Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

“Did he get out of jail?” Jillian asked quietly.

“No.”

“But you're targeting him. Is he involved in all this? Did David Price somehow hurt my sister?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out. Any word on Carol?”

“I was just about to call the hospital.”

“I should send uniforms there as well,” he muttered out loud, then wished he hadn't.

Jillian's voice grew even more somber on the other end of the line. “Something's happened, hasn't it? Something bad.”

“I'll be in touch,” Griffin told her. “And Jillian. Be careful.”

He flipped shut his phone. Mostly because he didn't know what else to say. Or maybe because he did know what he wanted to say, and now was not the time or place, especially with Fitz sitting red-faced and haggard beside him.

He took the on-ramp for 95 South, headed for the ACI and simultaneously tossed his cell phone to Fitz. “You're up.”

Fitz dialed the Pesaturo residence. Thirty seconds later, they both heard Meg's mother pick up the phone.

“Detective Fitzpatrick here,” Fitz said roughly, then cleared his throat. “I, uh, I need to speak to Miss Pesaturo, please.”

“Detective Fitzpatrick!” Meg's mother said warmly. “How are you this morning?”

Fitz kept his tone gruff. “Mrs. Pesaturo, I need to speak with Meg.”

Laurie Pesaturo faltered. From the driver's seat, Griffin could hear the confusion in her staticky voice as she asked Fitz to wait one moment. It was several more minutes, however, before she was back on the line. “I'm sorry,” she said stiffly. “Meg seems to have stepped out.”

“She's not home?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Do you know where she is?”

An even stiffer reply. “Not at the moment.”

Fitz cut to the chase. “Mrs. Pesaturo, have you ever heard the name David Price?”

A pause. “Detective, what is this about?”

“Please, just answer the question, ma'am. Do you know, or have you ever known, a man named David Price?”

“No.”

“Meg has never mentioned his name?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Has he ever sent anything to your home? Perhaps called?”

“If he had done that,” Laurie Pesaturo said crisply, “then I would know the name, wouldn't I? Now I'm asking you again, Detective. What is this about?”

“I would like you to find Meg, Mrs. Pesaturo. I'd like you to keep her close to home today. In fact, it might not be a bad time for your husband to take a day off, spend the afternoon with his family. Perhaps you could all pay Uncle Vinnie a visit, something like that.”

“Detective…”

“It's just a precaution,” Fitz added quietly.

Another pause. And then, “All right, Detective. Thank you for calling. Will you call again?”

“I hope to touch base again this afternoon, ma'am.”

“Thank you, we would appreciate that.”

“Find Meg,” Fitz repeated, and then they were turning into the vast facility that comprised the ACI.

Griffin found the red-brick admin building that housed the prison's Special Investigation Unit as well as the state police's ACI unit. He turned the car into a parking space, cut the ignition. He no longer looked at Fitz. He was focusing on the growing tension in his shoulders, that steadily building ringing in his ears. Breathe deep, release. Breathe deep, release.

“Hey, Griffin baby, you think this is bad? Let me tell you about your wife…”

Fitz got out of the car. After another moment, Griffin followed suit.

The ACI “campus” spreads out over four hundred acres of land. With brick towers and barbed-wire fence visible from the freeway, the facility is actually half a dozen buildings nestled among half a dozen other government institutions. Nearly four thousand inmates reside in the ACI at any given time, and they generate enough internal and external complaints to employ six ACI special investigators and two state detectives full time. The special investigators are the first responders, handling all inmate-to-inmate complaints. In situations, however, where there are criminal charges-serious assault, murder for hire, drug trafficking, etc.-the state police are brought in to lead the inquiry.

In between these cases, the state detectives spend their time receiving calls from various inmates looking to flip on various other inmates in return for various considerations. The detectives get plenty of calls. Very few of them, though, ever lead to anything.

That's what Griffin had been hoping for when he'd first learned of David Price's outreach. Now Griffin wasn't so sure anymore.

Corporal Charpentier met Griffin and Fitz in the lobby of the admin building, then led them down the one flight of stairs to the state's basement office. Griffin immediately wrinkled his nose at the stale air, while Fitz actually recoiled.

“I know, I know,” Charpentier said. “In theory, the building is now asbestos-free. As the people actually inhaling, however…” He let the rest of the thought trail off. Griffin and Fitz got the picture. They were also both getting a headache.

Charpentier came to the end of the hall, opened the door and led them into a tiny office. Two desks were set up face-to-face, topped with computer terminals, manila folders and a variety of paperwork. The remainder of the cramped space was taken up by two desk chairs and a wall of gunmetal-gray filing cabinets. No cheery office plants here. Just cream-painted cinder-block walls, gray industrial carpet and dim yellow lights. Police officers led such glamorous lives.

“They're bringing him down to the rear hall,” Charpentier said, taking a seat and gesturing for them to do the same. “They need another ten minutes.”

“All right,” Griffin said. He didn't sit. He didn't want anyone to see that his body was beginning to twitch.

“Personally, I don't think he knows jack shit,” Charpentier added, then gave Griffin an appraising look.

“How is he adapting?” Griffin asked.

“Better than you'd think.” Charpentier leaned back, shrugged. “He's young, he's small, he's a convicted pedophile. Frankly, he's got jail ‘bitch' written all over him. But I don't know. I heard this story from one of the corrections officers. Six guys surrounded David Price in the prison showers. Were going to give him a little prison indoctrination, show him the way this place works for small, flabby-muscled baby-killers. Then David started talking. And talking and talking and talking. The guards were running to the scene, of course, expecting to find carnage, and… And David Price was now surrounded by six laughing guys, not hitting him, not pummeling him, but slapping him merrily on the back. Basically, in three minutes or less, he'd turned them into six gigantic, brand-new friends.” Charpentier shook his head. “I don't get it myself, but in another year, he'll be running the place, the world's smallest prison warlord.”

“He's good with people,” Griffin said.

Charpentier nodded, then slowly leaned forward. His gaze went from Griffin to Fitz to Griffin again. “You want to hear something wild? Assaults in maximum have doubled since David was assigned there. I was just looking at the stats again this morning. Code Blue nearly every day for the last nine months. It's been open season over there. And the only new variable I can see is a man who could still buy his clothes from Garanimals.”

“You think he's responsible,” Fitz said bluntly.

Charpentier shrugged. “We can't prove anything. The guys always have their reasons for why they did what they did. But… David talks a lot. All the time. He's like some frigging politician, working the yard, passing notes along the cell block. And the next thing you know, we'll have trouble. A lot of trouble. Guys ending up in the infirmary impaled with sharp metal objects kind of trouble. I don't know what the hell Price says or does, but there's something scary about him.”