Charisse, the receptionist, looked worried. “Does he think we’re having an issue? We’re a hair salon. Any problems with our water would be a disaster.”
“Yeah, I know.” The guy nodded. “That’s why he wants to be sure. He doesn’t want you to have any disruption to your business.”
“I appreciate that.” Charisse cast a nervous glance around the salon. “Please, go ahead and check,” she urged, pointing toward the rear of the salon. “And, while you do, I ask that you do your best not to upset the clientele. They won’t react well to a snag in their salon experience.”
“Got it.” He snapped off a salute. “I’ll make it quick and painless.”
With that, he headed toward the back, well aware that the bodyguard sitting up front was scrutinizing him. Purposely, he walked past the workstation where Casey Woods was sitting, having her hair cut, without breaking stride.
The bodyguard went back to reading his newspaper.
The instant there were no eyes on him, the repairman let a pen drop from his pocket. It fell onto the marble tile floor with a clatter and came to rest near Louis’s station. The repairman squatted down and scooped up the pen—along with a few wisps of Casey’s hair. Rising, he continued to the back, going straight over to the deserted area where the water meter was situated. Making sure he had no audience, he slid Casey Woods’s hair in a small Ziploc bag and sealed it. He opened his toolbox and placed the small bag inside.
Mission accomplished.
He waited a respectable period of time, then returned to the front of the salon.
“All good,” he told Charisse. “Your water pressure’s fine.”
“Oh, thank you.” She heaved a sigh of relief. “And please thank the landlord for us.”
“Will do. Have a good night.”
He got out of there as fast as he could. Getting the hair was only step one in what he needed to do. He had to split the clump of hair in half, keeping a section of it for future use and arranging to have the other half delivered to Auburn Correctional Facility.
He glanced at his watch.
He had half an hour to meet his contact.
* * *
Glen Fisher was awake most of the night.
His moods cycled rapidly as he replayed his meeting with Casey Woods. Sometimes his rage would eclipse all else, forcing him to clench his fists at his sides to control the urge to choke her. Sometimes his lust took over, and he had to seek his own relief to calm the obsession to possess her. And sometimes, a smug sense of peace took over, reminding him that he’d have a chance to do it all, feel it all, inflict it all.
It was a relief when Tim the prison guard showed up at his cell.
“I have a few things for you,” he muttered through the bars.
Glen rose. “A few things?” He only knew about one, and he’d been itching to receive that since last night.
“Yeah.” Tim passed the Ziploc bag containing Casey’s hair through the bars. “You wanted this.” He hesitated, looking down at the papers in his hands. “I’m sure you didn’t want this. But I thought you deserved a heads-up. These legal documents arrived late today. The Manhattan D.A. is filing charges against you for the murders of Jan Olson and Holly Stevens.”
Glen snatched the documents and pored over them, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Then he raised his head.
Tim resembled a cringing child, as if he expected to be lambasted—maybe even threatened—for giving Glen the papers.
He was pleasantly surprised.
“I was expecting these,” Fisher said. “Casey Woods all but handed them to me herself.” He glanced briefly at the packet of hair, then back at the legal documents, that eerie look coming into his eyes. “This round is hers. The next one won’t be.”
Tim cleared his throat. “They’re transferring you to Rikers in a few days.”
“Excellent.” Glen turned that crucifying stare on Tim. “I want you to get me an iPhone. Immediately. I don’t care how much it costs. Just get one. Bring it to me tomorrow morning—same time as today.”
* * *
Leilah was prepped and ready.