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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.
