Now things had turned dangerous for him. Word spread that his parents had left him a fortune in life insurance. You did not want to be known as someone with a fortune in this place. Worse, he’d heard that Damian Wallace had a beef with him. He didn’t know why. But in here it could be anything.
The stretch of hall he was walking that morning was the most dangerous—narrow halls, crowded, only two cameras at each end, none in the middle—so he was on high alert. He walked the line, his eyes hunting for threats. Looking for Wally. The downtrodden line of blue shirts flowed past, no shoulder bumps, no hard looks, no scuffles to create a diversion for the guards.
After surviving the hall without a sharpened toothbrush in his ribs, he exhaled with relief. This place. This fucking place! Fishkill had once been a hospital for the criminally insane and Danny swore he was going mad. Would he ever roam outside its bleak walls?
His aunt was trying to get him approved to go to the funeral. Good luck with that. The warden wasn’t the most compassionate guy around. He’d once told Danny he’d started watching the documentary but had to shut it off. “I know bullshit when I see it,” he’d said.
As Danny clambered up the metal stairs, he wondered if he’d ever see the man again, the one who’d held his last hope of getting out. Of looking at the moon. Of sleeping in. Of getting a juicy fast-food burger.
The man had arrived at the prison unannounced, lied and said he was one of Danny’s lawyers. It was the same day the Supreme Court had denied review of Danny’s case. Danny suspected the timing wasn’t a coincidence.
His name was Neal Flanagan, a greasy man in an expensive suit.
Flanagan said he worked for the governor, and for a cool mil Danny could be a free man. He didn’t actually say any of it, of course, probably scared that the prison recorded visits. No, he produced a sheet of paper with the offer written up. After Danny read it, Flanagan placed the paper in a folder and locked it in his briefcase.
“So do you think you can afford my rates?” Flanagan asked, pretending to be a potential new lawyer for Danny, a ruse for recording devices that probably didn’t exist.
“Where in the hell would I get that kind of money?”
“You’re famous.”
“I didn’t get any money from the TV show.”
“What about all those celebrities and do-gooders? They’ve got money.”
Danny rolled his eyes. But he couldn’t escape the feeling that something about the man, something about the whole thing, seemed legit. Well, not legit, but authentic. It didn’t seem like a setup.
“Look, when I get out, I’ll get plenty of offers. I can pay then and—”
“No work on credit, Mr. Pine. Talk to your father. Talk to your benefactors. And do it soon. This offer has an expiration date.”
“I make fifty-two cents an hour. And, even if I could borrow the money, how do I know you’re for real? What if I give you the ‘retainer’ and you just disappear?”
“We’d provide assurances.”
“What kind?”
“Get the money and you’ll find out.”
“Why? Why would he pardon me now, after everything…”
“Retirement planning.”
A week later Danny read that the governor was under investigation, and his attorney fixer—Neal Flanagan—had been indicted. And now the governor had resigned.
Retirement planning.
Danny had racked his brain about how to get that money. But he’d never told his father about the man, the offer, any of it.
He reached his cell and went inside. That was odd: his fat cellmate—who got off his ass only for food and to slug the three feet to the toilet—wasn’t on the bottom bunk.
That was when the hair on the back of Danny’s neck rose. And his cell darkened with the shadow of a man charging inside.
CHAPTER 42
MATT PINE
Matt walked into the diner, the familiar ring of the bell on the door bringing him back to when he was a kid and they’d go to Anne’s for breakfast on Sunday mornings. He had a vision of Danny sitting in front of a giant stack of pancakes, his mother stealing a bite with her fork. It was strange, the things you remembered.
Like the bar last night, the place seemed to go quiet at his presence. A beat of silence followed by murmurs. Today the looks weren’t so subtle, heads following him as he passed, necks craning. He threaded through the tables to a booth in the back. Special Agent Keller sat with a cup of coffee in front of her, steam wafting from the mug.