ceiling video screens began to glow, and a long green line formed across each panel, pulsing from left to right. “Good morning, Patrick,” a computerized voice greeted him. The voice emanated from everywhere in the room, bending each line into the contours of the voice panel. “Casey, I apologize for not alerting you to Patrick’s arrival before you became alarmed. But you did put me in sleep mode. I responded the instant I sensed activity.” A pause. “Your heart rate has accelerated. There is no need.”
“I can see that now, Yoda,” Casey responded dryly. “A minute ago I thought I was being attacked.” She’d long since ceased questioning the artificial intelligence system built by team member Ryan McKay. She just accepted that Ryan was a genius and Yoda was omniscient.
Patrick did the same. “Not to worry, Yoda,” he said, addressing the voice. “I have a feeling Casey wasn’t in a good place even before I walked in.”
“Correct,” Yoda confirmed. “She is under duress.”
Casey didn’t deny it. “You should be home with Adele,” she told Patrick. “Your wife will have my head if she thinks I’ve got you slaving away on a Sunday morning without a damned good reason.”
“Adele knows where I am, and she’s fine with it.” Patrick studied Casey’s expression. “Besides, I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you drove in from New Jersey to visit, since you don’t already spend enough hours at work?”
“No. I followed a hunch and made a phone call to Marc.”
Marc Devereaux was Casey’s first hire for Forensic Instincts, and her right hand. He was a former navy SEAL, former FBI agent and former member of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, Virginia. He was the total package, and he’d been with Casey from the beginning.
“You haven’t been yourself in days,” Patrick continued. “Not since I introduced this case. Now I realize why. Marc was reluctant, but he finally filled me in on what he thought I should know. So here I am. I’m sorry, Casey. I never would have brought this case to the table if I had a clue what it meant to you personally, or what it would do to you.”
“How could you have? Talk about a bizarre coincidence. What are the chances of that happening? And now that it has, my personal feelings shouldn’t factor into it. The case is important. It has to be investigated.”
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.
