The Stranger You Know (22 page)

“I’m outta here,” Marc announced.

Leaving the brownstone, he jumped on his motorcycle, revved it up and turned on West Street. From there, he drove toward the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel.

Once through the tunnel, he took the first exit and zigzagged his way through Red Hook, avoiding the Gowanus like the plague. Finally, he turned onto Fourth Avenue and headed south to 86th Street.

* * *

Jack Fisher exited the Kwik Pik, his elbow guarding his zippered jacket pocket—and its contents—carefully. He hurried down the stairs into the 86th Street subway station.

As he did, he could hear the whine of an approaching motorcycle at full throttle heading in his direction.

* * *

Marc parked right outside the Kwik Pik, facing the convenience store. Time to activate his helmet cam. Ryan had wirelessly connected it to Marc’s iPhone. As he saw a person appear on his iPhone screen, one tap and the image from his helmet cam along with a time stamp was saved on the smartphone and simultaneously uploaded to Intueri, where it was processed through facial recognition by Yoda. In a matter of seconds, Yoda’s voice would report the results to the Bluetooth-connected speaker in Marc’s motorcycle helmet.

Great idea in theory.

A bust in reality.

A few hours later, Marc was tired of hearing “unknown,” “traffic offender,” “felon on parole” and “pervert.” His balls were killing him from the pothole-ridden Brooklyn streets taken at breakneck speed. Not to mention that he was starving and had to pee something wicked.

None of that would have broken his resolve and made him leave.

What made him do that was the fact that his gut told him he’d missed Jack. Son of a bitch, but he’d missed him.

Disgusted, Marc called Ryan and filled him in.

Then he went home. He wanted to grab a shower and a few hours’ rest while he could.

* * *

Suzanne Fisher arrived home, hung up her coat and put her purse neatly on the end table—just where Glen wanted it. He insisted that everything had its place.

Then she took out her cell phone and punched in a number.

She had no way of knowing it, but the NYPD had legally secured a wiretap on her phone, and a stakeout team was perched in their car across the street. From that vantage point, they watched through a pair of binoculars, hoping that Suzanne would make a phone call.

This was their chance.

Detective Oliver Michaels elbowed his sleeping partner. “Wake up, Lou. She’s got a phone in her hand. Have Verizon patch you in.”

Lou was instantly awake. He called a special number, then identified himself and the wiretap request number.

The Verizon operator paused. “Neither the cell phone nor the landline is being used,” she reported.

Lou turned to his partner. “She’s not on either phone,” he barked out.

“Yeah? Well, look.” Oliver pointed. Both men could see Suzanne holding a phone and waving her free hand emphatically.

“Shit,” Oliver said as the reality hit him. “She’s using a burn phone. By the time we got the phone companies to look through the tower information, and to reverse-engineer the phone number that’s outgoing from Suzanne’s apartment, both her burn phone and her husband’s would be tossed.”

“And new ones gotten and in place,” Lou added.

“Shit,” Oliver said again.

* * *

Suzanne smiled and hung up the phone. Glen would be pleased. Jack had received the money she’d sent at his request.

She had learned long ago never to question anything Glen asked her to do. The absence of pain was a strong motivator. Glen ordered. She obeyed. Questions begged for answers—answers she was afraid to hear. She knew. But she didn’t want to know. She blocked it out and just did her tasks. It was better that way.

She went into the bedroom and made sure all the blinds were drawn. Carefully, she removed the dried flowers from a large ceramic vase in the corner. Slowly, she reached inside it, applied downward pressure with her fingers and turned the false bottom inside the vase. Removing the threaded rubber plug, she extracted a large Ziploc bag. Inside was a woman’s wig. A red-haired wig. When he was especially agitated, Glen would make her put on the wig. Then came the rough, powerful sex. He’d wrap his hands around her neck. At times she couldn’t breathe. But his praise and his affection were worth the bruises and difficulty with swallowing that lasted for days.

When she’d last spoken to Glen, he’d instructed her to wash the wig and make sure it looked nice. That could mean only one thing. Soon he’d be with her. Soon his strong hands would be crushing her windpipe.

She curled up on her bed in the fetal position and began to tremble.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The prison transfer was set to take place tomorrow.

Glen was more than ready to go—and not to Rikers.

He waited in the dinner line, positioning himself near Dave Norman, the inmate he’d made the deal with. He edged forward, spying the two scraps of paper in Norman’s right hand.

With the slightest movement, Glen pressed the wad of bills into Norman’s left hand. Norman’s fist closed around the cash. He shifted his other arm back and slipped Glen the pieces of paper with the necessary information scribbled on them.

The whole transaction took thirty seconds.

But it would pay off big-time.

* * *

Morning finally arrived.

The NYS Department of Corrections van pulled out of Auburn Correctional Facility promptly at 8:00 a.m., heading to New York City and Rikers Island.

Neither of the two armed corrections officers was looking forward to the endless drive ahead of them—more than six hours on the New York State Thruway, assuming no traffic. And there was
always
traffic.

Opting for the thruway meant the drive would be an hour longer. But the shortest route would take them from New York into Pennsylvania, then into New Jersey and back into New York. Bad idea. Neighboring states hated having prisoners transported on their roads, especially out-of-state prisoners. And this prisoner was a convicted rapist and murderer, definitely an undesirable.

So the short route was out.

Then again, there was an additional plus to taking the thruway. It was a restricted toll road—and that meant minimizing the stops that were necessary. The fewer stops, the fewer possibilities of something happening en route.

So the corrections officers were just going to have to suck up being on the road for the extra time.

* * *

Jack plugged his iPad car charger into the twelve-volt accessory outlet of the silver-colored Dodge Ram pickup. He grinned as the Find My iPhone app located the device in question—at Route 34 and the New York State Thruway. He secured the iPad to the dashboard so he could check out each and every location update.

That done, he reached for his iPhone and sent a brief text message:
I see you.

* * *

Glen Fisher felt the phone vibrate at his crotch, where he’d taped it before leaving Auburn. The guards hadn’t even bothered to check that area of his body. Then again, he couldn’t blame them for not wanting to pat down the fresh urine patch he’d made on the front of his bright orange jumpsuit.

A brilliant idea on his part.

He completed the strategic move by faking embarrassment as the two moronic guards howled, pointing at Glen’s crotch and elbowing each other as they taunted him about how “the tough guy” had freaked out and peed his pants.

Let them laugh. They wouldn’t be laughing four hours from now.

* * *

The pickup truck headed for upstate New York.

In the back of the truck, two all-terrain vehicles were loaded. A U-Haul car trailer was hitched to the rear of the truck, holding a silver Ford Fusion, which rested securely, hidden beneath a car cover.

There was a lot of setup that still had to be done.

Three hours later, everything was in place. The Ford Fusion was innocently parked in the Hudson Valley Mall, along with dozens of other vehicles whose owners were shopping. The car trailer was dumped in a nearby field, obscured from view by tall grass.

From there, Jack navigated the truck through local roads and onto a farm-to-market road alongside the thruway. He got out and rolled the ATVs down wooden planks, hiding them from view behind some evergreens that had been planted by the state to diffuse the noise emanating from the thruway.

Done.

He hopped back into the pickup and turned onto Route 28, taking the thruway entrance. He pulled a toll ticket from the machine, then drove north toward Albany. A couple of miles ahead, he located the emergency vehicle turnaround between the north-and southbound lanes. Slowing down, he turned left, stopping perpendicular to the southbound lanes.

He stared at the iPad. Just a few more minutes. The thruway was quiet. Jack could see the Department of Corrections van in the distance, cruising along in the left lane. He waited, and then veered sharply left, accelerating into the fast lane as he headed south. The corrections officer at the wheel cursed, swerving into the right lane in an attempt to avoid the pickup that had just cut him off.

Jack wasn’t finished. He veered right, sideswiping the van and causing it to swerve out of control. It crashed into the divider and rolled down the small embankment into a drainage ditch along the highway.

Slowing, Jack eased onto the shoulder, then shifted the truck into Reverse and backed it up to the crash site. He got out, pulled a ski mask over his face and then shrugged the backpack he’d brought with him over his shoulders. Cautiously, he walked down the embankment, creeping toward the driver’s side.

The driver’s side window was shattered, shards of glass everywhere. The corrections officer himself was unconscious. The second CO—the one on the passenger’s side—was pinned in his seat, groaning in pain. He wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

Jack moved quickly. He removed a pry bar from his knapsack and worked at the driver’s door until it sprang open. He dragged the officer from the vehicle onto the grass and began searching his pockets until he found the keys he was looking for.

Rushing around back, he unlocked the back of the van and flung open the doors.

“Hey,” Glen greeted him from the inside. “Nice job. You did me proud.” He was bruised from being banged around when the van rolled, and he was bleeding from being struck in the face by pieces of flying glass. He barely noticed.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

“I will be when you get me out of here.” Glen indicated his hands and feet, which were locked to the security bars welded to the van’s interior.

“Give me a minute.” Jack tried one key after the next, until he found the magic one. He released Glen’s hands and feet, and helped steady him as he rose.

“Let’s go,” Glen urged, hearing the banging as the second CO attempted to get free. “We don’t have much time.”

Jack looped an arm around Glen’s shoulders and guided him back up to the southbound lanes of the thruway. Together they crossed the paved highway, walked across the grassy strip between south-and northbound traffic and waited for a break in the light stream of vehicles before traversing the lanes of northbound traffic.

Jack yanked off his ski mask, and motioned toward the hole in the fence he’d cut. The two men made their way through the chain-link fence, and ran to the row of evergreens where Jack had hidden the ATVs. They fired up the vehicles and Jack led his uncle across farms, local roads and parking lots until they reached the mall. There, they left the ATVs running and jumped inside the Ford Fusion that Jack had parked earlier. Quickly, Jack drove south on 9W to Route 55 and the Mid-Hudson Bridge. From there, he headed east on Route 55 until he reached the Taconic State Parkway.

Driving south, he obeyed the speed limit on the winding road as he made his way to New York City and the plan they’d be putting into place.

After all, there was no point in breaking the law.

* * *

Casey and Ryan were in the conference room. Casey was leaning over Ryan’s shoulder, watching as he ran the silver pickup truck—reported by the witness with the dog—through every car dealership and every car rental company’s computer base.

He came up empty.

“It was a long shot,” he said, swiveling his desk chair around to face Casey. “Either a buy or a rental would leave some sort of paper trail. So I’m not surprised. Pissed, but not surprised. The killer doesn’t want us to trace the car to him. My guess is that it was stolen. I’ll call Captain Sharp and have him check out all the police reports that have come in on car thefts in the past week. Hopefully, we’ll find a match.”

The FI office phone rang.

Casey walked over and picked up the receiver. “Forensic Instincts.”

“Hello, Casey.” It was Captain Sharp. And he sounded oddly strained. “I’m glad I reached you.”

Warning bells began screaming in Casey’s head. She perched on the edge of the conference room table, her fingers tightening around the receiver. “What is it? Has something happened?”

She heard a heavy sigh. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’ll just say it. Glen Fisher escaped a few hours ago during his transport from Auburn State prison to Rikers. It was obviously well planned. He had major assistance, both inside and outside the prison.”

Casey had gone deadly quiet. “And the status now?” she asked finally.

“We have no idea where he is. Every branch of law enforcement is combing the area for him—the state police, the NYPD and the FBI’s New York field office. We’ll find him.”

“How could this happen?” Casey was still trying to process what she was hearing.

“As I said, it was meticulously planned.” Captain Sharp relayed whatever information he had on the highway collision. “We found a U-Haul dumped in a field of tall grass near the Hudson Valley Mall, and two all-terrain vehicles abandoned adjacent to the mall. Clearly, that’s where Fisher’s accomplice parked the vehicle they ultimately escaped in. The silver pickup—obviously the one we’ve been trying to locate—was abandoned at the crash site.”

“So we have no clue where he is, what he’s driving or who’s helping him,” Casey summed up. “That’s a whole lot of nothing to go on.”

“I realize that.” Captain Sharp didn’t try to pretend. “But he can’t have gone far, not in a couple of hours. We have police stationed at all the airport, bus and train terminals, in the event he tries to take off. We’ve also got full-time surveillance at Fisher’s apartment, and cops following his wife everywhere she goes. In the meantime, I want you to stay inside and stay safe.”

She started to speak, but Sharp’s tone hardened. “I know how proactive you and your team are. But no heroics. No taking matters into your own hands. We both know that getting to you is one of Fisher’s primary goals. Don’t help him achieve that.”

“I understand.” Casey was rubbing her forehead, as angry as she was fearful. The son of a bitch had bested her. He’d accomplished exactly what he wanted. “Please keep me posted the instant you know anything.”

She hung up the phone.

“Your pulse is elevated, Casey,” Yoda announced. “And your breathing is labored. You are distressed.”

“Yes, Yoda, I am.” Casey was trying to keep her emotions in check.

“What the hell just happened?” Ryan demanded, coming to his feet and walking over to Casey. “You look sick. What did Sharp tell you?”

Casey met his questioning gaze with her sober one. “Get the team together. Call an emergency meeting. Glen Fisher escaped today.”