The Stranger You Know (24 page)

“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 agreed, 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.”

“And that he knew just when and where to show up.” Hutch’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “This looks more and more like a plan that was finely tuned and perfectly executed. I have no doubt Fisher’s capable of both. What I want to know is
how.
”

Hutch punched in Ryan’s number again.

“Still on it,” Ryan answered.

“Well, add this to your list of specifications.” Hutch relayed the correction officer’s insights about being tracked.

“That gives me an idea,” Ryan said. “Let me call you back. I’m going to try an experiment.”

* * *

Ryan hung up.

He pulled out his iPhone, went to Settings, clicked on iCloud and turned the Find My iPhone service on. Next he grabbed his iPad, downloaded the Find My iPhone app from the app store and installed it.

Having launched the app, he could see his iPhone listed with a green dot. When he clicked and highlighted that line on his iPad, a map appeared with the location of his iPhone. He ran upstairs with both devices, went outside and started to walk down the street. He touched the refresh circle/arrow and watched as the location moved. He walked faster down the street, pausing to refresh again. New location displayed. He sprinted to the corner and turned right, running halfway up the next block. Stop. Refresh. New location.

He had his answer.

* * *

Ryan’s breath was coming fast when he flung himself into his chair at his basement desk. He speed dialed Hutch.

“What took so long?” Hutch asked dryly.

Ryan didn’t laugh. He told him about his experiment—and his conclusions.

“Fisher taped an iPhone to his crotch—plastic-wrapped, no doubt,” he said. “The iPhone reported its location to another iOS device—an iPhone or an iPad. Whoever his accomplice in the truck was—let’s say Jack Fisher—watched his progress in real time as the prison transit van traveled down from the Auburn prison. The kid had no problem preplanning several interception points. When and where the ambush took place depended on which route the van took.”

Ryan paused. “I’ve got to give Fisher kudos for this one. Even I’m impressed by his ingenious application of off-the-shelf technology.”

“Yeah, well, I’m more impressed with his ability to manipulate people—through fear, intimidation and, obviously, raw intelligence. Thanks, Ryan. You clued me in on just how formidable an opponent Glen Fisher is.”

Hutch disconnected the call.

For the first time since this case had begun, he was deeply concerned about Casey’s safety.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Suzanne stopped at her local Starbucks, as Glen had instructed. She was grateful that he’d selected this as her alibi—the location she’d give the police to explain where she’d been for the past hours. It was perfect, for various reasons.

The coffee store was in Midtown. It was jammed, and Suzanne was a newbie there. So no one would remember when she’d arrived. Equally important, she could buy a hot cup of chamomile tea, sit down at a far corner table and just sip the beverage, letting it ease the stinging pain in her throat.

Reflexively, her fingers went to her neck. Glen had been particularly brutal this time. She understood that he’d been without for months on end. So she’d tried to hold back her cries of pain. But he’d felt the dampness of her tears, and it had really pissed him off. Her job was to absorb his needs, and to take them in stride. Usually, she could. Today, she couldn’t.

She took another grateful sip of tea, glancing at her watch as she did.

It was late. Time to head back to her apartment—and the interrogation that would be awaiting her.

She took her cup with her, as planned, and left the store, wincing as she walked home. She’d have to hide the stiffness of her gait. She’d soak in a hot tub later, after the flood of law enforcement had gone.

As she walked, she rehearsed the answers she’d soon be supplying. Pretending wouldn’t be hard. After years of marriage to Glen, playacting was second nature.

She reached the building, and was about to climb the stairs when two men marched over to her.

“Mrs. Fisher?” the taller one said. It really wasn’t a question, just an affirmation. He flashed a badge at her. “I’m Detective Malcolm. This is Detective Rayburn. We’d like to talk with you about your husband.”

Suzanne’s brows lifted slightly. “I don’t understand. I told you everything I could possibly think of the day you searched my apartment.”

Malcolm had a dubious expression on his face. “Are you saying you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That your husband escaped yesterday during his transfer to Rikers Island?”

Suzanne’s eyes widened and she started. “What? When did this happen?”

“Yesterday afternoon, in upstate New York. Where did you spend the night?” Rayburn wasn’t mincing words. “Not to mention the past two days. We checked. You canceled all your piano lessons.”

“Yes, I did.” Suzanne knew this would be one of the biggest hurdles. “I called all my students. I wasn’t up for work, not with Glen being charged with a whole new set of crimes and being brought to Rikers Island. The thought of him serving an even longer sentence, especially when he was working so hard on an appeal—I couldn’t bear it. I took a train out to Montauk. I sat at the lake all day and watched the boats, the way Glen and I used to. I slept on the train back. I wasn’t myself, so I spent most of the day at Starbucks, thinking.” Suzanne made sure her Starbucks cup was visible.

Rayburn drilled her. “You slept on a train and didn’t stop at home to shower or change clothes before you spent an entire day at Starbucks?”

“I was upset. An empty apartment was the last place I wanted to be.” Suzanne held up her palm, holding his questions at bay. “Please tell me about Glen. Is he all right?”

The detective studied her from narrowed eyes. “I wouldn’t know. He’s vanished.”

“How? How could this happen?”

“We were hoping you could tell us.” Malcolm gestured toward the stairs. “Let’s go upstairs to your apartment. We can join the other crime scene investigators, detectives and FBI agents who are, once again, going through your home. Maybe you can answer our questions and we can answer yours. Sort of tit for tat.” His voice oozed sarcasm.

Suzanne steeled herself. She’d expected this to be hard. Her instincts now told her that it would be even harder than she’d imagined.

Stick to the script.
She could hear Glen’s voice echoing in her head.
Answer as briefly as you can. They have nothing on you. Don’t give them something.

She nodded politely at the two detectives and—being careful to keep her physical discomfort totally in check—led the way upstairs.

* * *

Hutch glanced up when the two detectives escorted Suzanne Fisher into the apartment. He and Brian were there, along with the rest of the law enforcement crew. Brian was talking to one of the crime scene guys, getting information on any new personal belongings that might be present now but weren’t there during their initial search.

Suzanne reminded him of a trapped bird—terrified, overwhelmed and desperately in need of escape. There was a pinched expression on her face. She was trying to hide it, but she was in physical, as well as emotional, pain.

Now
that
bore looking into.

Hutch walked over. “Hello, Mrs. Fisher. I don’t know if you remember me.”

“I do.” Suzanne nodded. “You’re the FBI agent I talked to. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.” She eyed him, waiting to see what he’d ask, readying herself to supply the answer. Like a kid at a spelling bee—one who’d been drilled to deliver the correct response.

Suzanne Fisher had been prepped.

And there was only one person who could have prepped her.

“Agent Hutchinson,” Hutch filled in. “And, yes, we talked a little the last time I was here. I’d like to talk to you again, if you don’t mind.” His glance darted quickly from Malcolm to Rayburn, tacitly telling them to give him some time alone with the subject.

“I don’t mind,” Suzanne replied, visibly relieved when the two detectives walked away. “What is it you want to know?”

“Let’s sit down.” Hutch guided her over to the living room sofa, watching her carefully as she lowered herself to the cushion. No, he hadn’t imagined it. She was hurting—badly. Her entire body went rigid as she sat, and she gritted her teeth to bite back any sound of pain.

“Do you have any tea left?” Hutch asked, pointing at her cup.

“What? Oh. No. I finished it.” Suzanne stared at the empty cup.

“I’ll toss it for you. And I’ll bring you a glass of water.”

“Thank you.” Suzanne handed it over. She was clearly struggling for self-control. She’d been told to stay strong. And she was trying to obey that order.

Hutch went into the kitchen and came out with two glasses of spring water, one of which he pressed into her hand.

“I hope you don’t mind that I grabbed some water for myself.”

“Of course not.”

Hutch sat down on the tub chair that was positioned across from Suzanne. “I presume you’ve heard about your husband’s escape?”

“The detectives told me. I still don’t understand. He just vanished?”

Hutch explained the details of the escape, studying her intently as he did.

“So, no one has any idea where he is,” he concluded. “We were hoping you could help us.”

Suzanne’s spine went rigid again. “How can I help?”

“Just by knowing him so well.” Hutch eliminated her defensive reaction by taking a nonthreatening approach. “He’s your husband. You know little things about him that no one else does. Does he have a favorite place to hang out? Somewhere he goes to be alone with his thoughts? Friends in upstate New York he’d go to for a place to stay?”

Hutch’s plan had the desired effect. Suzanne’s whole body eased. “We have no friends in that area,” she said. “And, as far as relaxing, I told all of you last time that Glen likes to take long walks to clear his head. He must be terrified right now. He could walk for hours.”

“Do you think he’d contact you?”

Suzanne’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “He’d want to. But Glen is a very intelligent man. If he really did escape, he’d know full well that all of you—” she made a sweeping gesture with her arm “—would be swarming the apartment and tapping my phone. So I doubt he’d take the chance.”

Okay, Ryan was right. The two of them were communicating by burn phone. No surprise there.

But they’d had much more than a verbal communication these past two days.

Suzanne was rolling the water glass between her palms.

“Go ahead and drink,” Hutch urged. “This whole event has come as a huge shock to you. Would you like something stronger?”

“No. Water is fine.” Almost against her will, Suzanne raised the glass to her lips and drank. The wince she gave was glaringly evident.

Hutch’s attention shifted to her turtleneck shirt. An interesting choice of attire, given the fact that it was a warm spring day.

“Do you think your husband would reach out to his nephew?” Hutch asked the throwaway question. He knew how she’d respond. But he was buying some time, calming her as he led up to what he wanted to accomplish.

“Jack?” she asked in well-coached surprise. “No. They haven’t been in touch in years. So there’d be no point in trying to contact him.”

“That makes sense.” Hutch leaned over to wipe a scuff mark off his shoe. In the process, he tipped his glass and spilled some water on the pristine area rug.

As he’d guessed, Suzanne sprang into action. With everything in the apartment lined up and maintained just so, it wasn’t a leap to assume that a water spot on her rug would freak Suzanne out.

“I’m so sorry,” Hutch said.

“That’s all right.” Suzanne was already on her feet, grimacing in pain as she hurried toward the kitchen.

Moments later, she was on her knees, placing a dry dish towel over the wet spot, absorbing the liquid. “It shouldn’t stain,” she said aloud to herself. “It’s only water.”

Hutch wasn’t listening. He was leaning over, peering at the back of her neck, which was exposed now that her motions were jerking down the top of her turtleneck.

He could see the marks even on her nape. Red, angry welts. He could just imagine what the hollow at the base of her throat looked like.

If Hutch had had any doubt that Suzanne had been with her husband, those doubts were eradicated.

“Can I help?” he asked, averting his gaze from her neck.

“No. It’s okay. The towel dried it.” She sounded so relieved, it was pitiful. There were tears in her eyes—tears of pain, of fear, of desperation.

“We can protect you,” Hutch tried. “If there’s something you want to tell us, we can help.”

Suzanne blinked back her tears, regained control and rose from the floor. “I’ve told you all there is to say,” she responded. “I’m just worried about Glen. If you hear any news about him—where he is, if he’s safe—please let me know right away. You might think of him as a murderer. I think of him as my husband.”

“I realize that.” Hutch assisted her to her feet. “But that doesn’t mean you should risk your own safety for him.”

All traces of tears were gone. “I know what I have to do, Agent Hutchinson.”

* * *

Glen Fisher unfolded the first slip of paper he’d brought with him from the prison and punched in the telephone number on his burn phone.

“Yeah?” a voice at the other end answered.

“Eddie Weber told me to call you,” Glen said. “I need a car with a full tank of gas. Tomorrow night.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Jersey.”

“Then do you want swapped plates?”

“Swapped plates?” Glen’s brows knit. “Eddie didn’t say anything about that.”

“These days, there are cameras all over the place that read license plates, looking for people like you. If you’re going to use the car for more than a quick hit, I’d swap plates with another car—same year, make, model and color. That way, the license-plate reader won’t spot you. And it usually takes the owner a day or two to notice the different plates and report them to the cops.”

“Good idea. Do that.”

“You’ve got the money?”

“Twenty. In cash.”

“Make it twenty-two. I charge extra for the plate-swapping. Finding two matching cars is a lot more work.”

“I get it. Fine. Twenty-two. I’ll have it.”

A grunt of approval. “Be at Ninth Avenue at West 39th Street, southwest corner. Ten o’clock.”

“That works. It’ll give me a direct shot to the Lincoln Tunnel,” Glen said, thinking aloud. “Who am I looking for?”

“A guy who leaves an old black Honda Civic double-parked at the corner with the engine running and asks you for Eddie’s duffel bag.”

“I’ll be there.”

“So will he.”