I, Michael Bennett (Michael Bennett 5)

“Mike? It’s me, Tara. I have big news. How fast can you get to Shawangunk prison?”

I flipped over on my back.

“Well, Tara, we hicks up here pronounce the prison ‘Shawn-gum,’ and I can get there fast. Why?”

“Cleaning out Newburgh is starting to pay unexpected dividends, Mike. Huge ones. You know the Puentes brothers, Miguel and Ramon?”

“The gentlemen who run the Newburgh Latin Kings?” I said.

“Yep. It seems like those fine young men want to play ball. I just got a call from their lawyer. They claim Manuel Perrine is still in the States. Not only that, they say they know where he’s hiding out and are willing to tell us in exchange for immunity and witness protection.”

I smiled up at the multitude of cracks in the lake house ceiling. I couldn’t believe it. Actually, I could. The connection made sense, since the Latin Kings were supposedly being supplied with drugs by Perrine’s cartel.

That’s exactly how it happened in cases sometimes. You’d be beating your head against a wall for months with no clue about a murder or a felony, and then one day, the phone would ring with a willing eyewitness or an out-of-the-blue confession.

“What do you know, Tara? Dumb luck happens to cops sometimes, too,” I said. “Have you contacted my pal Bill Bedford, the special agent in charge of the Perrine escape investigation, for his take on the latest development?”

“He’s number two on my call list,” Tara said. “The race goes to the swift, Mike. This was your case originally so I thought I’d give you a head start to get back in on it. You game?”

“See you at the prison,” I said, pulling myself up off the floor.

CHAPTER 96

TARA WAS WRONG.

It turned out the meeting with the Puentes brothers wasn’t actually at the Shawangunk prison, because Shawangunk is a state facility. Since the charges were federal, it turned out that the seventy-plus Newburgh gang arrestees were being housed in the federal lockup in Otisville.

Driving up to the second prison I’d visited during my summer vacation, I sighed. With all this running around in the country, I could write a fairy-tale romance novel for middle-aged cops, I thought. Call it The Prisons of Orange County.

I arrived at the white-brick bunker of the administration building first. An affable black female assistant warden showed me the conference room where the meeting was to take place. It was surprisingly unlike a prison—a windowless room with a carpet, a conference table, coffee service, and even a whiteboard.

I was pouring my second cup of joe when Tara came through the door with a mannequin from the men’s clothing store Jos. A. Bank. Actually, it was my tall, slim, nattily attired friend Bill Bedford, the FBI agent.

“Tara, Bill,” I said, turning, with a smile of pure innocence.

Bedford seemed to have some trouble preserving his unflappable demeanor.

“What the hell is he doing here?” he barked.

“Oh, did I forget to mention Detective Bennett, Bill?” Tara said. “He was part of the arrest procedures in Newburgh last night. He was the one who arrested Miguel Puentes. You know, the suspect we’re here to deal with?”

I nodded at Bill helpfully as I sat back down. What Tara failed to mention was that Miguel hadn’t spoken to me personally. But ol’ Bill didn’t need to know everything. What would be the fun in that?

“But why is he here?” the special agent in charge wanted to know.

“What do you mean, Bill? Not only is Mike already a part of the federal gang task force, he’s been an integral part of the Perrine case from the get-go. So of course I took the liberty of including him in this meeting.”

Bedford made a noise.

“I’m sorry, Bill. I didn’t catch that.”

“Yeah, uh-huh, whatever,” Bedford said, kicking out a chair and sitting. “Where are these Puentes people already?”

Tara had her video camera set up when the Puentes brothers came in a few minutes later. I waved to Miguel, who was now wearing prison coveralls over his boxer briefs. His larger brother looked like he’d just taken a huge bite of some bad meat. Their lawyer was a large, bald Dominican gentleman in a gaudy banker’s suit who looked like he could make a go at professional wrestling if the law thing didn’t pan out.

Everyone remained silent, sizing each other up as two corrections officers securely cuffed the Brothers McPuentes to a steel rail along the wall.

“You understand that my clients are putting themselves and their families in grave danger by speaking with you,” the lawyer started out.