The Silence That Speaks (28 page)

Acknowledgments

ONCE AGAIN, I
was fortunate enough to consult with the most extraordinary professionals in their fields, all of whom were an integral part of my creating the authenticity in
The Silence That Speaks.
I thank them all for their skill, time and patience:

Valluvan Jeevanandam, MD, Chief, Cardiac & Thoracic Surgery, The University of Chicago Medicine and Biological Sciences

Hillel Ben-Asher, MD

Angela Bell, Public Affairs Specialist, FBI Office of Public Affairs

SSA James McNamara, FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit, retired, Behavioral Criminology International

Dan Olson, Chief of the FBI Laboratory’s Cryptanalysis & Racketeering Records Unit (CRRU)

John Quinn, Deputy Director of Marines SIT, Pentagon

My agent, Robert Gottlieb

My editor, Paula Eykelhof

And, as always, my family, whose love and support defy words

Looking for more edge-of-your-seat stories in the Forensic Instincts series by
New York Times
bestselling author Andrea Kane? Collect them all!

The Girl Who Disappeared Twice
The Line Between Here and Gone
The Stranger You Know
The Silence that Speaks

“The perfect blend of high-stakes action and gut-wrenching psychological suspense.”
—Iris Johansen,
New York Times
bestselling author

Order your copies today!

Connect with us on
Harlequin.com
for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!

Other ways to keep in touch:

Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com

Chapter One

April
Offices of Forensic Instincts,
LLC
Tribeca, Manhattan, New York

J
ust one more
body.

But this one had a name. And a grieving
father who needed answers before he died.

Casey Woods shoved the dozens of newspaper clippings that she’d
collected into the thick file and slapped it shut. Then she leaned back in her
chair, pressing her fingers to her closed eyelids.

It was Sunday, just after dawn. The streets were sleepy,
occupied only by ambitious joggers and early morning coffee drinkers headed for
the nearest Starbucks.

The brownstone that housed the private investigative firm
Forensic Instincts was quiet.

Casey—the company president—was alone in the building, other
than her bloodhound, 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. 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?”