Jan’s disappearance, but about the disappearances of all young women who lived in Manhattan during a five-year time span.”
“I’m going to give the whole pile of them to Ryan and have him set up a database. But I know it’s a stretch. Most of those young women probably just packed up and moved.”
“Well, it’s up to us to figure that out. So let’s go. If anything rings a bell or recalls a memory that in any way relates to Holly, we’ll zero in on it. Go with your gut. No one has better instincts than you do.”
Casey smiled. “You’d make a great life coach.”
“Not really. I’ve just been where you are. It took me thirty-two years to get my answers. Maybe we can come up with yours in half that time. Let’s figure out what happened to Jan Olson. And let’s find her.”
Chapter Two
Glen Fisher lay on his cot in the cell of Auburn State Correctional Facility, a maximum security prison in upstate New York.
He folded his hands behind his head and stared up at the concrete ceiling. First, six weeks in Downstate Correctional Facility undergoing all those ridiculous evaluations and test. And now? Seven months, two weeks and four days in here. More than half a year of his life shot to hell. Thanks to that firecrotch.
One day blended into the next. A meal. His job in the mail room. Another meal. Exercise. Mail again. Back to his cell. A gloomy little six-by-eight hole with a sink, a toilet, a cot, a shelf and bars that separated him from a dark hall equipped with a centrally controlled tear gas system.
Mundane. Boring. A waste of his life.
His lawyer had been a wimp. He should’ve driven home the coercion plea and gotten him off. Instead, the judge had thrown out the defendant’s plea, the evidence had been ruled admissible and here he was, facing a life sentence.
His lawyer was long gone. Good riddance. Representing himself was the smartest thing he could do. He continually found new loopholes. He’d filed another appeal last week. Eventually, maybe those idiots on the parole board would listen to him. All they kept reiterating over and over like some stupid litany was the list of rapes and homicides he’d been convicted of. They couldn’t see that he’d done the world a favor.
Considering law enforcement’s one-dimensional stupidity, he should have kept his fucking mouth shut when he’d been cornered. Even if that Neanderthal from Forensic Instincts had started the ball rolling by practically killing him in the alley. Uncharacteristically, Glen had been caught off guard.
Never again.
They’d found the bodies just where he said they’d be. And the jury—not one of whom had an ounce of brains—had labeled him scum. They’d focused only on the words rape and murder. Couldn’t see past them. Couldn’t know what he knew about those whores. Who they were. What they were. What they did to their victims.
The entire system was useless. It was up to him to bypass it and finish what he’d started.
He pulled out his drawing tablet and crayons and began another detailed sketch. It slowly came alive. Even the outline excited him. Especially when he made sweeping crimson strokes across the page.
A smug smile twisted his lips. Funny thing about life. It had a way of evening out.
He might have lost his freedom.
But Casey Woods was about to lose a whole lot more.
Columbia University
John Jay Hall
Cramming for exams sucked ass.
Nick Anderson opened his dorm room door, gazing sympathetically at the regular crowd—a half dozen of his bleary-eyed dorm mates. They all traipsed in and stuffed five-dollar bills into his empty beer stein to chip in for the pizza that was about to be delivered. The head count had been taken at around ten o’clock. Now it was almost midnight. They’d studied enough. Their brains were fried. It was time to stuff their faces, drink some beer and unwind.
“Did you get pepperoni?” Donna Altwood asked. She’d just come out of the shower. She was wearing damp sweats, with a wet mane of long blond hair hanging down her back. She looked scrubbed clean, stressed and cranky. Then again, she was premed, and studied more hours than there were in a day.
“Yup,” Nick assured her. “One deluxe, one half pepperoni, half sausage and one plain. You can tip me later.”
“Nice,” Charlie Green muttered. “The sausage and the pepperoni will give me heartburn. That’ll keep me awake. And if I’m awake, I’ll study.” He set down the case of Miller Lite he’d brought, since it was his turn to contribute the beer.
“No, you won’t,” Dominick Peretti said. “You’ll get wasted and sleep through your classes.” He grinned. Dom didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He was just Dom—direct, comfortable in his own skin. So no one was offended by his comments.
“Getting wasted sounds good.” Amy Sheehan wasn’t smiling. Then again, she didn’t need to. She was one of those girls every other girl wanted to look like—great body, long, thick black hair, huge blue eyes. Worse, she wasn’t even arrogant about it. That made it really hard to hate her. “My brain’s not taking in anything tonight. It’s done. So I might as well be, too, right?”
Kenny Bishop didn’t say anything. He rarely did. He didn’t hang out with this crowd, except to eat pizza and drink beer. He didn’t really hang out with anyone. He was a loner. Brilliant. Weird. And in his own world. Maybe he was high half the time. No one knew. Or asked. He just sat on the floor, his head against the bed frame, his curly hair a dark mop. His dark eyes were hooded but somehow intense as he watched the rest of the group talk and complain. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself. But he didn’t bother anyone, and he always paid promptly, so no one objected to him being there.
“My bio professor is a tool,” Nick complained. “The only one he makes sense to is him.”
“Serves you right,” Donna retorted. “You satisfied your science requirements two semesters ago. Who the hell takes advanced bio when they don’t have to?”
“Spoken like a dedicated future doctor,” Dom said, rising to get himself a beer.
Donna raised her brows. “I have to take those courses,” she reminded Dom. “Nick’s a history major. He doesn’t have to suffer.”
“True.”
“Have you ever studied ancient Greece?” Nick asked. “Trust me, that’s suffering.”
A knock interrupted the conversation. “Ah, finally. Provisions.” Nick headed over and opened the door. “Hey, Robbie.” He greeted the solid guy in the striped Pizza King T-shirt who was standing on the threshold with three steaming boxes. “You got here just in time. We were either going to starve or eat one another.”
“That’s pretty harsh.” Robbie grinned. “I’m glad I got here before any of that happened.” He looked a little like the Cheshire cat, stripes and all. Only he couldn’t perform magic, so he was paying his way through grad school by working late-night pizza delivery shifts.
“Hi, guys,”
