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Hutch’s silence told Ryan that he was in think-mode. But he must have sensed that Ryan was hiding something. Whatever it was, he obviously didn’t want to know. So he just addressed Ryan’s question.
“Glen became Jack’s guardian when the boy was nine,” he said. “In my experience, those are formative years. Who knows what Glen exposed his nephew to during that time? Violent porn? Maybe more. There’s also growing evidence that psychopathy is inherited. But even if the Fisher DNA has a predisposition toward violent psychopathy, my guess is that Glen probably triggered those impulses in Jack, the way someone or something did the same for him.”
Hutch paused, skimming the material again. “Anything else?”
“Nope,” Ryan replied. “After this, the story ceased to exist. Media silence.”
“I’m sure Angela’s father took care of that.”
“Agreed.” Ryan was already eager to get back to work. “Thanks, Hutch. You’ve been a big help.” He ended the call.
Yeah, he thought, still staring at the screen. The story had ceased to exist.
And so had Jack Fisher.
Glen had convinced a court that his nephew had been killed, the victim of a no-body homicide—the third boy in the videotape. Once Jack had been declared dead, Glen must have absorbed whatever remained of Jack’s inheritance and kept the whole damned legal proceedings—including Jack’s supposed death—from Suzanne.
Ryan sat back in his chair, lips pursed in thought. It was no wonder Jack had wanted to disappear. If he resurfaced, word would go out and Paul Minutti would make sure he was dead within a week.
But Glen Fisher had had other plans for his nephew’s future.
So Jack Fisher was alive—somewhere. In Brooklyn. Hiding.
It was up to Ryan to figure out where.
He took his printed pages over to the futon and settled down to scan them for clues.
* * *
The next thing he knew, Marc was standing over him, shaking his shoulder to wake him up.
Jolting awake, Ryan found himself crumpled on the futon, where he must have collapsed out of sheer exhaustion.
He whipped his arm around so he could see his wrist and check out his watch—5:00 a.m. He’d slept for an hour. The owner of the meat market should be arriving any minute.
Sure enough, it wasn’t fifteen minutes later that Gecko “woke up.” The audio channel came alive with the sound of a key being inserted into a lock, followed by a loud “thunk” as the bolt slid back into its place in the door. The heavy door creaked open. Then a brief hum of a fluorescent ballast and the office was bathed in a bluish light.
Sensing the video opportunity, Gecko’s camera activated and Marc and Ryan watched. The face of the owner appeared on the large monitor as he walked toward his desk.
He sat down, obscuring the phone keypad with his body. All Marc and Ryan could see was the back of his head and shoulders. His arm reached forward, dislodged the receiver from the cradle and punched in eleven digits.
When the receiving party answered, the owner identified himself in Arabic.
“Shit,” Ryan muttered, hitting pause. “Where’s Leilah?”
“My guess?” Marc replied wryly. “Asleep in her bed. It’s five-something in the morning.”
“Yeah, right.” The ramifications of that were lost on Ryan. He picked up his iPhone and punched in her number.
Leilah’s groggy voice answered. “Ryan? What do you want?”
“I need you to translate for me.”
“Fine. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
“Now.” Ryan’s was gripping his cell phone, his mind singularly focused.
Leilah was getting pissed. “I’m in my nightshirt, in my bed. I worked more hours for you yesterday than I ever have studying lines. I’ll come in later.”
