The Stranger You Know

  “I want to do this one with you,” Jack stated.

  “Do you?” Glen pursed his lips. “That might be interesting. Definitely more crushing for the victim—and for Casey Woods.”

  “Yup.” Jack’s eyes lit up. “And I can come up with all kinds of embellishments.”

  “That you won’t do.” Glen slammed his cup onto the table and bolted to his feet. “You shouldn’t have been doing it in the first place. I already told you that.”

  “It’s creative. And amusing.” Jack wavered a bit, but held his ground.

  “Listen.” Glen took two steps and loomed over him, grabbing his shirt with both fists. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re nobody. Nobody. You’re a punk kid who’s followed orders while I’ve been locked up in that shithole. But I’m here now. And I’m running things.”

  Jack shrugged out of his uncle’s grasp. “I’m not the same kid you left behind when you were sent to Auburn,” he said with a defiant look. “Just read the papers. I’m the killer everyone’s afraid of now.”

  Glen tensed up like a bowstring and slammed a fist into Jack’s jaw, knocking the younger guy onto the floor. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Watch your mouth. You couldn’t do shit without me. I’m the one who took you in and taught you everything. You want to play big shot for everyone else? Go ahead. But don’t try it with me. Not if you want to keep all your teeth in your head.”

  A vein was throbbing at Jack’s temple, but he said nothing. He just rubbed his jaw, scrambled to his feet and walked over to the desk. He gathered up the diagrams they’d been reviewing.

  “This is the campus layout,” he told Glen, giving him the sheets of paper. “I circled the areas that are more deserted at night. Those are our best bets for grabbing her and getting away.”

  Glen reviewed the diagrams. “Over here,” he said decisively, pointing at one of Jack’s designated areas—a narrow passageway between buildings. “It’s behind the library. The chapel is the only building nearby. None of the kids are going to be hanging around waiting to pray. They’ll either be inside the library or partying elsewhere.”

  Jack nodded. “She’s a studier. She usually heads to the library around seven and leaves when it closes at eleven forty-five. We can take her then. I’ve still got the Fusion right here in the parking lot.”

  “Wrong.” Glen shook his head. “Talk about being compromised. Every cop in the state is going to be looking for that car. It’s a liability to us now. Get rid of it.”

  Jack looked annoyed. “I could just change the plates.”

  “I said get rid of it.” There was no give in Glen’s tone. “Tonight. Then get yourself back here. We’ll find our way into Manhattan when the time is right. I’ll take care of getting us a new car.”

  “Find our way how?” Jack was bristling again. “Suzanne’s car isn’t here, and we couldn’t risk hiding out in the back of it, anyway. I still think I could lift some plates and we could get home in the Ford. We’ll dump it afterward.”

  The look in Glen’s eyes was chilling. “Shut up. This isn’t a democracy. I give the orders. You follow them. The next time you challenge me, I’m going to break your scrawny neck. Now get out of here. Dump the car in East New York. Rent a motel room. Get yourself back here in the morning.”

  “Then what?” Jack was visibly controlling himself. His hands had balled into fists at his sides.

  “Suzanne will go out now and buy me hair dye and a change of clothes. Tomorrow she’ll go back to Manhattan the same way she came. You and I will take the bus.” A cutting pause. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Where did you plan on us staying in the city—at my apartment? The cops will eventually track down where I live and start swarming the place.”

  The anger building inside Glen was a palpable entity—one that made Suzanne tremble all the more. “We’ll get a room in Brooklyn. I have the name of a place. It’s a couple of miles from where you’re dumping the car. It’s off the beaten path, and it’ll keep us off the grid. We’ll take care of that when you get back. Now shut your punk mouth and do what you’re told.”

  Jack didn’t answer. He walked over and stuffed two more cheeseburgers in his pockets. “I’m on my way—boss.”

  He made no move to temper the sarcasm in his voice.

  Without looking back, he left the motel room, slamming the door behind him.

  Suzanne watched the pulse throbbing at Glen’s throat, and the terrifying gleam that came into his eyes. Then she stared at the closed door.

  Dear God, now there were two of them.

  * * *

  It took less than an hour after Captain Sharp’s call to round up the entire FI team and assemble them around the main conference table so they could create an immediate action plan.

  Before one word was said, Hutch strode into the room, a grim expression on his face. He went right over to Casey, who was seated at the head of the table.

  “I just got out of a task force meeting. Are you all right?” he asked, squeezing her shoulder.

  “I’m hanging in there,” she replied. “I’ve had better days, but I’ll survive.”

  “Yeah, you will.” Hutch’s jaw was working. He was clearly furious about Fisher’s escape. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  Casey glanced up at him in surprise. “I assumed the Bureau had you on the move—that they’d asked you to drive up to Auburn to dig around.”

  “They tried. I told them Brian could handle it alone. I’m staying here with you.”

  “Not happening.” Casey gave a shake of her head. “You’re the best there is. I want you grilling the Auburn prison staff and inmates with Brian. Not staying in Tribeca babysitting me.”

  “Casey will be fine, Hutch,” Marc interceded. “I’ll be staying at the brownstone around-the-clock. Fisher would have to get through me to get to Casey. And he already knows what I’m capable of.” Marc’s gaze shifted to Casey. “You’re my assignment, by the way.”

  “So I gathered.” Casey’s tone was dry. “Okay, fine. If it’ll get Hutch to do his job, I’m game.”

  Hutch and Marc exchanged a glance. Knowing Marc as well as he did, Hutch conceded. “I’ll leave tonight. It’s obvious that someone—probably a prison guard—helped Fisher escape. I’ll find out who, and what, he supplied Fisher with. I’ll interview every damned prisoner Fisher interacted with if I have to. I’ll get the information we need. I’ll also check out any motels near the crash site, just in case. Fisher is staying somewhere. And I doubt it’s with Jack. That’s way too risky.”

  “Yes, and he sure as hell isn’t going to his apartment,” Marc added. “Although he might get in touch with Suzanne through a burn phone.”

  “Let Suzanne Fisher be my project.” Claire spoke up with quiet assurance. “She felt a connection to me when we visited last time. I’m not law enforcement. I’m not aggressive. I’m a safe person for her to turn to. If I play my cards right, I might be able to get something out of her. If nothing else, I might pick up on some new energy—something Suzanne is feeling now that her husband is a free man.”

  “That’s definitely a good match.” Casey gave an emphatic okay to Claire’s suggestion. “Drop in to make sure she’s okay. I saw the way she acted around you. She’ll let you in. You’ll make her feel as if you’re an ally.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Let me do some legwork,” Patrick suggested. “I’ll backtrack through all of Fisher’s previous crimes. That might give us some insight into his future behavior. He wants Casey, yes. But he has to have a plan to get her. He knows we’ll be keeping her under lock and key. So let’s see what methods he’s used to draw people out in the past.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Casey said, nodding. “Anything we can do to get inside Glen Fisher’s head is significant.” She glanced at Ryan. “Are you still digging up data on Jack Fisher? Because he’s the obvious suspect as Glen’s co-conspirator. We need to draw him out.”

  “Yeah.” Ryan was th
inking. “Now that it’s been found, I’m abandoning my investigation into the silver pickup. I’ve got to find out what kind of car Jack got his hands on and how he orchestrated it—the wheres and whens. The minute I get downstairs, I’m going to start digging to see what auto thefts have been reported within a two-hour driving radius of the crash site.”

  “Also, someone has to talk to the corrections officers who were driving the van.” Casey turned to Hutch. “I could do it. Marc would come with me.”

  “Nope.” Hutch made quick work of that offer. “Brian and I will stop at Kingston Hospital on the way home. If the corrections officers are conscious, we’ll interview them. I’m hoping that at least one of them can give us a description of the driver. Also, Ryan, they might be able to describe the make or model of the car that sideswiped them.”

  “And here I’ll sit, playing indoor catch with Hero,” Casey muttered.

  Hero’s head came up at the sound of his name and he gave an enthusiastic “woof.”

  “Fine, boy.” Casey scratched his ears. “I’ll divide my day between romping with you and playing gin rummy with Marc.”

  “I’ve never been beaten,” Marc said. “So don’t plan on an easy time of it. Not from Hero and not from me.”

  Casey grinned. “Thanks for trying to take me down a notch. I’m pretty freaked out.”

  “Don’t be.” Hutch checked his watch. “Fisher’s going down and so is his partner. This spree of his is about to end.” He bent down and kissed the top of Casey’s head. “I’m going to find Brian and take off for Auburn. You stay put. I’ll keep you posted.”

  * * *

  Jack drove the Ford Fusion to Cypress Hills Houses in East New York. He was still ripping pissed off about the way Glen had spoken to him. Things had changed since his uncle went to prison last year. Jack wasn’t an apprentice anymore. He was now the sexual homicide offender who was feared by all the redheads in the tristate area. He didn’t intend to alter that.

  Pumped up, Jack rolled down the car windows, left the engine running, got out and slammed the door. By the time he was settled on the B13 bus, a couple of teenagers had hopped into the Fusion and taken off.

  Jack wasn’t in the mood to rent a room in a moldy motel yet. He could do that later. For now, he needed some recreation. With that in mind, he stopped at Peyton’s. Nothing like a strip club to release some of his pent-up aggression.

  His cell phone rang three or four times during his stopover. He knew who it was. He ignored his uncle’s attempts to contact him. Somehow he derived great enjoyment from the realization that his mentor was enraged.

  It would put the old guy in his place.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hutch and Brian arrived in Auburn that night, caught some sleep and were up and ready to go as soon as the prison opened for visitors. Hutch had spent a good chunk of the car ride in heated conversation with the NYS Department of Corrections. Time was of the essence, so protocol and procedures were not going to slow him down. He wasn’t waiting for some bureaucrat to bless his interviews with the prison staff.

  Finally, the right buttons were pushed, the process was expedited and Hutch and Brian’s early morning visit was granted.

  Their first meeting was with the warden, who had himself started an internal investigation. He had nothing to report, which didn’t surprise Hutch. An investigation like this was going to take some major digging, and involve some ugly revelations. Neither of those things was going to be welcomed by the warden, who had a vested interest in conducting a superficial investigation—one that exonerated his chain of command and blamed the entire escape on a fortuitous traffic accident.

  Hutch wasn’t buying his bullshit theory. The escape required perfect timing. Luck had nothing to do with it. Any thought of a coincidental driver causing the collision was absurd.

  With that in mind, Hutch and Brian asked for and received permission to interview everyone who had come in contact with Fisher—guards, chaplains, work supervisors, fellow inmates. The warden had no choice but to cooperate. Any resistance on his part would give the appearance of having something to hide. He had to provide the FBI with full access. Hutch knew that and capitalized on the warden’s weak bargaining position.

  His feeling of forward motion was short-lived.

  After six hours of intensive interviews, Hutch was seething. His every instinct was screaming that guards had smuggled contraband items to Fisher—although no one would name names—and that the two prison guards who had searched Glen just prior to his being transported to Rikers were either lazy or morons. He didn’t care which. But he needed to find out what they’d overlooked.

  He took out his cell phone and called Ryan.

  “Hey,” he said. “I need your help figuring something out.”

  “Okay.” Ryan was pounding at his keyboard. “Shoot.”

  “Long story short, I think Fisher hid something in his crotch when he left Auburn. The guards who were supposed to search him said he peed his pants, so they were too grossed out to run their hands up his legs to check.”

  “Isn’t that what latex gloves are for?”

  “Yeah, unless the guards don’t bother using them. My question is what’s the most likely thing that Fisher would be hiding? A knife? A handcuff key? A cell phone? You’re the gadget guy. Help me out here. Oh, and one other thing—I get the feeling that some of the other guards are supplying inmates with contraband. So, don’t restrict your thinking to what could be made or purchased in prison. Fisher could have arranged for anything. Get back to me ASAP.”

  “You got it.”

  * * *

  Trish Brenner finished dinner at the dining hall and went back to her dorm to prepare for her evening ritual—four or five hours at Firestone Library. She knew she studied too hard and that her social life was an epic fail because of it. But she’d worked like a demon to get into Princeton University, and she wasn’t going to blow it by partying and letting her assignments slide.

  She had a huge paper to write this week, one on all of Shakespeare’s tragedies, and it was going to take a lot of effort to write it, much less ace it. So she was getting an early start, reviewing several plays each night and taking copious notes on each of them.

  She packed up her wieldy textbook of Shakespearian plays, and shoved it in her book bag, along with her laptop, a notebook and assorted writing and highlighting implements.

  She pulled on a light windbreaker and ran a brush through her long, red hair.

  Time to hit the stacks.

  * * *

  It had been a frustrating day for Hutch and Brian.

  Brian pulled off the thruway at Exit 19, paid the toll and took Route 28 East. Five minutes later they were sitting in front of Kingston Hospital.

  They left the car out front and strode inside the main lobby. Immediately, they were accosted by a security guard, who’d spotted them through the glass door, ignoring the no parking signs.

  Hutch displayed his FBI credentials and informed the now-cooperative guard that they were there on official business. The guard escorted them to the information desk.

  Hutch addressed the receptionist behind the desk. “Which room is John Nessman in?” he asked, referring to the corrections officer who was driving the prison van. “Also, Frank Rumson,” he added, referring to the second officer.

  The woman checked her list. “Room 323 and Room 347.” She pointed down the hall, then called after them to take the Blue Elevator.

  Hutch and Brian reached Room 323, flashed their credentials again—this time at the local cop who was stationed in the doorway—and went in. Nessman was bandaged and in obvious pain from the concussion, broken wrist and severe lacerations he’d sustained from flying glass. His wife was sitting at his side, comforting him. When Hutch and Brian appeared, and identified themselves to her, she agreed to get a cup of coffee and return in a few minutes so they could talk. She requested that they please go easy on him, given his pain and the ordeal he’d gone through. They a
greed, and she slipped out of the room.

  Despite his condition, Nessman responded to each and every one of Hutch and Brian’s questions, explaining how the pickup truck had suddenly pulled into the fast lane, cutting him off. After that, he’d swerved into the slow lane to avoid hitting the truck, but the driver had intentionally sideswiped the van. There was no question that there was malicious intent involved.

  “I did my best to defend against the attack, but the debris in the road caused me to lose some control. The truck hit me again, and that sent the van off the road.” He sighed, grimacing in pain. “The rest is a blur, and then everything went black. I woke up in this hospital bed.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us?” Hutch asked. “Anything that might help?”

  Nessman gave a tentative nod. “I know this sounds farfetched, but I had the gut feeling that the truck was waiting to ambush me. It’s as if the driver knew exactly where I was and when. I don’t know how he’d manage that, but he did.”

  Hutch was about to ask more about the correction officer’s assessment when his wife returned. She was visibly concerned about the effect the FBI’s visit was having on her husband.

  Instinctively, Hutch and Brian rose to leave. Hutch paused only to tell Mrs. Nessman that her husband was very brave and had done everything he could to prevent what had happened.

  “He’s going to be fine,” Brian assured her. “A little TLC and he’ll be as good as new.”

  She nodded, her eyes filled with tears.

  Hutch and Brian went on to Room 347 to repeat the process with Frank Rumson. Unfortunately, the poor guy was so out of it from the morphine they were giving him that he was barely conscious. So they weren’t getting any more information here today.

  Back in the car, Brian got behind the wheel, and Hutch slid into the passenger seat.

  “Now that was interesting,” Brian said as he steered out of the parking lot. “Nessman felt as if his attacker was lying in wait.”