The Stranger You Know (Forensic Instincts 3)

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.”