Главная страница | Триллеры | The Line Between Here and Gone

The Line Between Here and Gone
Andrea Kane


The man she loved is gone forever. The child she lives for could be next. Each day is a struggle for Amanda Gleason’s newborn son as he battles a rare immune deficiency. Justin’s best chance for a cure lies with his father, who was brutally murdered before Amanda even realised she carried his child. Or was he?One e-mailed photo changes everything, planting a seed of doubt that Amanda latches on to for dear life: a recent photo of a man who looks exactly like Paul. Could Justin’s father be alive? Or worse, could Amanda be about to uncover a shocking truth that transcends her own family’s darkest secrets? A truth that could change lives forever…












AUTHOR NOTE


The Shinnecock Indian Reservation is located on the east side of Shinnecock Bay in the town of Southampton. While the Shinneock Indian Nation’s gaming authority is planning for a long-awaited casino, that casino does not yet exist. When it does, it will not be built on their reservation, which is their ancestral home, but elsewhere on Long Island. Therefore, the casino in The Line Between Here and Gone is a fictitious place, the product of this writer’s fertile imagination.




The Line

Between

Here

and

Gone

Andrea Kane

















www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


To Myrna and Bob,

who helped me bring the Hamptons to life,

who acted as consultants extraordinaire for the year it took me

to create this novel, and whose love

and support mean the world to me.




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


A host of people contributed to my writing this book, and I want to express my appreciation to each and every one of them for their time, their expertise, and their tolerance of a novelist who’s a relentless perfectionist.

My thanks go out to:

Angela Bell, Public Affairs Specialist, FBI Office of Public Affairs—and the real-life equivalent of a fairy godmother!

Former SSA John Mandrafina, FBI Undercover Coordinator/Sensitive Operations Program

SSA James McNamara, FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit 2

Dr. Morton Cowan, Chief, Allergy Immunology and Blood and Marrow Transplant Division, UCSF Children’s Hospital SA Laura Robinson, Senior Team Leader, Evidence Response Team, FBI Newark Field Office

SSA Rex Stockham, Program Manager for FBI Laboratory’s Forensic Canine Program

SA James Margolin, FBI Office of Public Affairs, New York Field Office

SSA Gavin Shea, FBI White Collar Squad, Long Island Resident Agency

Sharon L. Dunn, Department of Pediatrics, Hematology/Oncology, University of Chicago

Detective Mike Oliver, retired NYPD

Simon Jorna, owner of Simon’s Beach Bakery Café, Westhampton Beach, Long Island, New York

Michael Greene, Simon’s Beach Bakery Café and tour guide of “Amanda’s” apartment

And to a very special core of people:

Adam Wilson, the best (and most deeply missed) editorial partner any author could ask for

Valerie Gray, who stepped in at the crisis hour and finished the process with grace, enthusiasm and commitment

Andrea Cirillo and Christina Hogrebe, my incredible agents and diehard advocates

Peggy Gordijn, the quiet force of nature who stays in the background and moves mountains

And most of all my family, who, every day and in every way, give me the love, the incentive and the creative input to make each book the very best it can be.

Thank you all. You’re the very best of the best.




CHAPTER ONE


December

Manhattan

Amanda Gleason gently rocked her infant son in her arms.

A new baby was truly the reaffirmation of life. If she didn’t know that before this moment, she knew it now. He was her child, her miracle.

Her responsibility.

She hadn’t planned on facing motherhood alone. In fact, when Paul had disappeared from the picture, she hadn’t even known she was pregnant. Maybe if she had, maybe if she could have told him, things would have turned out differently.

But they hadn’t.

And now the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Decisions had to be made. Pressure she’d never even imagined. And a bittersweet pain that came every time she held Justin in her arms.

She touched his downy head with one finger, stroked the peach fuzz of his hair. As she whispered softly to him, his eyes opened wide and he stared at her intently, visibly fascinated by the sound of her voice. She gazed into those eyes—Paul’s eyes—and her chest tightened. They were a lighter brown than Paul’s, probably because they had yet to mature to their true color. But the shape, the lids, even the thick fringe of lashes—those were all Paul’s. As was his nose, a tiny version of Paul’s bold, straight nose with the slender nostrils. He even had the dimple in his cheek that was Paul’s. Other than his golden-brown hair color and small, pursed mouth—both of which he’d inherited from her—he was very much Paul’s son. And even at three weeks old, he was developing a personality—easygoing like Paul, inquisitive like her. He spent hours staring at his fingers, opening and closing them with a fascinated expression. And he was always looking around, seemingly transfixed by the world.

Thank God he didn’t know how much of a battlefield his world really was.

“Ms. Gleason?” A young nurse touched her gently on the shoulder. “Why don’t you get something to eat? Maybe take a walk? You haven’t done either all day.” She reached for the baby. “Justin will be in good hands. You’ve got to take care of yourself or you won’t be able to take care of him.”

Numbly, Amanda nodded. She held Justin for one more brief, desperate moment, then kissed his soft cheek and handed him over to the nurse.

How many times had she done that in the past few days? How many more times would she have to do it?

Tears dampening her lashes, she rose, retracing her steps through the reverse isolation unit and out of Sloane Kettering’s Pediatric Bone Marrow Transplant Unit. She stripped off her mask, gloves and gown, and tossed them into the discard bin, knowing she’d have to repeat the same sterilization process when she returned. She stood there for a moment, head bent, taking deep, calming breaths to bring herself under control. The nurse was right. She’d be of no use to Justin if she fell to pieces. And she’d done enough of that already.

Walking down the corridor, stepping into the elevator, and descending to the main level, Amanda felt the physical pain tearing inside her that always accompanied a separation from Justin. She hated leaving him. She dreaded coming back.

Outside the hospital, the world looked surreally normal. It was dark. She hadn’t checked her watch in hours, but it had to be after eight o’clock. Still, traffic sped up and down the New York City streets. Pedestrians strolled the sidewalks. Horns honked. Christmas lights blinked from green and red to a rainbow of colors, then back again.

How could everything seem so normal when her entire world was crumbling to pieces? When everything she cared about was upstairs struggling to survive?

Still operating on autopilot, Amanda reached for her BlackBerry and turned it on. She didn’t really care if she had any messages. But she had to check—even if it was just to seek out some pie-in-the-sky miracle that would answer her prayers.

No miracle. Just the usual crap from the usual sources— store sales, promotions, photojournalist magazine sites. Nothing personal. Everyone knew better than to bother her with anything short of a dire emergency.

Correction. There was one personal message. An email from a fellow photojournalist, a friend of hers who’d been traveling internationally for months and wouldn’t be aware that Justin had already been born or that his condition had turned Amanda’s life upside down.

She opened the email.

I’m in DC. I had to send this to you right away. Caught it on my cell phone yesterday. 2nd Street at C Street NE. Best quality I could get. But I swear it was Paul. Take a look. I know the baby’s due this month, but thought you’d want to see this.

Amanda read the words, and, for an instant, she froze. Then she clicked on the attachment, staring at the cell phone screen and waiting for the picture to load.

The moment it did, she gasped aloud, her hand flying to her mouth. The image was a little grainy and was probably taken from twenty yards away. But clear enough if you were intimately familiar with the person photographed. And she was.

It looked just like Paul.

She zoomed in as close as she could, taking in every detail of the man who now filled her entire screen. Dear God, it was Paul.

A tsunami of conflicting emotions engulfed her. But she battled her way through them. Because one thought eclipsed all the rest.

What could this mean for Justin?

It was a mere ray of hope, a complex long shot. But, to Amanda, it was a lifeline.

She fumbled in her tote bag for the scrap of paper she’d been carrying around since last April. It was well past business hours but she didn’t care. She knew they worked around the clock when necessary. She wouldn’t call; she wouldn’t give them a chance to turn her away.

As she unfolded the crumpled paper, she yanked out the file folder she carried with her at all times—just in case she ever followed through on her idea. Everything was in there. And it wasn’t just an idea anymore.

She pressed a speed dial number on her phone—a call to her oldest and dearest friend, Melissa, who lived in Manhattan and who would never let her down.

“Lyssa,” she said when she heard her friend’s voice. “I need you to come over and relieve me. It’s not Justin. He’s okay. But can you come now?” She sagged with relief at the reply. “Thanks. It’s an emergency.”




CHAPTER TWO


Cold air. Bare trees. Christmas lights twinkling up and down the Tribeca street.

At 9:15 p.m. in this residential section of Manhattan, the four-story brownstone that housed the offices of Forensic Instincts was a secluded haven, isolated from the jungle of the city. Two sweeping willow trees marked either side of the brownstone, and a sense of peace made it seem more like a home than a workplace for Forensic Instincts.

Tonight was even quieter than usual. Casey Woods, the company president, was out holiday shopping with some friends. Most of the specialized team had taken the night off. They were all still recovering from the whirlwind of cases they’d tackled over the past month and a half—all of which had been dominated by an intense kidnapping investigation.

Marc Devereaux was the only FI team member who was on-site. And he wasn’t working. He was in one of the empty meeting rooms, doing a hundred push-ups, feeling the sweat soak through his workout clothes and hoping the intense exercise would help wipe away the mental ghosts that had come back, full force, these past few months.

They’d stayed quiet for a while. But since the kidnapping of that little girl…

He dropped to the floor, forehead pressed to the carpet, breathing heavily. Memories cut deep. Even for a former Navy SEAL. Especially for a former Navy SEAL. Everyone thought they were impervious to emotional scars. They weren’t. What he’d seen during those years might have made him a better FBI agent, and now a valuable member of Forensic Instincts, but they’d taken away something that could never be restored.

And left something dark and destructive in its place.

Marc’s head came up abruptly as he heard the front doorbell ring. It couldn’t be one of the team. They all had keys and knew the alarm code for the Hirsch pad. Instinctively, Marc reached for the pistol he’d placed on the table beside him. Rising, he walked over and eyed the small window on the computer screen displaying a view of the front door from the video surveillance camera.

A woman stood on the doorstep.

Marc pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

A brief silence.

“Is this the office of Forensic Instincts?” the woman’s voice asked.

“Yes.” Marc could have pointed out the ridiculous hour. But he’d worked for the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit for five years. He could read people and tones of voice. And this voice sounded dazed and shaken. Panicky. He wasn’t about to ignore it.

“I… I didn’t think anyone would be in. I just prayed you were.” Her words confirmed Marc’s assessment. “I was afraid if I called you wouldn’t answer. Please… may I come in? It’s urgent. More than urgent. It’s life or death.”

Marc had made his decision long before the end of her dire plea. He put away his pistol. “I’m on my way down.”

He draped a towel around his neck and headed for the stairs. Professional dress decorum wasn’t high on his list right now.

He reached the entranceway, punched in the alarm code and unlocked the door.

The woman standing there with a file folder under her arm was brunette and in her mid-thirties, although the strain on her face made her look older, as did the dark circles under her eyes. She was wearing a winter coat that enveloped her body, so it was hard to make out her build. Not to mention that she was clutching the coat around her as if it were a protective shield.

She stared at Marc, taking in his imposing build, the high cheekbones, dark coloring and aristocratic nose he’d inherited from his extensive French lineage, and the brooding, slightly slanted eyes that reflected his maternal grandparents’ Asian background.

His formidable appearance made the woman nervous, and she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “You’re not Casey Woods,” she said, stating the obvious. She was not only uneasy, she was in a visible state of shock.

“I’m Marc Devereaux, Casey’s associate,” Marc replied in a voice that was intentionally calming. “And you are…?”

“Amanda Gleason.” She summoned up her composure. “I’m sorry to come by so late. But I couldn’t leave the hospital until now. I don’t have much time. Please, can we talk? I want to hire you.”

“Hospital? Are you ill?”

“No. Yes. Please… I need to explain.”

Marc pulled the door open and gestured for her to come in. “Sorry for the casual attire. I wasn’t expecting a client.” As he spoke, a series of deep, warning barks sounded from above. The echo of padded paws announced the arrival of a sleek red bloodhound as he lumbered to the front door. He stood beside Marc and woofed at the stranger.

“It’s okay, Hero,” Marc said. “Quiet down.”

Instantly, the dog obeyed.

“Hero is a human scent evidence dog and part of our team,” Marc explained. “But if you’re afraid of dogs, I can put him upstairs.”

Amanda shook her head. “That’s not necessary. I like dogs.”

“Then we’ll head to a meeting room.” He indicated the second door to the left and escorted her inside.

“Hello, Marc,” an invisible voice greeted him, along with a series of wall lights that blinked in conjunction with the voice tones. “You have a guest. The interview room temperature is sixty-five degrees. Shall I raise it?”

“Yeah, Yoda,” Marc replied. “Raise it to seventy.”

“Temperature will reach seventy degrees in approximately seven minutes.”

“Great. Thanks.” Marc gave a faint smile at the startled look on Amanda’s face. She was peering around, trying to determine the source of the voice.

“That’s Yoda,” he informed her. “He’s the inexplicable creation of Ryan McKay, the techno genius of Forensic Instincts. He’s omniscient… and harmless.” Marc pulled out a chair. “Have a seat. You’ll probably want to keep your coat on until it gets a little warmer in here.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind.” Amanda sank down into the chair, continuing to clutch her coat and her file folder. She looked like a terrified bird being chased by a predator.

“Now, tell me what Forensic Instincts can do for you.”

Amanda drew an unsteady breath. “You can find someone for me. If he’s alive.”

Marc sank back in his chair, intentionally trying to put Amanda at ease, even though his brain was on high alert. “Who is it you want us to find and why aren’t you sure he’s alive?”

“My boyfriend. He was declared a no-body homicide. The police found his car, with blood splattered all over the driver’s seat and windshield, out at Lake Montauk. There were signs that he was dragged to another car. The theory was that he was killed, and his body dumped in the ocean. The Coast Guard searched for days, using every form of sophisticated equipment they had. Nothing turned up. The case was closed.”

“When did this happen?”

“In April.”

“And you’re first coming to us now, eight months later. Why? Do you have some new evidence that suggests he’s alive?”

“New evidence and a new reason to find him immediately.” Amanda rushed on to dispel the obvious. “I know you’re thinking that, if he’s alive, maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Even if that’s true, which I don’t believe it is, he has no choice. Not now.”

Marc leaned across the table and pulled over a legal-size pad. He preferred to take his notes in longhand, then transfer them into the computer. Typing into a laptop was very off-putting to clients who needed a personal connection.

“What’s this man’s name?”

“Paul Everett.”

“And why is finding him so urgent?”

Amanda swallowed, her hands twisting in her lap. “We have a son. He was born three weeks ago. He was just diagnosed with SCID—Severe Combined Immunodeficiency. His body is incapable of fighting infection. He needs a stem cell transplant from a matched donor or he’ll die.”

Marc put down his pen. “I assume you’re not a match?”

She shook her head. “The testing said I’m not even a candidate. I was in a car accident as a child. Thanks to the blood transfusions I received, I have hepatitis C. So I’m out of the picture. And so far, so is the National Marrow Donor Program Registry. They have no match for us. The best, maybe the only hope is Justin’s father.” Two tears slid down Amanda’s cheeks. Fiercely, she wiped them away. “I could give you a full scientific explanation, Mr. Devereaux. It’s consumed my life these past weeks, and I seem to know far more about how a human body can fail than I ever thought possible. But we don’t have time. Thanks to me, Justin already has an infection and is showing symptoms of pneumonia.”

“Thanks to you?”

“I was nursing him. Evidently, I’m carrying a dormant virus called CMV—Cytomegalovirus. I passed it along to Justin. He’s started to cough and he has a fever—both of which are indicators that he’s developing CMV pneumonia. Plus, he picked up parainfluenza during the two weeks he was home. His breathing’s uneven, his nose is running…. I didn’t know he had a compromised immune system, or I’d never have let him have visitors. It’s too late to change that. He’s on antibiotics and gamma globulin. But even those can only suppress the CMV virus, not cure it. They can also be toxic to a child. As for the parainfluenza, there’s literally nothing they can give him. Justin is less than a month old. His tiny body can’t sustain itself for long. This is a life-or-death situation.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Then help me.”

Amanda unbanded her file and opened it, pulling out a USB drive, a DVD and two newspaper clippings. She slid them across the table to Marc. “Here are the obituary and a small write-up of Paul’s death from the Southampton Press, the local newspaper out there. Pretty sparse. Paul was a real-estate developer with no family. The only exciting aspect to report was the alleged homicide.” She pointed at the disk. “A local cable TV station gave a brief broadcast when it happened. That was it for media coverage.”

Marc glanced at both the write-up and the obit, making a mental note to contact both the newspaper and TV station. He slid his laptop over and popped in the USB drive. Two images appeared on his monitor, side by side. The first was of Amanda and a man—presumably Paul Everett—posing on a windswept beach in their ski jackets, arms wrapped around each other. The expressions on their faces, their intimate stance, said they were very much in love. The second image was of the two of them at some sort of formal gathering. They were smiling, looking directly into the camera as they posed for a photograph.

“Now look at this.” Amanda pulled out her cell phone and placed it on the table for Marc to see.

There was a photo on the screen, and Marc shifted his attention to study it. Being a cell phone shot, it was a lot grainier than the other two photos. But it was obviously the image of a man standing on a busy street corner, impatiently waiting for a light to change. He was staring at the don’t walk sign, which gave the photographer a chance to catch him face-first.

Marc could see that from the facial features, the expression and the stance, it was the same man as the one in the other two shots.

“When was this second photo taken?” he asked. “And where?”

“Yesterday. In Washington, D.C.”

“By whom?”

“A friend of mine, a fellow photojournalist. In this case, my friend saw the resemblance to Paul. She didn’t wait to get her camera ready. She just used the closest thing—her cell phone. She emailed me the photo a couple of hours ago. I had just walked out of the hospital to take a break.”

“So she knew you and Paul as a couple.”

“Yes. She also knew I’d never had a chance to tell Paul I was pregnant. She was hoping to give me that chance, along with the incredible news that Paul was alive.”

Paul Everett had never known about the pregnancy, Marc thought. That eliminated one basic reason why he’d choose to vanish. Still, Marc would want to talk to Amanda’s friend.

Amanda mistook his silence for skepticism. “I have no idea why Paul would vanish without saying a word or why he’d start a new life elsewhere. Once I got this cell phone shot and realized he might be alive, I was relieved, but I was also furious. I felt—I feel—betrayed. When they told me Paul was dead, I was ready to raise my child alone. But now that there’s a chance he could be alive, a chance that he could save Justin’s life… my pride is a non-issue. I have to try to track Paul down.”

Marc was still staring intently from the screen to the cell phone, looking for additional characteristics that would confirm the images as the same man. “Did you call the police about this new photo?” he asked.

“Yes, in the taxi on my way to your office. Two guesses whether or not they gave me any points for credibility.” Amanda’s lips trembled and tears began sliding down her cheeks. “That’s why I’m here. I’ve been toying with the idea of calling you since last April when Paul disappeared, hoping you could uncover a miracle. But this photo clinched it. You have a reputation for solving cases that no one else can. Please. For the sake of my baby… Will you help me? I’ll scrape together any amount of money to pay your fee. I’ll give up my apartment, if need be. I don’t care. I just want Justin to be all right.” She broke down, dropping her face into her hands and openly sobbing.

“This isn’t about money,” Marc assured her, although she’d had him the minute she described her situation with her infant. “Our policy is to adjust our fees based upon our client’s monetary circumstances.” Thankfully, they could do that. Between the astronomical bonuses they received from their more affluent clients, and the trust fund Casey’s grandfather had left her, Forensic Instincts was on solid financial footing.

“Then what is it?” Amanda asked as Marc fell silent.

Marc didn’t answer immediately. The problem was, he was in the hot seat. Forensic Instincts had an unbroken rule: they never took on a case without first having a full-team discussion and a unanimous decision.

Well, these were dire circumstances. And given that no one else from the team was around and that it would take time to reach them all and get them over here—hell, there was a first time for everything.

“It’s nothing I can’t work out,” he stated flatly. “We’ll find Paul Everett, Ms. Gleason. If he’s alive, we’ll find him. And we’ll do whatever’s necessary to ensure his cooperation.”

Amanda’s head shot up, her tear-streaked face displaying a glimmer of hope. “Oh, thank you. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”

“Thank me when we’ve done the job.” Marc’s mind was on overdrive. “What hospital is your son in?”

“Sloane Kettering. He was referred there by the staff at Mount Sinai who made the original diagnosis.”

“So you’re staying there with him?”

“I haven’t left until just now.”

“Fine.” Marc nodded. “I’ll need you to email that cell phone picture to me. I’ll also need some basic information from you—including the name and contact info of your photojournalist friend. Then go back to your baby. Give me a chance to assemble the team and lay all this out for them. We’ll have a plan by morning.”

Part of that plan, he knew, was going to include having his ass kicked.




CHAPTER THREE


“Marc, you’re the one person I rely on to keep a consistent level head. You, of all people, know what it means to be a team member. What made you jump the gun like this?”

Casey Woods, the founder and president of Forensic Instincts, stood at the head of the sweeping oval table in the main conference room, her palms pressed flat on the surface, her spine ramrod straight. For a petite, strikingly attractive redhead in her early thirties, she had the commanding presence of an army general and the leadership skills to match. She was also a trained behavioral and investigative profiler with unerring gut instincts that enhanced her skills.

Right now, it didn’t take a profiler to know she was pissed.

And not because it was close to midnight, and the entire FI team was gathered around the table, bleary-eyed, having been summoned for an emergency meeting. Business as usual at Forensic Instincts. But not for this reason.

Marc leaned back in his chair and met Casey’s gaze head-on. “Amanda Gleason had to get back to the hospital to her gravely ill infant. An on-the-spot decision had to be made. I know you, Casey. I know the whole team. We would have agreed to take this case. So I bent the rules. Under the circumstances, I’m sure you can understand my rationale.”

Glancing back down at Marc’s notes, Casey blew out her breath. The fact was, she could see the merit behind Marc’s argument. But it had still been a major breach of their team credo.

“I want to help this poor woman as much as you do,” she said, calming down enough to lower herself into a chair and begin stroking Hero’s glossy head. He was sitting up and looking around, visibly aware of the tension in the room. “But you know you could have gotten the whole team together, either in person or by conference call, in a matter of minutes. All you had to do was explain that to Ms. Gleason.”

“You’re right,” Marc acknowledged. “I should have waited. But after the child kidnapping case we just wrapped up…” A brief pause. “Look. Stuff like this is my hot button. That’s not news to any of you. Circumstances just made it easier to push it.”

“I understand where Marc is coming from.” Claire Hedgleigh spoke up. She was one of the team’s newest members, and also its least hard-edged. Her abilities could be described as psychic; she preferred the term intuitive. Either way, her intangible connections to people and things were astonishing. They also made her more sensitive to Marc’s plight.

“This is a newborn baby we’re talking about,” she continued. “Every moment counts.”

“So do agreed-upon rules.” Retired FBI Special Agent Patrick Lynch—also a new team member—spoke up. “If we don’t have some kind of protocol here, we’ll be tripping over each other, each taking on different, and maybe conflicting, cases.” He arched a brow at Casey. “Actually, I think this is the first time we’ve ever agreed about rule breaking.”

“We’re coming from different places, Patrick,” Casey replied. “So don’t get too excited.”

“Come on, Casey, take it down a couple of notches. Cut Marc some slack.” Ryan McKay, Forensic Instincts’ strategic whiz and techno-genius, made a disgusted sound. “He called us the minute Amanda Gleason walked out the door. I’m the one who should be complaining. I was in stage four sleep when Marc’s phone call came. You know how I feel about my sleep.”

Everyone knew how Ryan felt about his sleep. And no one wanted to be around him when he didn’t get it.

On the other hand, with those drop-dead Black Irish looks, Ryan looked better with red eyes and bed head than most men did at a formal affair.

“I guess we were lucky you were alone,” Claire commented drily. “Or you might have blown us off.”

Ryan shot her a look. “Never happen.” He angled his head toward Casey. “Well? What’s the verdict?”

Casey stared at Marc’s notes for another second, then raised her head and glanced at the team members, one by one. “I say we take it,” she stated.

“Take it,” Ryan echoed.

“Absolutely,” Claire chimed in.

Patrick’s nod was firm. “We could save a child’s life. Take it.”

“I’m still ticked off at you,” Casey informed Marc. “But let’s get on this case—now. Bring us up to speed.”

John Morano’s office was a dump, a ramshackle wooden building that smelled of damp wood, fish and salt water.

The location, however, was prime. His wharf and marina’s dock service business for local fishermen was located right on the Shinnecock Bay in Long Island’s affluent town of Southampton. He made good money because he was smart. But he was also a well-heeled real-estate developer with not only a big reputation, but equally big plans for the future. He was sitting on a gold mine and he knew it. He’d gotten in early. Now, as he’d expected, real-estate prices were skyrocketing, thanks to the construction of the nearby Shinnecock Indian Casino. It was the perfect time to act.

Morano could visualize the transformation that was about to occur. His dilapidated office would soon disappear; in its place a multimillion-dollar luxury hotel that would attract vacationers everywhere. The cash flow from his dock services would still be incoming. But there’d be a lot more than fishing boats making their way to his pier. Chartered yachts would soon conveniently travel between Manhattan and here, bringing affluent tourists to gamble in the casino and be pampered in his five-star hotel.

The pieces were falling into place. He just had to play his cards right.

The rickety office door swung open and a gruff workman walked in, carrying an empty toolbox.

It looked for all the world as if he was here to do carpentry or make repairs—and the place could sure use it.

But a short time later, the man left, his empty toolbox now filled with twenty thousand dollars in cash.

Just outside the office, he pulled out his burner phone and punched in the requisite number. “Today’s repairs are done,” he reported.

“Good,” was the reply.

The workman headed to the gravel area where he’d parked. He walked past his truck and across the dock, stopping to hurl his phone into the bay. Then he reversed his steps, got into his vehicle and drove away.

Amanda hurried back to Sloane Kettering and the Pediatric Bone Marrow Transplant unit. She knew Melissa would never leave Justin’s side during her absence. And she’d checked her cell phone twelve times since she’d called in an hour ago. But, despite Melissa’s reassurances, her heart was still racing, her prayers still echoing inside her head as she rushed to see Justin, to make sure he was still alive and fighting.

She was startled to see the stocky man with the ruddy complexion and salt-and-pepper hair standing outside the BMT Unit, hands clasped behind his back as he stared inside.

“Uncle Lyle?” Amanda broke into a run. “What are you doing here at this hour? Has something happened?”

“No, nothing like that.” Lyle Fenton patted his niece’s shoulder. He wasn’t an affectionate man. Never had been. He’d grown up poor, made himself rich, but had never included a family as part of the picture. But when his sister and her husband had been killed in a car accident, he’d felt some sense of responsibility for their only child. Amanda had been in photojournalism school at the time, and Lyle had already made a decent amount of money. So paying for her education and kick-starting her career had been his way of reaching out. It was easy enough, given she loved the Hamptons and had moved within ten miles of his estate.

Still, they rarely saw each other. Until now.

“I was in Manhattan on business,” he told his niece now. “The meeting ran right through dinner and well past ten. So I stopped in to see how the baby—how Justin—was doing. I was surprised not to find you here.”

Amanda released her breath. Thank God. Her uncle was just passing through on his way back to the Hamptons. Nothing had gone wrong with her precious baby.

“I only left for a few hours,” she replied. “It was important. And, as you can see, I left my friend Melissa with Justin. She treats him like her own.” With those words, Amanda glanced inside the unit, relieved to see Melissa sitting by Justin’s side, talking softly to him in his crib.

“What was so important?” Lyle asked curiously.

“I hired an investigative firm to find Paul.”

That came as a major surprise, and Lyle started. “Paul? He’s dead.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

A heartbeat of silence. “I had no idea your thoughts were heading in this direction. Do you have something to go on?”

“Nothing solid. But tell me, Uncle Lyle, how else should my thoughts be headed?” Amanda spread her hands wide. “I’m desperate. I’m not a potential donor. You’re not a potential donor. I have no other family. And so far the registry has come up empty. I don’t know if Paul’s alive. I don’t know if he’d be a viable match. But I’ve got to try.”

Lyle nodded, although the expression on his face was dubious. “I understand. Who did you hire? I could have given you some recommendations.”

“I didn’t need them. I hired Forensic Instincts. After the way they handled the kidnapping of that little girl, there was no doubt in my mind that they were the right company to track down Paul—if he’s alive.”

“They took the case?”

Amanda nodded. “They’re meeting about it as we speak.”

“Do you need money? An independent investigative team like Forensic Instincts doesn’t come cheap.”

“I’m fine for now. Plus, you’re already paying for all of Justin’s hospital expenses. I’m very grateful. But enough is enough.”

“That’s absurd, Amanda. I have the means. I’ll offer a huge reward for the right stem cell donor, if that’s what it takes. Don’t hesitate to call on me.”

“Thank you, Uncle Lyle. I’ll do that. But right now I think Forensic Instincts is my ray of hope.” Once again, she glanced into the unit. “I want to get back inside and relieve Melissa.”

“The nurses said there’d been no change,” Lyle informed her. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what good means anymore.” Amanda was already rolling up her sleeves, getting ready to scrub up. “I thank God he isn’t worse. But I keep praying he’ll improve, that by some miracle he’ll get better.” She shut her eyes for a brief second. “That’s a pipe dream, I know. But hope is all I can cling to. And I won’t give up on my son.”

“No, no, of course not.” Lyle gestured for her to get back inside. “Go and be with your child. I’ll be in touch.” He started to leave.

“Uncle Lyle?” Amanda stopped him with a gentle hand on his forearm. “Thank you. Not just for dropping by or for offering to help pay Forensic Instincts, but for having yourself tested. I know this isn’t your thing. But it means the world to me that you’d try.”

Briefly, he smiled. “It was hardly a sacrifice. I have more than enough blood—and money—to spare.” Another awkward pat on her hand. “I’ll be in touch.”

Once her uncle had gone, Amanda went through the ritual of sterilizing her hands and donning the necessary gloves, hospital gown and mask. Then, she reentered the reverse isolation unit where her infant was fighting for his life.

“Go on home to your family,” she said softly to Melissa. “And thanks so much.”

Melissa rose and squeezed her friend’s gloved hands with her own. “Call whenever you need me.”

“I will.”

Amanda approached the crib, relieved to be back, happy to be alone with her son.

She could never get over how small he was. Or maybe he just looked that way in his crib with a central line IV in his three-week-old chest and a blow-by of oxygen perched on his crib to enrich the oxygen content of the air around him. He’d been born full-term, a respectable seven pounds one ounce. Maybe that’s what made it even harder. The preemies down in the neonatal ICU looked so much more fragile, so much more like they had the fight of their lives ahead of them. And yet, none of them was as sick as Justin, who faced a grim prognosis.

The middle-aged nurse who’d most recently checked Justin’s vitals walked in behind Amanda.

“Ms. Gleason,” she greeted her. “I’m glad you got out for a little while.”

“Thank you.” Amanda gestured at the medical apparatus, then at her baby, who had started waving a tiny fist and whining. “How is Justin? Is there any change?”

“No. The little guy is a fighter, though. And he obviously knows his mommy’s voice. He was quiet until you walked in. Would you like to hold him for a while?”

It was a routine question—one that, in this case, the nurse already knew the answer to. Amanda held her baby every chance she could. It was one of the few things she could offer him at this point—the warmth of her body, the soft lullabies that soothed him, plus her constant prayers and love. Holding him was a bittersweet experience. The joy of cradling him close, having his tiny fingers curl around hers—the feeling was indescribable. But the guilt of knowing why she couldn’t nurse him, why he couldn’t even be bottle-fed, but instead had to get his nourishment from an IV catheter, why his breathing was raspy, and why he had an infection—an infection she’d given to him—ate at her like the vilest of poisons.

Now she gathered him close, being careful to avoid his IV, and rocked him as she began singing him the lullabies he seemed to love. He stopped fussing, his tiny body relaxing as he experienced the security of his mother’s embrace and the melodic sounds of her voice. At that moment, all was right with his world—and Amanda’s.

If Paul really were alive, he couldn’t help but fall in love with this little miracle.

Tears welled up in Amanda’s eyes, slid down her cheeks beneath the mask. Between the pain, the worry and the hormones, she cried at the drop of a hat. She’d even wept in front of Marc Devereaux, although he’d seemed to understand. He’d taken her case. He’d been confident. He’d reassured her. And she believed in him.

But would they find Paul? Was Paul alive to be found? Or was that just wishful thinking on her part?

She’d mourned him for so long. More so after she found out she was carrying his baby. They’d never talked about having children, nor about settling down together. It was too soon. They’d only been together for five months. But they were five intense months, filled with a love and a passion Amanda had never before experienced. Justin was the culmination of that. And Paul would never be able to share in the miracle that was his son.

Finding out that Paul might truly be alive had been a devastating blow to her gut. Disbelief, hope, confusion, betrayal, and most of all, anger had rushed through her, one sharp emotion at a time. But, with Justin’s diagnosis, all that emotion channeled into desperation to find Paul. The fact that he might have been lying to her since day one and that he’d done a dump-and-run was insignificant. All that mattered was Justin. She had to save her baby. Even if it meant pleading at the feet of a man who’d made a fool of her.

Justin gave a little cough, then screwed up his face and kicked his legs. Amanda didn’t like the sound of that cough. And she didn’t like the way his nose was running. He looked paler than before. And he seemed fussier. Was that normal baby behavior or was it the pneumonia getting worse? She’d have to find Dr. Braeburn and ask him.

She stopped singing and kissed the top of Justin’s silky head. Please, God, she prayed. Please let Forensic Instincts find Paul. And please let him be a healthy match for Justin. Please.

But Amanda was a realist. And she knew that prayers alone wouldn’t be enough.

Ryan McKay’s lair, as the team called it, took up the entire basement of Forensic Instincts. Usually, he was down there by his lonesome, with only his servers, his gadgets and his workout equipment to keep him company. But, at the moment, things were different. Even though it was after two in the morning, Marc was pacing around Ryan’s space like a hungry lion.

Finally, Ryan swiveled around in his computer chair and faced Marc, hands folded behind his head.

“Nothing jumps out at me,” he pronounced. “Our client is just who she says she is. A thirty-four-year-old photojournalist who lives in an apartment over a café in Westhampton Beach. Her only family is an uncle, Lyle Fenton, who’s a rich business tycoon serving on the Southampton Board of Trustees. He put her through school after her parents died and used his influence to get her some high-profile jobs. Doesn’t look like he’s subsidizing her, though. She’s on her own financially.”

Marc nodded. No surprises there. Not about the information itself nor the scope of it. He didn’t ask how Ryan had accessed Amanda’s finances. Ryan could access anything.

“I also checked out Amanda’s photojournalist friend,” Ryan continued. “She’s as legit as Amanda.”

“Yeah, she’s also cooperative,” Marc added. “She didn’t hang up on me when I woke her up in the middle of the night. She confirmed that she’d taken the photo, and when and where it was taken.”

“Okay, so that takes care of those preliminaries.”

“What about Paul Everett?” Marc demanded.

“Again, he seems clean enough on the surface. A real-estate developer, like Amanda said. Had some decent-size prospects, most of which are underwater, thanks to the economy. I can check around in the morning, see what I can find out from the people he worked with—assuming I can find them. Apparently, he owned a wharf and marina out in the Hamptons where local fisherman docked their boats. Looks like he had plans to grow it into something bigger. He was trying to get all kinds of building permits. Once again, I can’t dig deeper until business hours start. No one’s in the township office at 2:00 a.m. So we’ve got a seven-hour wait. What I can do until then is use my facial recognition software to compare the older photos of Paul Everett with the new one. It’ll take time to enhance the cell phone shot. But I’ll do it. And we’ll have stronger confirmation that the two guys in the pictures are one and the same.”

“At least we’ll be using the time instead of wasting it,” Marc concurred. “What about D.C.? Did Everett have any ties there?” Marc asked. “Any reason he’d be in Washington?”

“None that I can see. That doesn’t mean he didn’t start a new life after he took off—if he took off. Remember, we still have to consider the possibility that Paul Everett is dead and decomposing at the bottom of the ocean, or that he was dinner for a bunch of hungry sharks.”

“Uplifting thoughts.” Marc blew out his breath. “So no signs of dirty dealings? No business contacts who would want him out of the way, or who he’d run from?”

“Not yet. This was a cursory search, Marc. It was meant to give us some starting points. I only scratched the surface. I’ll go deeper. I’ll dig up Everett’s friends, business associates, partners, history—anything sketchy from his past. Whether he ran or was killed, he was into something over his head. It’s up to me to give the team something to run with. I’ll figure out if Everett was a victim or a slimeball. He can’t hide from me.” A smug grin. “No one can.”




CHAPTER FOUR


Casey faced Amanda across a table in Sloane Kettering’s institutional cafeteria.

Amanda shifted in her chair, staring into her coffee cup and stirring furiously. She was waiting for a reaction from the head of Forensic Instincts. Just because Marc was fully invested didn’t mean the rest of the team would follow suit. And having Casey Woods fully on board was essential to the urgency with which they approached the case.

Casey alleviated her worries with just a few words.

“Marc made a compelling case,” she stated simply. “The whole team feels as strongly about your situation as he does. We started working on the investigation just after midnight.”

Amanda’s head shot up. “Then you’ll find Paul.” It was a statement, not a question, one that was rife with faith that Forensic Instincts would succeed.

“We’re going to determine if he’s alive,” Casey amended. “And if he is, my team will find him.”

“Thank you,” Amanda said gratefully.

She was an attractive woman, Casey noted. But she looked much older than her mid-thirties. She also looked dazed and battered, as if she’d been struck with a sledgehammer. The hell she was going through was unimaginable. Casey didn’t have children of her own, but that didn’t mean she was immune to Amanda’s pain. Having your newborn son’s life on the line, being helpless to keep him alive—Casey couldn’t fathom anything more excruciating for a new mother.

“I have to ask you a few questions,” she told Amanda gently. “I know your heart and mind are with your son. But the more help you can give us, the faster and more effectively we can do our job.”

Amanda nodded. “Ask me anything you want.”

“Tell me about you and Paul. Where and when you met. How the relationship progressed. Where things stood between you when he vanished. Anything the police said when they wrapped up the investigation into his possible death. How much you knew about his work, his friends, his business acquaintances. Any enemies he might have had. Any personal details that could explain his disappearing off the grid. Any reason you can think of that he’d be in Washington, D.C. Where he lived in the Hamptons and anything you can remember about his place—mementos, photos, anything that might reveal something more about him.”

“Wow.” Amanda blew out her breath, blinking at the deluge of questions Casey had just fired at her. “I assume Marc filled you in on what I told him and showed him?”

“He did. And some of what you tell me will be redundant. I realize that. But I want to hear it from you.”

“Okay. Paul and I met at a political fundraiser. There was chemistry from the start. We got involved pretty quickly, and we were together for five months. He was a real-estate developer. I never met any of his colleagues. I met a few of his friends, mostly neighbors near the house he rented and a couple of his poker buddies. Paul and I were pretty wrapped up in each other. Most of the time we spent together was alone.”

“So things were good right up until he vanished?”

A nod. “We hadn’t talked in a few days, which was unusual. I assumed it was because he was busy. We were supposed to have dinner that night. He never showed. I called his cell phone all night. Then I went to his house.”

“Which was where?”

“In Hampton Bays. It’s a small cottage, close to Tiana Bay. He rented it year-round. It was about twenty minutes from Westhampton Beach, where I live. He was working on some big real-estate development project in Southampton. We didn’t get into the details. But enemies? I can’t imagine anyone hating Paul. He was easygoing and charismatic. And I also can’t imagine why he’d disappear. Things were so good between us. And I never even got a chance to tell him about Justin.” Amanda’s voice quavered. “When I think that way, I’m sure he must be dead. Nothing else makes sense. But, on the other hand, where is his body? Why didn’t the Coast Guard ever turn up anything? It makes no sense.”

“The police dismissed the case,” Casey continued. “Did they leave any doors open?”

“They said they had nothing to go on. No suspects, no motives and no body.” Amanda took a quick gulp of her coffee. “As for D.C., your guess is as good as mine. Paul never mentioned any friends or relatives there. Could he have gotten a project there? Of course. But I have no way of knowing.”

“Okay, let’s get to Paul’s cottage. Do you know if it’s been rented out?”

“I don’t know,” Amanda replied, looking puzzled. “But what difference does that make? All his things are gone. I donated everything to charity except items that had sentimental value to me.”

“I’ll need to see those items. Also, I’ll need the name of Paul’s landlord.” Casey gave the simpler explanation first. “As for the house, I’d like to get permission to go inside. I don’t know whether or not you’re a believer, but Claire Hedgleigh, one of my team members, is a brilliant intuitive. She might pick up on something just from being in Paul’s surroundings—especially if no one’s lived there for the past eight months. And she’ll definitely have a shot at sensing something from the personal items you’re talking about.”

“You’re talking about a psychic.”

Casey’s lips curved. “Claire hates that term, but yes. A psychic. She was crucial to solving our last big case, and before she joined Forensic Instincts, she was tremendously successful working with law enforcement.”

“If she can help tell us if Paul’s alive and where he is, I’m all for it.”

“Good. Then you won’t balk at my next request. Last night when you spoke to Marc at the office, you met Hero. He’s another unconventional member of our team—a human scent evidence dog. Between sniffing out Paul’s place and sniffing the scent pads we’ll make from Paul’s personal things, he’ll be able to zero in on Paul’s presence within miles—if and when we get to that point. So, can you give me the information on Paul’s landlord? I’ll make a few phone calls and check the status of the cottage. Also, would you make a mental note of whatever mementos you have? We’ll drive out to the Hamptons together either later today or tomorrow, depending on when you can make arrangements to leave your son.”

Amanda shut her eyes for an instant. “Thank you for understanding,” she said simply. “My friend Melissa has offered to stay with him whenever I need to leave. And it’s not as if the hospital staff isn’t in constant contact with me. I just feel better when I’m close by. It’s not logical. It’s just being Justin’s mother.”

“I don’t blame you.” Casey pushed back her chair and rose. “You go to your son. I’ll call you as soon as we’re good to go.”

Ryan was leaning over his computer, deep in concentration, when Claire walked in.

“Where is everybody?” she asked.

“Ever hear of knocking?” Ryan’s gaze never left his monitor.

“Why? Is this a private sanctuary?”

“Actually, yeah, it is.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Then put a lock on the door. Or at least keep it shut.” She walked over to Hero, who’d jumped up from his nap the minute she walked in. He gazed at her hopefully, and with good reason. Claire was definitely the soft touch of the team, not only in her handling of the cases, but in her handling of Hero. Her sensitivity went right along with her pale blond hair, light gray eyes and willowy figure—not to mention the ethereal quality that emanated from her.

She didn’t have many buttons that set her off. But Ryan McKay was one of them.

Now Claire’s lips curved as she scratched Hero’s ears. The bloodhound’s gaze was locked on her.

“In my pocket,” she told him, reaching in and pulling out a piece of cheese. She offered it to him. He slurped it up and swallowed it in one bite.

“You’re a doormat,” Ryan noted. “And you’re going to put five pounds on him in less than a year.”

“It’s low-fat cheese. No harm, no foul.” Claire scanned the room, taking in the workout equipment, the vast array of computers, servers and network wires, and the centerpiece of the room: a long line of semicompleted robots—all surrounded by a pile of metal and plastic parts that were just waiting to be used.

“I wouldn’t worry about my touching anything in your precious basement,” she retorted. “I’d trip and kill myself if I tried. Plus, I don’t know what half this stuff is anyway. Especially your toy section. Robots were never my thing.”

“No, you’re more of a tarot card girl.”

Despite her vow to remain impervious to Ryan’s barbs, Claire grimaced. “You’re so narrow-minded, it’s sickening. And FYI, I don’t do tarot cards. Or Ouija boards.”

“Séances?”

“Nope.”

“You’re a boring psychic.”

“And you’re a pain in the ass.”

Ryan spun his chair around, leaned back and folded his arms behind his head. He looked disgustingly amused. “Nice comeback. Cold, too. I’m getting to you.”

Claire shot him a look. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Then why’d you drop by? No one uses the basement but me. The conference room is two flights up.” He pointed at the ceiling.

“I know where it is.” Claire folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here because I got a call from Casey. She said we’re having a full team meeting. I went straight to the conference room. When no one was up there, I chose the obvious—you. You live in this cave. So, I came down to check and see if you knew anything.”

“Yup. A full team meeting it is. Casey called me, too.” Ryan glanced at his watch. “She’s on her way. So’s Patrick. And Marc’s in the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee and probably eating my trail mix.”

“Fine. Then I’ll go up and wait.” Claire hesitated. “Did you find anything?”

Ignoring Claire’s question, Ryan leaned forward and pressed the print button on his computer. A handful of pages glided out. He strolled over and picked them up, perusing them as he did. “You’ll know when everyone else does,” he said at last.

Claire didn’t answer. Trying to reason with a preschooler was pointless. She just left the room and shut the door behind her with a firm click.

Ryan glanced up at the closed door, his lips curving into a lazy smile.

All humor was off ten minutes later as the team gathered around the conference room table.

“I met with Amanda Gleason,” Casey began, hands folded in front of her. “Marc was dead-on in his assessment. The woman is desperate. The situation is heartbreaking. Time is of the essence. And we’re going to save this baby at all costs.” She turned to Ryan. “What do you have for us?”

“Let’s start with my facial recognition software. I did a comparison of the guy in Amanda’s photos with the enhanced image of the guy in the cell phone picture. Using elastic bunch graph matching techniques and a cutting-edge sparse representation algorithm, I was able to determine…” Ryan glanced around at the table of blank faces. “Never mind the details. I’m ninety percent sure it’s the same guy.”

“Nice odds,” Marc commented.

“Yup. I’m willing to bet that Paul Everett is alive.”

“A fact that we’re not going to pass on to Amanda Gleason,” Casey informed them. “Not until we’ve ruled out the other ten percent.”

“Agreed.” Ryan nodded. “Moving on, I got in touch with a couple of Paul Everett’s former business associates. Lots of praise. No red flags.”

“So a dead end.”

“Nope. Now comes the interesting part. Marc got me some personal info from Amanda—Everett’s birthday, where he banked, a few key dates like when they first met—that kind of stuff. I did a little bit of strategic guesswork and a lot of poking around. It took me some time, but I managed to hack into the guy’s banking records.”

“And?” Casey perked up. She knew that tone of voice. It meant Ryan was leading up to something big.

“And Paul Everett had some hefty bank balances and some equally hefty withdrawals. The withdrawals followed a pattern. Same amount each time—twenty grand, and same time increments between withdrawals—six weeks. Interesting that this came at the same time that he was fighting for construction permits to upscale his dock operations into a waterfront luxury hotel. With all the amenities he planned and the close proximity to the new Shinnecock gambling casino, this would have been a gold mine.”

“Sounds like our guy was paying someone off to get what he wanted.” Marc stated the obvious.

“Sure does.”

“So he wasn’t so squeaky clean after all,” Patrick stated. After thirty-plus years as an FBI Special Agent, he was a no-bullshit guy who played by the rules—mostly—and called it like it was.

The playing-by-the-rules part was a huge rub at Forensic Instincts. But Patrick was good—very good. And, as he put it, he kept the team as close to “legal” as possible.

Now he pulled over his pad and started scribbling. “We’ve got two main possibilities here. Either Paul Everett was paying someone off like Marc said, or he was being blackmailed by someone who had dirt on him. Either one could get him killed or convince him to disappear.”

“So much for true love conquering all,” Claire murmured.

“Self-preservation trumps true love plus a whole lot more,” Ryan replied tersely. “And murder trumps everything. If I’m wrong—and I’m not—and Paul Everett’s at the bottom of the ocean, he didn’t exactly have a lot of choice about whether or not he hung around for Amanda.”

“I get that.” Claire looked thoughtful. “I wasn’t suggesting that Paul should have—or could have—stuck around. I was just wondering if the relationship between him and Amanda was even real, or if he was just using her as a cover for whatever he was involved in.”

“Good point.” Casey’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized Claire. “Is that a random question or a feeling?”

“A random question. It’s way too soon for me to have a connection with any of this. I haven’t even met Amanda, much less gotten into her personal space or feelings.”

“That’s about to change.” Before she elaborated, Casey turned back to Ryan. “Anything else?”

“Yup. Much as I hate to admit it, Claire’s theory might have merit.” Ryan sounded as if he might choke on his words. “Amanda’s uncle is Lyle Fenton. He’s a business tycoon who also happens to serve on the Southampton Board of Trustees. If Everett wanted to score points with him in order to get his building permits, it could be why he hooked up with Amanda. The fundraiser they met at was for Congressman Clifford Mercer. Amanda was freelancing for the guy. Her uncle got her the job. Everett could have easily found that out and made a donation to the campaign. That would have gotten him an invite.”

“A congressman serves in Washington, D.C.,” Casey noted thoughtfully. “Marc, you called Amanda’s photographer friend, didn’t you?”

“Sure did.”

“Where exactly was that recent D.C. photo taken?”

“Second Street at C Street NE.”

“Which is just a little over half a mile from the Capitol Building.”

“And about a million other places,” Ryan reminded her. “Casey, that’s the business hub of D.C. It’s a leap to assume Paul Everett was going to see Mercer.”

“You’re right.” Marc’s brows drew together. “But it’s not out of the realm of possibility. Just because Everett vanished, doesn’t mean he’s given up on building that hotel. Like Ryan said, it’s a gold mine. With Everett’s ties to Amanda and her uncle severed, Mercer’s a shrewd and logical person to win over to his side. He represents District One. That includes the Hamptons. Maybe Everett is looking for a more influential—and long distance—way to get what he wants without tipping off the wrong people to the fact that he’s alive.”

“We’re all speculating.” Casey gulped the last of her coffee and set down the mug, mulling over a list of assignments she’d drawn up. “It’s time to act and find some answers. Here’s what I propose—Patrick, you go down to D.C. and see what you can dig up. If you’re down there for more than a day and have something solid to go on, one of us will join you. In the meantime, Claire, Marc and I are going on a field trip to the Hamptons with Amanda. We’re taking Hero with us.”

At the sound of his name, Hero’s head came up and he watched Casey attentively.

“We’ve got to search Paul’s place and make scent pads for Hero to sniff. We’ve also got to drive out to Montauk and visit the crime scene. On the way back, we’ll stop by Amanda’s apartment and get some personal items of Paul’s for Claire to work with, plus hit some of the spots that Paul and Amanda used to go together.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if I went with Patrick to D.C.?” Marc asked. “Two former Bureau agents have twice the contacts and twice the resources.”

“Probably,” Casey conceded. “But I need you here for several reasons. Number one, you’ll make things happen.”

“In other words, he can break into houses and businesses, or question people under false pretenses,” Patrick put in wryly.

A grin tugged at Casey’s lips. “Actually, I have permission from the owner to search the house Paul rented. As for the rest—who knows what might come up? Another reason I need Marc here is because Amanda trusts him. For whatever reason, she is comfortable with him and turns to him for support. We need to use that to our advantage. This whole excursion to the Hamptons is going to have to be quick and productive. Amanda doesn’t want to be away from her baby for long, and I don’t blame her. So we leave in an hour. Ryan, you keep digging, and text me anything you find. Patrick, catch the first flight to D.C. Is everyone okay with that plan?”

“Yup.” Marc answered for all of them.

“Good. Then let’s make this thing happen.”




CHAPTER FIVE


The Hamptons were quiet.

If this had been July, Montauk Highway would have been a parking lot, and getting through the bumper-to-bumper traffic would have been a nightmare of untold proportions. All the rich, beautiful people with summer “cottages”—a euphemism for multimillion-dollar estates—would have been heading out here to enjoy the Hamptons’s elite shopping, popular clubs and private beaches. They were the Citidiots, as the locals called Manhattanites—the semiannual residents who helped define the Hamptons as a finely manicured alternate world, a playground for the mega-rich.

But, thankfully, it wasn’t July. It was December, way off-season, and only the sparse population of full-time residents were out here. All the better for the Forensic Instincts team. No crowds, the ability to move faster and more productively, and fewer false leads. Besides, Amanda and Paul’s relationship had happened off-season. So this was the best way to recreate the scenario, witnesses and all.

Their first stop was Hampton Bays and the cottage Paul had rented.

Farther out on Long Island than Amanda’s Westhampton Beach apartment, Hampton Bays was a combination of modest and expensive homes, nestled between Westhampton and Southampton. Right now it was sleepy, strung with Christmas lights that would be beautiful after sunset, but one couldn’t help but imagine how hopping the place would be during the summer season. The beaches along the bay were beautiful, and it was a hop, skip and a jump to dining, shopping and nightlife.

The FI team had made a joint decision with Amanda to drive out to Paul’s cottage first, then forty-five minutes away, out to Lake Montauk and the spot where Paul’s car had been found. After these two site visits, they’d backtrack and stop at Amanda’s apartment on the way home. The reasoning was simple: Amanda and Paul had spent more time at his place than at hers. And since Lake Montauk was the crime scene, Casey and Marc could search the area from there to Gosman’s Dock, checking for anything the police had overlooked—assuming they’d really been looking. At the same time, Hero could learn Paul’s scent, and Claire could immerse herself in Paul’s surroundings and see if she picked up on his energy. Whatever personal items of his that Amanda had kept, particularly those with sentimental value, were at her place, and would be sifted through on the return trip.

Casey turned the van into the driveway leading to the cozy little cottage Paul had rented. She’d been watching the road most of the way with an occasional direction from Marc, who was eyeing the GPS. But Claire, who was sitting in the backseat, was finely attuned to the change in Amanda as they neared their destination. She got quieter and quieter, her fingers clasped so tightly together that her knuckles were white. And there was a pained, faraway look in her eyes. She was remembering. She clearly hadn’t been out here since Paul’s disappearance. And the waves of memory were overwhelming.

Gently, Claire put her hand on Amanda’s shoulder. “Are you all right?” she asked.

Amanda gave a slight shake of her head. “Not really. I didn’t expect this to be so hard. And Montauk—I’m not even sure I can do it.”

“Yes, you can—you can do it for your son. Whatever time you need to compose yourself, to work through what you need to—just take it. We have plenty to keep us busy inside the cottage.”

“Thank you,” Amanda replied softly.

Marc glanced over his shoulder at Claire and scowled. She knew what he was thinking—that the clock was ticking and that Claire’s advice to Amanda to take her time was absurd. Claire gazed steadily back at him, conveying her certainty that this was the right way to go. If they pushed Amanda, they’d get less out of her. She needed to deal with her emotions. It was the only way this day trip was going to yield any results.

Reaching the top of the drive, Casey turned off the ignition and sat back, studying the small wood-shingled house with the rocking chair porch. It was a cottage in the truest sense, not the massive estates some of the wealthy locals referred to as their “summer cottages.” It couldn’t have more than two bedrooms and a bath, but it was perfect for a single guy whose career was based out here.

Even with the van’s windows only slightly cracked for Hero’s sake, you could smell the salty air, a sure indication that the bay was close by. A charming cottage, a good location—clearly, Paul Everett had been faring well.

“I can see why you and Paul spent most of your time here,” Casey said tactfully.

Amanda nodded. “The inside is lovely, too. And the place is well maintained, even though it’s fifty years old. Paul got lucky. The owner is a wealthy East Hampton guy who bought the cottage as an investment. He liked Paul. He rented it to him at a great price, especially because Paul wanted it year-round and not just as a summer vacation house. I think Paul would have eventually bought it if…” Amanda’s voice trailed off.

“Let’s go inside,” Marc suggested.

Amanda hesitated.

Casey glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Do you have cell reception?” she asked in a casual tone, as if she didn’t already know the answer.

Amanda glanced down at the phone that was perpetually on her lap or in her hand. “Yes.”

“Then why don’t you stay out here for a minute and check in with the hospital? The owner of the cottage told me he’d leave the door unlocked. Claire, Marc, Hero and I will get started while you get an update on Justin. Then, when you’re ready, you can join us.”

“I appreciate your compassion.” Amanda wasn’t just referring to Casey’s concern for Justin. She wasn’t stupid. She understood that the team was trying to give her the space she needed to prep herself for a painful walk down memory lane.

“No problem.” Casey’s gaze slid to Claire in the rearview mirror and she gave a quick nod.

All three team members climbed out. Marc went around back of the van and opened the double doors so that Hero could jump down and join them.

With a quick lap of his water, Hero scrambled to the gravel drive, waiting obediently while Marc leashed him up.

“All set?” Casey asked.

“Ready and raring to go.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Amanda watched the FI team head into the house—Paul’s house—and her throat tightened. How many times had she and Paul stepped through that door, sometimes toting grocery bags, sometimes laughing and talking, sometimes pulling off each other’s parkas in their haste to make love?

Being back here was surreal, like being plunged into a vivid, bittersweet memory and being forced, by one’s own mind, to relive it.

This was hitting her much harder than she’d expected. After all, she and Paul had been together less than half a year, no matter how intense their relationship had been. Amanda was far from a weak and clingy woman. She’d been on her own since college, and had loved the freedom of her own independence. Meeting Paul had been the last thing she’d expected. Yet it had happened, and, from the moment it did, she’d sensed that her life was about to be changed in a major way.

Losing him had been unbearable, especially after she realized she was carrying his child.

But she’d gotten through it and survived. Her life had gone on.

Except now there was Justin, a precious gift—but one who’d come with a reality she’d never imagined in her worst nightmares. And the unfathomable possibilities were staring her in the face.

So maybe it was the combination of Justin’s precarious health and her postpartum hormones that were making this walk down memory lane so painful.

Or maybe it was because she’d so successfully blocked out the happy times and allowed them to be replaced by grief, anger, hurt and resentment.

Today was going to be one long confrontation with the past. More unnerving than that was the question of what their investigations would uncover. If Paul was alive, what kind of man had he really been? What had he been involved in that he’d kept so well hidden?

Squeezing her eyes shut for one long, aching minute, Amanda picked up her cell phone and snapped back into the real world—the one she’d been battling for almost a month now.

Justin.

She pressed the speed dial number for Sloane Kettering.

Please, God, she prayed, as she did every time she picked up the phone or walked back into the Pediatric BMT unit. Please let him hold on. Please let us find a miracle.

And, for good or for ill, that miracle had to be Paul.

Casey headed up the stone path that led to the cottage. She turned the knob, and, as promised, the door was unlocked.

The place was cozy and charming—one large and one small bedroom, a full bath, a galley kitchen, a little eating area and a family room with a brick fireplace. The back door opened to a wooden deck and a dense cluster of trees. Not exactly woods, but certainly the foliage offered privacy from probing eyes.

Hero immediately went to work, snout to the floor, dragging Marc every which way as he took in all the new and interesting scents. He zigzagged through the house, investigating every inch of his surroundings. Marc let him take the lead. The more comprehensive Hero’s olfactory experience was, the better it would be when Marc made scent pads of anything they found that belonged to Paul. Paul’s scent would be that much more recognizable to Hero, which could be a key factor down the road.

It wouldn’t be the first time Hero had lived up to his name.

“It’s a pretty secluded half acre,” Marc commented a short time later, standing on the deck beside Casey and gazing around. “No houses in back. Set back far enough from the road. And with lines of trees on either side that block the neighbors’ view. Interesting.”

“Very,” Casey agreed. “If someone wanted to stay as inconspicuous as possible, this is a good place to do it.”

Marc nodded, glancing down at Hero, who was sniffing the length of the deck. “It also tilts the scales slightly in favor of Paul Everett being alive. If someone killed him, why do it out in the open, on a road in his car where a passerby could witness it? Why not kill him here, where it’s private, then clean up the mess, toss the body in the trunk of your car and drive it to the ocean to dump it? There’d be no evidence of a murder at all.”

“Unless the murder wasn’t premeditated,” Casey pointed out. “If Paul met someone for an illegal dealing of some kind, it would explain the seclusion of his car’s location. And if that meeting ended violently, the rest of the police’s suggested scenario plays out.”

“True.” Marc frowned. “It just doesn’t feel right. I’m not sure why.”

Casey’s lips curved slightly. “Maybe because it sounds like a low-budget B movie. Besides, I don’t think Paul Everett was an idiot. And only idiots drive out to deserted, sinister places in the middle of the night to meet someone, even for illegal purposes. Paul wasn’t some random drug dealer who hid in alleys to make a drop.”

“That would be the low-budget B movie part,” Marc said, chuckling. “I agree. From all the info Ryan’s given us, Paul Everett was a smart, white-collar businessman.”

“Whose murder is starting to feel more staged by the minute.”

“Casey?” Claire’s voice echoed from inside the empty house.

“Coming.” Casey glanced at Marc. “Keep looking around. Let Hero keep sniffing out all the smells. If you find anything, make a couple of scent pads. I’ll see what’s up with Claire.”

Marc nodded.

Casey went back inside, going straight to where she knew Claire would be—in the master bedroom.

“What are you picking up on?” she asked.

Claire had been standing by the window, staring into the room, her brows knit in puzzlement, her expression shaken. She looked uncharacteristically off balance.

“Contradictions,” she replied. “There are conflicting energies in this room—and throughout this house. Dark and fervent, light and joyous. It’s exhausting to be here. I’d guess Paul Everett felt the same way—like he was being torn in two. The pull is especially strong in this bedroom. He went through some powerful emotional struggles in here.”

“Probably because he and Amanda spent some powerful emotional hours in here.” Casey eyed Claire’s face. “But that’s not what’s got you so weirded out. What is it?”

“Paul. His energy,” Claire said. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. His energy keeps clicking in and out, like a light switch being flipped—on, off, on, off. It’s not just weird. It’s creepy. I don’t understand what it means.”

One of Casey’s brows rose. “You’re not talking about an identical twin scenario, are you?”

“No.” Claire gave a hard shake of her head. “Nothing like that. This is all Paul—here and then gone. Like some binary energy I can’t wrap my mind around.”

Casey pursed her lips. “What can I do to help you get a clearer picture?”

“I’m not sure. As you well know, this isn’t an on-command ability. I either sense it, feel it, or I don’t. And it doesn’t come with an instruction manual.” Claire dragged a frustrated hand through her long blond hair. “The only thing I can suggest is that we bring Amanda in here. She might trigger something stronger, clarify this strange intangible energy. Also, I know that Paul’s personal items are at her apartment, but maybe she has something of his that she carries around, something meaningful to the two of them. This isn’t about just Paul. It’s about him and Amanda as a couple.”

“I’ll get her.” Casey left the house and walked back to the van. Amanda was sitting in the backseat, just as they’d left her. Only her head was bowed and she was openly weeping.

Casey’s gut knotted.

“Amanda?” she said quietly through the slit in the window.

Amanda’s head came up. Her cheeks were wet with tears and her expression was haunted. “I just spoke to Dr. Braeburn. He’s head of the pediatric bone marrow transplant team at Sloane Kettering. Justin’s fever spiked. Not a lot. But enough. Dr. Braeburn isn’t sure whether it’s because the antibiotic isn’t doing its job or because it’s the parainfluenza that’s getting worse. There’s no antibiotic treatment for parainfluenza like there is for CMV. Most people just fight it off. But with Justin’s lack of an immune system, he can’t…”

“Do you need to get back?” Casey asked at once.

Amanda swallowed and shook her head. “No. Dr. Braeburn said that, right now, they’re not making any change in Justin’s antibiotics and there’s no imminent danger. My little guy is still holding his own. He’s a fighter. And Melissa is right by his side. Frankly, the doctor thought it was far more crucial that I continue trying to track down Paul. And, much as my instincts are to rush right back, the truth is I’m not doing Justin any good hovering over him and getting hysterical. I’ve got to help him. I’ve got to find Paul.”

Seeing the determination on Amanda’s face, hearing the firm tone to her voice, Casey got her first real glimpse of the strong woman beneath the grieving mother. Amanda Gleason was nobody’s doormat. She’d do what she had to. And she was ready to face whatever she had to about Paul.

“Can you come inside, please?” Casey opened the door. “Claire thinks it might help her.”

“Of course. That’s what I’m here for.” Wiping the tears off her face, Amanda slid out of the car and preceded Casey to the front door.

Claire was standing in the middle of the master bedroom when they walked in. She glanced up, clearing her expression of anything negative or alarming, and acknowledging Amanda with a compassionate look. “How are you holding up?” she asked.

“Not great. But I’m not the concern here. Justin is. Did you sense anything from your tour of the cottage?”

Claire explained the same thing to Amanda that she had to Casey—omitting the unnerving part and sticking to the conflicting energies she was picking up.

Amanda gave a sad nod. “That doesn’t surprise me. If Paul was wrestling with something ugly or illegal and keeping it from me, it probably was gnawing away at him—that is, if he actually cared about me at all.”

“He did.” That Claire said without hesitation. “One of the positive energies I can pick up on is love. There was genuine emotion here, especially in this bedroom. I can sense intimacy, passion and tenderness. But it’s all tangled up with guilt and a dark, underlying purposefulness. I can’t promise you there was no manipulation involved in Paul’s relationship with you. I can only tell you that he was torn—and that he did care for you.” Claire pointed at the area on the long wall. “What was there?”

“Paul’s bed.”

A nod. “That explains why the emotions I’m picking up on are the strongest there. There’s a raw vulnerability and a clarity there that make it easier for me to connect. There’s no divisiveness—only pained confusion. Paul was definitely battling feelings for you versus other commitments.”

“What commitments?” Amanda asked. “What was he involved in?”

Claire frowned. “I don’t know.” She turned, pointing at the opposite wall. “What used to be there?”

“Paul’s desk. His small file cabinet. His laptop.”

“And intensity. Not emotional. Mental. This is where plans were reviewed, strategies were devised…” A pause. “And phone calls were made. Not on his regular cell. On a separate one. One he kept locked in his desk drawer and used only when he was alone. He was a different man during those calls. He wasn’t the person you knew.” A pause. “He was running. To something, and away from something. Again, that same binary energy. No clear images of the to or the from—or the why. Just flashes of Paul in motion.”

“Paul did run—in the literal sense,” Amanda supplied. “Five miles every morning, no matter what the weather. Here. At my place. No matter where we stayed. Could that be the running you’re envisioning?”

“Sometimes.” Claire was concentrating, hard. “I can see him in his sweats. Panting as he makes his way rhythmically along the beach. Stopping to make a phone call—on that private phone again. He enjoyed his run, but he used it for more than exercise. And the running isn’t just literal. It’s more complex than that.” Claire squeezed her eyes shut, and then gave a frustrated shake of her head. “That’s it. I just can’t pick up on any details.”

Casey was studying the anguished look on Amanda’s face.

“Let’s walk the rest of the house,” she suggested. “We’ll see if Paul inadvertently left something behind—something you didn’t notice when you had his things removed. If we find anything, I’ll make some scent pads for Hero. By now, he’ll have memorized every smell in the cottage. Then we’ll head out to Montauk.” A quizzical glance at Amanda. “If you’re up for it.”

“I’ve got to be up for it.” There was no hesitation in Amanda’s voice. “Any pain I feel over Paul pales in comparison to my pain over Justin. I hired you to find Paul. I don’t plan on being an obstacle in your search. Let’s drive out to the crime scene—now. If Justin can fight, so can I.”




CHAPTER SIX


Patrick Lynch was very good at everything he did—whether it was as a private investigator, a security consultant or as an FBI agent, something he’d done for most of his life.

He’d worked for the Bureau for more than thirty-two years, starting in the days before the New York Field Office had moved to Federal Plaza and, instead, had occupied just several floors in a building on East Sixty-ninth Street and Third Avenue. He’d handled everything from white-collar crime to violent crime. Things had been so different back then—no computers, only shared telephones among the agents, and fewer, less-easily accessible resources.

But one thing hadn’t changed: Patrick worked within the letter of the law—always.

Consequently, he’d never expected to find himself part of a team like Forensic Instincts, whose methods were as different from his own as could be imagined. But events in life, especially the recent kidnapping case that had introduced Patrick to FI, had taught him that sometimes, sometimes, the end really did justify the means.

That didn’t mean he was ready to abandon his principles—only that he was willing to bend them a bit when it became absolutely necessary.

The team considered him to be the seasoned and steadying voice of reason at Forensic Instincts, the guy who played by the book and acted as the anchoring fist on the kite strings of the other team members. Patrick considered himself to be the guy who kept his colleagues out of jail.

But, hell, he respected their talents. And on the flip side, they respected his.

In this new case, Patrick felt totally comfortable with the first assignment Casey had given him. He knew D.C. like the back of his hand and his task was solid. He might not have Hero’s nose, but he was damned good at tracking down people.

He landed at Reagan National around noon and took a cab into D.C.’s Capitol District. Ryan had enlarged the mystery man’s photo on the computer, fine-tuning it as sharply as possible so the man’s image was clear, the background less blurry. The pictures of Amanda and Paul were close-ups and needed only minor tweaks to make their images crisp.

Patrick stood on the corner of Second Street and C Street NE, and glanced around. Just as he recalled. Government buildings, St. Joseph’s Church and throngs of people moving rapidly along. And that was just what was within line of sight. A short walk away there were a couple of coffee shops, a bagel place, a café and a supermarket. Farther on was Stanton Park, and north was Union Square Station.

He had lots of territory to cover. And nothing but a few photos and his gut instincts to go on.

One thing about the Hamptons. It literally shut down in the wintertime. The same applied to Montauk, which was at the far eastern tip of Long Island. Even the avid fishermen, who braved the cool autumn days to cast their lines, were long gone by December.

Although cars drove by it year-round, Lake Montauk was deserted when the team arrived. A stiff breeze had kicked up, reminding them all that it was nearly Christmas-time. And the chill in the air was accentuated by the proximity of the water.

“Here. Stop here,” Amanda told Casey as they rounded a bend on West Lake Drive.

Casey braked, bringing the van to a halt. “You’re sure?” she asked quietly.

Amanda scanned the lake before her gaze shifted back to the road. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll never forget this spot.” She swallowed hard, her face sheet-white. “Let’s get this over with.” She turned the door handle and stepped out of the van.

Casey and Marc exchanged quick glances.

“It’s the right spot.” Claire answered their unspoken question from the backseat. “There’s a dark aura of violence here. Something ugly happened within yards of where we are.” She opened her own door, brows drawn together as she stepped out. “The feeling is strong. And equally as complex as what I was feeling in Paul Everett’s house. So many conflicting emotions coming at me all at once.” She stayed where she was, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to zero in on something concrete.

“Do what you need to do. Marc, you and Hero do your thing, as well. I don’t want to leave Amanda alone.” Casey had already turned off the car and was out and moving. “This has got to be the most torturous part of her day. We’ve got to tread carefully in our questions and the depth of our interrogation.”

“Yes. We do,” Claire agreed.

Marc nodded, getting out and going around back to leash up Hero.

Amanda had walked a short distance away, then stopped, wrapping her arms around herself in an instinctive act of self-protection. She bowed her head, staring at the road. But Casey could tell that she wasn’t really seeing it. She was seeing Paul’s car, the driver’s seat covered in blood, and the nightmarish hour that had followed.

“Hey.” Casey came up behind Amanda, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling right now. I’m sorry you have to go through this.”

“So am I. But it has to be done.” Amanda’s chin came up as she steeled herself. “It’s an odd combination of emotions. Some of it’s cutting pain. Some of it’s anger and resentment. Obviously, that’s justified if Paul’s still alive. But even if he’s dead—the feelings are the same. If someone drove all the way out here just to kill him, there had to be reasons for it. And Paul clearly agreed to the meeting. So how could he have not played some part in getting himself killed? He had to be involved in something illegal. I loved him, but I guess I never knew him. And Justin…” She drew a slow, shaky breath. “I realize Paul had no idea I was pregnant. Still, I blame him for not being here when Justin needs him. I guess that’s irrational.”

“No, it’s human.” Casey’s reply was filled with conviction. “Paul’s death was a life crisis. Justin’s illness is a bigger one. Your emotions might be all over the place, but every one of them is justified. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“Thanks.” Amanda glanced behind her as the sound of approaching footsteps announced Claire’s arrival.

“Do you need more time alone?” Claire asked, scanning the area. She gazed past the tree-lined street, down to the water. The lake was rough, the waves keeping pace with the wind, slapping the sand with the impact that announced winter’s impending arrival.

Amanda shook her head. “I need resolution.”

“Then let’s get it.” Casey gestured around. “Describe everything you remember in the order it happened.”

“I got a call from the police reporting that they had found Paul’s car and where. They asked me to meet them. I raced out here like a lunatic.” Amanda’s tone was flat, as if she were replaying a scene she’d long since memorized. “I knew the car was Paul’s. I saw the license plate as I drove up. And I saw a few personal things—his sunglasses case, the peppermint candies he kept in his cup holder and the suction-cup heart I’d given him was stuck on his dashboard.”

“So you identified the car to the police.”

“Yes.”

“A Mercedes SL63 AMG convertible,” Casey stated. “That’s quite a car.”

“Paul was a successful real-estate developer. That much, at least, he told me. Then again, I guess he couldn’t lie when he was driving a hundred-thousand-dollar car.”

“True.” Casey refrained from making a judgmental comment. “Real-estate development can be very lucrative, if the developer is smart and lucky. So let’s skip that part. Go on.”

“The door to the driver’s side was wide-open. There was blood all over the seat and on the windshield.”

“How much blood?”

“Enough to convince the cops that Paul was dead. It was written all over their faces.”

“According to the police report, they found tracks leading from the car. Is that why they wrote off the lake as a potential place for the body to have been dumped?”

A nod. “They did drag the lake. But the bloody tracks were pretty convincing. They headed north, up the west side of the lake toward Gosman’s Dock. The theory was that Paul had been dragged to another car and driven up to Gosman’s Dock, where he was dumped into the water.”

“That’s quite a supposition. I get the other car part. But what convinced them he was dumped into the water?”

“The proximity of Gosman’s Dock. The fact that there’s an open inlet between the jetties there that leads from Block Island Sound out to the ocean. The fact that high tide last April occurred in the middle of the night, which would make it possible for the body to be carried away by the tide… to the ocean—” Amanda’s voice quavered “—and the sharks. The fact that the killer chose Lake Montauk for the meeting. And, most of all, the fact that there was no body.”

“All compelling evidence. Still, a lot of supposition. They didn’t investigate further?”

Amanda sighed. “They did. But most of the work fell to the Coast Guard. No body turned up. Not in the ocean or anywhere else. Meanwhile, there was no tangible proof that Paul was alive or that he was dead. The amount of blood on the car seat spoke volumes, but there were no suspects, no motive and no body. After a few weeks, maybe a month, there was no way the cops could justify pouring any more resources into the search. So that was it.”

“What about you?” Claire asked, tucking a strand of pale blowing hair behind her ear. “What did your gut instincts tell you?”

A shrug. “My instincts? They were clouded by my emotions. I’m not even sure I knew Paul at all. So how could I trust myself?”

At that moment, Marc and Hero made their way over. Hero circled the section of road right around the women, then sat down and gazed directly at them. He emphasized his point with a bark.

“You’re right about the spot where this happened,” Marc noted. “I found an old T-shirt and a bath towel back at the cottage. I made some scent pads and let Hero sniff them. He’s picking up the same smells here. I’m sure dozens of people have been by this spot since, but Paul was definitely here at some point.” Marc stroked Hero’s head and gave him a treat. “Unfortunately, that gives us nothing we didn’t already have—except confirmation that Hero is finely tuned to Paul’s scent. Which is a huge plus. It could be significant when we need it.”

Casey nodded her agreement. Then she turned to gaze quizzically at Claire. “Anything?”

Claire was still looking around. A subtle but odd expression—different from the one she’d displayed earlier—flickered across her face. This expression was so fleeting that no one but Casey would notice. But Casey did notice. She also noticed that whatever it signified was, evidently, not something Claire wanted to explain.

Instead, Claire spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “There’s way too much energy coming at me to pinpoint something exact. So many people have been here, which means an onslaught of sensitizers. Even violence, which is a powerful force, isn’t enough to crystallize into something tangible. I got nothing off Paul’s towel and T-shirt. Maybe if I could hold one of the personal items Amanda described it would make a difference. But as things stand…”

“I have the suction-cup heart at my place,” Amanda interrupted. “It’s one of the things I kept. Foolish sentimental value, I guess.”

“Maybe important sentimental value,” Casey amended. “I’ve seen Claire get something off a personal object more readily when she’s actually been in a place where that object mattered.”

“That’s sometimes true,” Claire acknowledged. “It’s far from a guarantee. But now that I’ve stood at the crime scene, I need to hold that memento. If it’s something Paul had a strong attachment to, I might sense something. Might,” she stressed. She glanced down toward the lake, and that recent odd expression reappeared, then vanished. Something new was clearly bugging her.

“Can we leave now?” Amanda asked. Her voice and body language were tense, and she looked away from the crime scene, pained by the memories, compelled by something stronger. She looked at her watch. “It’s getting late. I don’t want to leave Justin any longer than is absolutely necessary. And we still have to drive back to Westhampton Beach and go through my apartment.”

“Okay.” Casey had a lot more to ask, wanting to urge Amanda to recall while she stood on the spot where she’d learned of Paul’s alleged death. But the woman had had enough. And the visit to her apartment was imperative. So they had to go—for now.

The ring tone on Casey’s BlackBerry sounded. She pulled it out and glanced at the caller ID.

Ryan.

“You go on ahead,” Casey told the group. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

She waited, watching as they walked away. Instinctively, Amanda positioned herself beside Marc. There was no doubt that she found comfort in his presence. It could be because he was the first team member she’d connected with, and the one who’d listened to her heartbreaking situation and agreed to take on her case. Then again, Marc had that same reassuring effect on everyone—except the offenders he went after. They shook in their boots when he approached with that killer look in his eyes and that lethal Navy SEAL presence.

Casey’s BlackBerry continued to ring. She was about to answer it when she saw Claire pause, her chin up as her troubled stare scanned the periphery of the lake. A moment later, she reluctantly turned away and followed Marc, Amanda and Hero back to the van.

Making a mental note to question her when they were alone, Casey put her BlackBerry to her ear. “Hey,” she greeted Ryan. “Do you have something for me?”

“Don’t I always?”

A hint of a smile tugged at Casey’s lips. There was nothing like Ryan’s cockiness to add some levity to a tense situation. “Yes, wise-ass. What’s up?”

“A lot. Let’s start with the project Paul Everett was involved in when he vanished—building that mega luxury hotel. Apparently someone bought the land and took over the project a month or so after Paul’s disappearance.”

“A colleague of his?”

“Nope. A developer who paid an arm and a leg for the land and the construction plans. I can’t find a single connection between the two men—except for their insight into how awesome a concept this is. And, believe me, I dug. Deep.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Casey replied. “Too bad. It would be a huge lead if there was some link between the developers.”

“Tell me about it. But that’s a dead end. Anyway, the Shinnecock Indians had just finished building the casino on land adjacent to their Hamptons reservation. It was being advertised big-time, and business was booming. Long before that, the local inns had waiting lists a mile long. Now there’s not enough room to accommodate all the additional patrons who want to shop and gamble at the casino.”

“So a luxury hotel on Shinnecock Bay would be a major windfall for the developer.” Casey stated the obvious. “We already knew that.”

“We also knew what a perfect spot for the hotel Paul had picked. He bought that run-of-the-mill wharf and marina for a steal. The fishing industry is hurting. The old-timer who owned the property was thrilled to unload the place—along with the fifty acres of undeveloped land that came with it. It was a gold mine, right down to the ready-made port. No one was being cut out. Any fishermen who still wanted to dock there were welcome. But they were no longer the priority. The plan was to expand the wharf and the docks, bulldoze the wooded land and tear down the shack of an office Paul was using to make way for the hotel. A dredging company would then do their thing—dig a deeper trench on the ocean floor and widen the channel so that large passenger ferries and private yachts could pass through. The ferry service would travel from Manhattan to Shinnecock Bay, along with hundreds of tourists.”

“They could reach their hotel in a fraction of the time it would take to battle the highways by car.” Casey considered the ramifications of that. “We’re talking about a massive undertaking. Paul would have needed all kinds of permits, cooperation from the town of Southampton, and the right construction companies.”

“Yup, although we already knew that. Here’s something we didn’t know. Paul was still working on the permits and the town’s cooperation. But as for the construction companies, he was already lining them up at the time when he either took off or died. All of them are legitimate. Most of them jumped at the chance to be part of this moneymaker. Except for one holdback—the dredging company. Because of the company’s strong rep, Paul was still working on them for a commitment. Still, it was an interesting choice of companies, as it turns out. Way too coincidental.”

There was that ta-da note in Ryan’s voice again. Whatever he was going to say next was going to be a biggie.

Casey waited expectantly.

“Fenton Dredging. Name ring a bell?”

“Fenton. Lyle Fenton?” Casey asked in surprise.

“None other. Major business tycoon who owns a pretty substantial empire. The dredging company’s just one arm of it. Plus, as I mentioned before, he’s also on the Southampton Board of Trustees. And, most significant of all, he’s Amanda Gleason’s uncle. His spot on the Board of Trustees didn’t seem relevant before. It sure as hell does now.”

Casey pursed her lips. “No way that’s a coincidence. When did Fenton and Paul start doing business together?”

“They didn’t. Not until Paul started pressing Fenton to take the dredging job. Fenton was holding back. I don’t know why. It sure as hell wasn’t due to a low margin. He had to know he’d make a killing from this deal.”

“You think that’s who Paul was paying off?”

“Could be. On the other hand, Fenton’s a pretty prominent guy. And a rich one. Would he risk exposure just for some drop-in-the-bucket payoffs? Sounds like a dumb idea to me.”

“I agree. So let’s take another approach. If Paul needed Fenton’s cooperation, maybe that’s why he made it his business to meet and get close to Amanda. Maybe he was hoping that a relationship with her would tip the scales in his favor.”

“Now that makes sense.”

Casey dragged a hand through her hair, which was whipping around from the wind. “Let’s get back to the guy who took over Paul’s project. Who is he and what’s his deal?”

“His name’s John Morano. He’s a well-established real-estate developer with even more resources than Paul. He got wind of the opportunity Paul’s death had opened up and he jumped on it, purchasing the property with a preemptive offer to Everett’s estate.”

“And is he moving ahead with the same contractors as Paul?”

“Seems like it. The important thing is, Fenton’s still a holdout. I don’t know what the deal is with this guy, but he has some kind of agenda. Cash, power, who knows? But he wants something to agree to do the job.”

“Damn.” Casey glanced at the van, where Amanda was seated in the rear, her posture stiff at she anxiously studied her watch. “We need more time out here. We have to talk to Morano, interview Fenton and talk to the other contractors Paul was dealing with. Not to mention we haven’t visited any of the places where Amanda and Paul hung out together, nor have we questioned Paul’s neighbors and poker buddies. But right now we don’t have time for any of it. Amanda’s jumping out of her skin. She called the hospital, and the baby’s temperature is up. We’re lucky she agreed to stop at her apartment before heading back to the city.”

“Poor kid. So what do you want to do?”

“Leave Marc behind to work his magic. I’ll bring Hero home with us. He’ll have completed his job out here. So will Claire.”

“Hero? Yes. Claire? Iffy. Paul might have left some boxers there for her to commune with.”

“Ryan.” There was a cut-it-out note in Casey’s voice.

“Okay, okay.” The clicking sound meant that Ryan was back on his keyboard. “I’ll get all the names and addresses I can. I’ll text them to Marc. If anyone can get maximum info in minimum time, it’s him. I’ll check into Fenton’s schedule. He shoots back and forth from the Hamptons to Manhattan.” A pause. “Interesting. He’s meeting with Congressman Mercer in D.C. tomorrow morning.”

Casey didn’t even question how Ryan had tapped into Fenton’s schedule so quickly. “Perfect. That’s who we originally thought was Paul’s target to get the support he needed. Now we have both men in the same place at the same time. Find out where Mercer likes to eat lunch.”

“Likes to eat lunch? I’ll find out where they’re eating lunch and what time.”

“Of course you will.” Casey smiled. “After that, text Patrick. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone and give Marc more breathing room to talk to the rest of the people on the list. I don’t want him gone for more than another day. I need him home, and so does Amanda. Of the whole team, she leans on him the most.”

“I know. And he’ll get to see every one of the names I send any way he has to.”

No elaboration was necessary. They both knew what that meant.

“Let me get back to the van,” Casey said. “Text me whatever I need to know. Send the rest directly to Patrick and Marc. The fact that the baby’s fever is up means we have less time and more pressure.”

“On it, boss.”




CHAPTER SEVEN


It took Patrick all afternoon questioning people to get a bite, and even that bite was only a nibble.

It was during his third trip to the coffee shop, purposely planned to coincide with the arrival of the pre-din-ner shift. That’s when the strategic move paid off. One of the waitresses—a buxom, middle-aged woman named Evelyn—thought she recognized Paul from the photo of him and Amanda. She wasn’t sure. But if it was him, he came in mornings at around 7:30 a.m. for a roll and coffee—possibly every day, but definitely on the mornings she worked the early shift.

If Patrick wanted to follow up on that lead, he’d have to spend the night in D.C.

Then again, there wasn’t any choice—not unless he was desperately needed at home base.

He was just about to call Casey when his cell rang. It was Ryan.

“Hi, Ryan,” he greeted him. “I was just speed dialing Casey. I might have a lead at a local coffee shop, but it would mean waiting till morning to check it out. Do you need me back in the office?”

“Actually, we need you right where you are.” Ryan explained the situation, which was too long and complicated to text. “Fenton’s lunch with the congressman is set for twelve-thirty at the Monocle Restaurant on Capitol Hill,” he concluded. “I made you a reservation under the name of Jake Collins. Some poor lobbyist just had his lunch reservation canceled. No loss. I didn’t like the douche bag’s politics anyway.”

“Looks like I’m booked for both breakfast and lunch,” Patrick replied drily.

“So get hungry.”

The FI team made record time from Montauk to Westhampton Beach. It was imperative that they got as much quality time with Amanda as possible before she insisted on getting back to the city and to Justin. They quickly parked, mobilized and took the flight of stairs from the street level up to Amanda’s apartment.

The apartment was an airy one-and-a-half bedroom place with lots of light. It was located directly over one of the stores that lined Main Street in Westhampton Beach. That meant tons of street noise, especially over the summer. On the other hand, that’s what made the rent affordable. And Amanda was one of those lucky people who could block out the world when she was working. So her photojournalism career didn’t suffer. Her sleep, on the other hand, did, particularly if she wanted to press the snooze button and catch some extra shut-eye. But Amanda was a night owl and new motherhood didn’t exactly lend itself to sleeping in.

All in all, it was an ideal arrangement for her, keeping her close to her work projects and to the water, where she did her best thinking. And the small den, which counted as the half bedroom, had been converted to an adorable little nursery—a nursery that, sadly, had been occupied for just a few short weeks. Now it seemed oddly hollow, despite the animal-babies wallpaper and linen, the matching mobile over the crib and the flowing primary-colored accents that decorated the room.

Amanda turned away from the nursery as quickly as possible, barely even crossing the threshold. Her pain was a palpable entity that all four of them—including Hero—picked up on. He made a small whining noise, ceasing only on Marc’s quiet command.

“This is home,” Amanda concluded with a wave of her arm. She paused, following the others as Claire wandered back into the master bedroom.

“Paul’s presence is strong here,” Claire commented. “Even though he spent less time here than in his cottage. My guess is that this is where he felt most comfortable, most able to be himself.”

“Which self?” Amanda asked in a bitter tone.

“The self that loved you.” Claire placed a gentle hand on Amanda’s arm. “May I see those personal items we talked about?”

“Of course. I’ll get them.” Amanda hurried down the hall to the coat closet in the foyer. She stood on tiptoe, rummaging around in the back of the top shelf.

Casey wasn’t surprised by the location of Paul’s things. Amanda had obviously distanced herself and her intimate, personal space with the impersonal, across-the-apartment placement of the coat closet. It was another way to push away Paul’s memory and to sever her emotional ties to him as best she could.

Meanwhile, Casey used these few minutes wisely, since they were the first ones she’d had alone with her team since Ryan’s call. “Marc, I need you to stay out here another day. I’ll brief you while Amanda’s with Claire. Hero will come home with us.”

Marc nodded, accepting Casey’s request without questions. He’d reserve those for later, when time permitted.

Casey then turned to Claire. “What was gnawing at you when we were at Lake Montauk?” she asked bluntly. “You stopped in your tracks and looked around, not once, but a couple of times. What were you sensing?”

Claire frowned. “Danger. And not past danger, imminent danger. It was very disturbing. But it was distinct. It was out there somewhere—somewhere close by.” She paused, her brow furrowed. “I think we were being watched.”

“Watched,” Casey repeated. “By whom?”

“I don’t know. But whoever it was—As I said, there’s danger.”

“Then I’m glad I brought my gun,” Marc said calmly. “No one’s getting near Amanda. Or us,” he added. He looked at Casey. “You sure you want me to stay behind? It might be better if I went with you.”

Casey gave a hint of a smile. “Thanks, Mr. Bodyguard, but we’ll be fine. We’re not going to say a word about this to Amanda. No need to alarm her. And I have my Glock with me, too.”

Marc arched a brow. “You’re a ball-breaker, Casey, but you’re also five foot four and petite, not to mention untrained in hand-to-hand combat. If someone is following us, I’m a lot more qualified to do significant bodily harm and to scare the shit out of them.”

“I’ll have to take that chance. I need your skills out here.”

At that moment, Amanda returned from the hall, the handles of a small, somewhat crumpled shopping bag in her hand.

“Here they are.” She extended the bag to Claire.

Claire took it and sank down on the edge of the bed as she removed the items one by one. First, the sunglasses case, then the unwrapped peppermint candies, and finally the suction-cup heart. She lingered over each item, starting with the eyeglasses case.

“Blood,” she murmured. “The image of a car seat saturated with blood is strong. This eyeglasses case must have been near the driver’s seat.”

“It was,” Amanda confirmed.

Claire’s expression intensified. “I keep getting the same conflicting vibes. Darkness and light. Resolve and hesitation. And pain. Not just physical pain, emotional pain. Regret—and yet, purpose. It’s like Paul was perpetually torn in two about who he was and who he wanted to be. His energy… It turns on, it turns off. In surges.” Claire pressed her fingers to her temples. “The impact is powerful enough to make my head ache.”

“Do you know how he was killed or hurt?” Amanda asked, visibly unsure if she wanted to hear the answer.

Claire shook her head. “There was a struggle. Many struggles. I’m not getting any clear images. Just flashes and sensations. I can’t get a grasp on any of them. They just keep slipping through my fingers.” She picked up two of the peppermint candies and rubbed the cellophane between her fingers. “Nothing. Paul didn’t touch these that day.”

“Not exactly a shocker,” Marc commented drily. “People fighting for their lives—or faking their own deaths—don’t generally stop to freshen their breath.”

Claire didn’t laugh. She was too busy holding the suction-cup heart, moving her hands over it. “You’re right about the sentimental value in this, Amanda. I’m feeling deep emotional attachment.” A pause. “This was the last thing Paul looked at. Then he was gone.”

“Gone, dead? Or gone, gone? Did he die? Was he dragged to another car? Did he just walk away and never look back?”

Claire shut her eyes tightly, concentrating as hard as she could as she clutched the plastic heart.

“A black car,” she murmured. “Not Paul’s. But he was in it. I don’t know if he was dragged. He’s crumpled on the floor in the backseat. I’m not picking up life—or death. Just urgency from whoever’s driving the car.” Claire gave a sigh of frustration. “It’s like there’s a filter separating me from the events, from the feelings. A plan is in motion. I don’t know what, why or how. And I can’t zero in on any vibes from Paul. They just keep disappearing. The harder I try, the more nonexistent they become.”

“Does that mean he’s dead?”

“No.” Claire was determined to protect Amanda from the worst-case scenario, since she herself was swimming in unchartered waters. “It means that, for whatever reason, I’m not connecting. That doesn’t always imply death. It could imply secrecy, or just an unlucky coincidence. I can’t control what I sense. And that doesn’t always work in our favor.”

“I see.” Amanda’s shoulders sagged. “What else can I do to help you get that connection?”

“Right now, nothing.” Claire released the heart. A troubled look flickered in her eyes. “You should get back to the hospital,” she said.

Amanda’s expression was one of sheer panic. “Why? Is Justin…?”

“He’s the same. Nothing drastic has happened,” Claire reassured her quickly. “I just feel as if it’s time for you to be with him. He’s fussier since the fever spiked. He’ll be soothed when you’re holding him. Most of all, so will you. We’ve reached a place where your anxiety is escalating. It’s to the point where it’s the strongest aura I feel. Soon it will block out all the other energies.”

Claire rose, placing all the objects back in the shopping bag. “Let me take these three mementos back to the city with us. Let me handle them when I’m alone.”

“I thought this process works better if you’re in an environment where Paul spent his time.”

“That’s usually true. But sometimes it’s the other way around. Sometimes when I’m in the quiet of my own space without interfering energies, I can focus only on the object I’m holding.” And I can try to make sense of this binary energy, she added silently.

“Okay.” Amanda dragged both hands through her hair. She was visibly coming apart at the seams. Claire’s assessment of her was accurate. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “We have so many places I didn’t have the chance to take you. Places where Paul and I used to go.”

“We can come back,” Claire replied. “But this is enough for one day.”

“Amanda, I’ll be staying out here for another day.” Marc spoke up in that deep, calming voice of his. “I’ve got some old-fashioned detective work to do. Give me a list of the places where you and Paul hung out. I’ll show his picture around. I know the cops already did that, but I might have more luck.”

That panicky expression was back on Amanda’s face. “What kind of detective work? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Nope. I just want to talk to some of Paul’s poker buddies, maybe his neighbors.” Marc purposely omitted whatever bigger purpose Casey was about to share with him. “The passage of time is a funny thing. Sometimes people forget. Other times, they remember. You’d be surprised at how often clarity occurs later rather than sooner.”

A slow nod. “All right.”

“Would it be a problem if I crashed at your place?” Marc asked. “The team and I will need a home base for tonight and for any return trips we might have to make to the Hamptons.”

“Of course. Stay here whenever you need to. I’ll give you my extra key. I won’t be living here until Justin’s with me—healthy and well.” She glanced at her watch for the hundredth time. “It is getting late. And Claire’s right. I’m getting too antsy to concentrate. I want to call Dr. Braeburn and check in. And I want to get back to Justin.” She paused. “If you do need to come back, maybe you can do it without me. It’s just too long a day. I can’t be away from my baby.” Tears glistened on her lashes. “Unless… until we find a donor, I don’t know how much time I have with him. I can’t waste a moment of it.”

“Agreed.” Casey met Claire’s gaze. “Could you go out to the van with Amanda?” she asked. “She can get settled and you can give Hero a quick walk before we head back to the city.”

A hint of a smile touched Amanda’s lips. “In other words, she can babysit me. I’m really okay.”

“I know you are. But someone has to unlock the van for you. As for Hero, I’m sure nature calls. He’s been on duty all day. He needs a walk, some food and some water. Claire can do that while you call the doctor. Marc and I will lock up. I just want to get his and my schedules in sync before we leave.”

The drive back to the city was quiet but tense. Amanda insisted on sitting alone in the backseat where she stared out the window, lost in her own thoughts. Casey just drove, alternately glancing in the rearview mirror to see how Amanda was doing and slanting a sideways look at Claire, who was still showing distinct signs of uneasiness.

The silence in the van was deafening.

Trying to appear casual, Claire shifted in her seat, turning to peer past Amanda and—ostensibly—into the hatch area of the van. “Hero’s exhausted,” she noted. “He’s out for the count.”

She turned back, feeling Casey’s stare, knowing she was well aware that Claire hadn’t just been checking on Hero. She was checking to see if they were being followed.

Casey herself had kept a watchful eye the whole time they’d been driving on the Long Island Expressway. She’d seen nothing and no one suspicious. Obviously, neither had Claire, or she’d be conveying that to Casey right now.

But that didn’t mean Claire was happy. True, she hadn’t spotted any car that stood out as being on their tail. But that didn’t ease the knot in her gut. The LIE was jammed with traffic, as always. And someone was out there. Whether they were near or far, she couldn’t say. Nor could she determine if they were following the FI team or Amanda, and what their intentions were. But, whatever they were, they weren’t good.

The van reached Manhattan, and Casey dropped Amanda off right in front of Sloane Kettering.

“I hope all is well,” she said as Amanda got out of the car. “Keep us posted.”

“I will. We’ll talk later.” Amanda shut the door as she spoke. Her mind was already in the Pediatric Bone Marrow Transplant Unit with Justin.

Casey eased the van away from the curb and back into traffic. “They’re still following us?” she asked Claire as she headed up East Sixty-seventh Street toward Park Avenue, en route to Tribeca and the FI brownstone.

“I don’t know.” Claire spread her hands wide, palms up, in a gesture of sheer uncertainty. “Maybe. Their presence isn’t as strong as it was on the expressway. But they’re out there. I just don’t know where. Or why. Or who. I’m not getting any flashes. Only vibes. Which makes this all the creepier.”

One block behind Casey and Claire, a black sedan cruised slowly by Sloane Kettering. The driver paused, watching intently as Amanda disappeared into the hospital. From the passenger seat, his colleague peered through his binoculars, focusing on the FI van until it disappeared from view.

“They’re gone,” he announced.

The driver nodded. Then he punched a number into his cell phone to make his report.




CHAPTER EIGHT


Despite the brisk weather, Marc took a five-mile, predawn run through Westhampton Beach—down Main Street to Dune Road and around the beautiful beaches of Money-boque Bay. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was overlapping any part of the loop Paul Everett had taken during his own morning runs—the ones that had followed those nights he’d stayed over at Amanda’s place. Had anyone seen him? Talked to him? Or had he made sure to limit himself to private areas where he could ensure himself the solitude he needed for his private phone calls?

There was no way to know. Not unless Marc had the time to locate and interview every Westhampton Beach resident. Which, clearly, he didn’t.

He’d spent the night at Amanda’s vacant Main Street apartment, rather than a motel, out of sheer convenience. At least that was the part of his decision he’d conveyed to Amanda. The truth was, he also wanted to take a private look around their client’s residence. He didn’t plan on violating Amanda’s privacy. He just planned on focusing on the areas of her apartment that he hadn’t had the opportunity to scrutinize in her presence. He wouldn’t open drawers, closets or cabinets—not unless something he saw compelled him to do so.

He didn’t get very far in his endeavors. He’d barely had time to shower, pull on the standard pair of jeans and a T-shirt he brought along as his emergency change of clothes, and guzzle down two bottles of water while sifting through Amanda’s unopened mail in the kitchen, when the doorbell rang. He stayed very still, not moving as he heard the thump at the front door, the retreating footsteps and the roar of a truck as it pulled away from the curb.

A delivery. He didn’t need to look to know that. Nor did he need to guess who the package was from.

With a hint of a grin, Marc crossed over and opened the front door. Bending down, he retrieved the large box from the stoop. He couldn’t wait to see what Ryan had come up with this time.

Taking another belt of water, he carried the box inside and opened it.

A suit, tie and shirt were folded neatly inside. In an envelope was a driver’s license issued to Robert Curtis but bearing Marc’s photo, along with falsified press credentials from Crain’s business magazine in the name of Robert Curtis. Last, there was a note telling Marc to check his email ASAP.

Quickly, Marc laid his business clothes out on the sofa. Then he sat down beside them and opened his laptop, checking his email box as instructed, and seeing the email from Ryan that had arrived seconds ago. The damned genius even knew the exact time when the FedEx truck would show up.

The email was strictly an audio attachment. Marc clicked on it, and Ryan’s voice filled the room.

“Good morning, Mr. Curtis,” he said soberly, in true Mission Impossible style. “Your assignment today, should you choose to accept it, is to interview John Morano and learn all you can about him, his real-estate development project and anything he knows about Paul Everett. If there are any leads to be gotten, you’re the guy to get ‘em. You have an appointment scheduled with Morano at eleven o’clock this morning—right after his 9:00 a.m. breakfast with Lyle Fenton. Oh, as an aside, sorry I let myself into your apartment, but I had to get you proper business attire for a stick-up-the-ass journalist. And while I’m still on the aside, your wardrobe’s boring. Remind me to give you some pointers. Back to business. I’ve included all you need to be a real live news correspondent. This email will erase in ten seconds. Good luck, Robert.”

Marc couldn’t resist watching and counting backward from ten—although he had no doubt that the inevitable would happen. Sure enough, the instant he muttered “zero,” the email vanished from his screen and his in-box.

Another Ryan-ism. The guy might be full of himself, but he had good reason to be.

Putting down his bottle of water, Marc rose. He had his work cut out for him. He glanced at his watch—7:45 a.m. Enough time to do some comprehensive indoor sleuthing, drive over to Paul’s neck of the woods and chat up a few neighbors and maybe a poker buddy or two, and then head out for Morano’s dock.

It was going to be a productive morning. Marc could feel it in his bones.

John Morano walked into the Living Room, the Maidstone Inn’s rustic but upscale restaurant in East Hampton. He peered around, shifting from one foot to the other as he searched the room.

Lyle Fenton was relaxing at a quiet corner table, sipping a cup of coffee and glancing over the menu with the casual ease of someone who’d memorized the whole damned thing.

Morano waved to catch the hostess’s attention, pointing at Fenton to indicate he’d be joining him. When the hostess nodded her understanding, he went straight over to join Fenton.

“Good morning, Lyle.” Morano pulled out his chair and sat down on the bright, primary-colored upholstery.

“Morano.” Lyle acknowledged him with a gesture at the silver urn in the center of the table. “Coffee?”

“Sure.” John poured himself a cup, then accepted the menu the hostess handed him. “I’m glad you could meet me.”

“Your message sounded as if it were important. So I made some time. But not a lot of it. I’m flying to D.C. for lunch.” Lyle turned to the waitress. “I’ll have the smoked salmon and onion omelet,” he instructed, passing back the menu. “And a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.”

“Yes, sir.” She jotted down his order.

John glanced down quickly, scanning the options. “Two eggs over easy, please, with bacon, crisp.” He nodded his thanks at the waitress as he, too, returned the menu to her.

“What’s on your mind?” Lyle asked.

John folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “I need those permits. I need you to get them for me. I can’t start construction without them. And I need you on board once I get them.”

Anger flashed in Lyle’s eyes. “You called me here for that? We’ve had this conversation, Morano. You know my terms.”

“Yeah. I also know my pressure. I’ve been paying these guys off for months now. I’ve only got so much cash to go around. You know who I’m dealing with. They don’t play games. And they sure as hell don’t take MasterCard. I don’t want to wind up like Paul Everett.”

“I’m afraid that’s in your hands. Being on Southampton’s Board of Trustees, I have my own pressures. It’ll take a lot of calling in favors on my part to get those permits approved, and a lot of feather-smoothing to get the necessary people to accept my company’s involvement in this venture. Turning Southampton into a mini-Manhattan is not a popular idea with the locals. I’ve got to resort to all kinds of incentives. And I never do something for nothing. You know that. You also know what I need from you. This project of yours has the potential to bring in big money. I want a major chunk of that.”

“I promised to give you ten percent of the profits over and above the generous amount I’ll be shelling out to your company. I’ll have documents drawn up to that effect.”

“That’s not enough.”

John blinked. “How much do you want?”

“I want an ownership stake. I believe I mentioned that.”

“No, you definitely did not mention that.”

“Then I’m mentioning it now. I’m also mentioning that I want the ability to bring in my own people as investors.”

John’s coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth. “You’re joking.”

Lyle’s gaze was steely. “I never joke about business.”

“What investors? Who are these people?”

“That’s not your problem.”

“Not my problem? How do I know these investors of yours aren’t more dangerous than the thugs I’m dealing with now?”

“You don’t. Life’s a gamble. The way I see it, you could start demolition, ground-breaking and dredging before winter, or you could go broke and probably wind up dead.” A shrug. “Your decision.”

“Great choice.”

“One other reminder while you make your decision. My company only uses union labor. You’ll have to get the business agents on board with this project.”

John frowned. “It’s one thing to be union on your end. I’m not sure I can afford an entire project using union labor.”

“Again, that’s your issue, not mine.”

“I’ll have to straighten that out with the business agents.”

“Indeed you will.” Lyle paused, nodding at the waitress as she placed their breakfasts in front of them.

“Now I’m going to sit back and enjoy my breakfast,” he informed John as soon as they were alone. “I suggest you do the same. No more on this subject. You know where I stand. My demands are not up for negotiation.”

John’s jaw was working. “Fine. You win. Get me my permits.”

“I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers.” Lyle calmly chewed and swallowed a bite of his omelet. “Once they’re signed and locked away in my safe, I’ll get you what you need.”

“How long will that take?”

“Not long.” A tight smile. “My lawyer gets paid by the hour.”

Claire had tossed and turned all night.

Her dreams were plagued by shadowy figures looming close by, threatening… someone. Or someones. Was it the team? Amanda? All of the above? She didn’t know. All she knew was that the vision incited a new dark energy inside her—one that was in addition to the eerie vibe she was already trying to make sense of.

Around dawn she sat up in bed, arranging herself in lotus position—her automatic pose for keeping her mind and her body open to whatever energy surrounded her. She loved the serenity of her East Village studio—her little oasis away from the Manhattan madness outside her window. Everything in her home was the antithesis of the congestion, wild pace and loud noise of the streets below. Her apartment was perfect—one spacious living room/bedroom, a galley kitchen and a bathroom. The large room was done in muted pastels, and consisted mostly of uncluttered space. Claire was a minimalist. It gave her room to breathe and to be. Even her furniture itself was open and airy, all natural wicker with pale aqua and sand-colored cushions. Ditto for her bedding. The walls were that same soft sand color, and they were adorned only by a few of her favorite landscape paintings.

She shut her eyes, letting the morning energy flow through her, hoping it would ease the tight knot in her stomach.

It didn’t. Too much wasn’t right. Something had definitely happened to Paul Everett. But it wasn’t death. It was something that conveyed mixed energies—positive and negative—to no energy at all. Maybe he’d barely escaped death? Maybe he’d briefly experienced it? No. Neither of those things felt right. Nor did they explain the perpetual binary energy surges she was experiencing. If Ryan hadn’t all but stated beyond the shadow of a doubt that the man standing on that street corner was Paul Everett, she’d wonder if perhaps he was in a coma, drifting in and out of consciousness.

But she wasn’t visualizing a hospital setting. Then again, she wasn’t visualizing anything at all. Damn, it was frustrating.

The shadowy figures unnerved her equally as much as the eerie flashes of Paul. Danger factored into this equation. She had to zero in on the how, the why, and, most importantly, the who.

Abruptly, another, more painful energy shot through her—and this energy was as clear as glass.

The baby. Oh, no, the baby.

Amanda was dozing beside Justin’s crib when his whining and restless shifting awakened her. She was on her feet in an instant, and she knew something was wrong the minute she touched him. He was hot. Very hot. And his breathing was raspier than it had been. His tiny chest made a rattling sound each time it rose and fell with a breath.

She raced for the door, nearly running down a nurse who was on her way in.

“Get Dr. Braeburn,” Amanda said frantically. “Justin’s worse. He’s burning up with fever. And his breathing is bad. Please. Get the doctor.”

Not two minutes later, Dr. Braeburn strode into the reverse isolation unit and straight over to Justin’s crib.

He examined him quickly, took his vitals and listened carefully to his chest. “It looks like we’re dealing with a new infection in addition to the others,” he told Amanda, gesturing for the nurse to come in.

“What kind of infection?” Amanda asked in a high, thin voice.

“That’s what we’re going to find out. It could be anything from bacterial sepsis or pneumonia to a fungal infection.” He turned to the nurse, issuing instructions. “I’ll need blood cultures drawn, as well as chest X-rays…” A pause. “Make that a chest CT. We’ll start broad spectrum antibiotics. If I don’t like what I see on the CT, I’ll want a bronchoscopy.” Seeing the terrified look in Amanda’s eyes, he explained. “A bronchoscopy sounds far worse than it is. It’s only a test to check Justin’s lungs. We’ll insert a flexible tube through his nose into his lungs and take some tissue and fluid samples. He won’t feel a thing. He’ll be asleep. We’ll do the procedure in the ICU. Once we know what we’re dealing with, we’ll know how to treat it.”

“You’re already adding more antibiotics. How else would you treat it? What is it you’re looking for?”

“I suspect that Justin has bacterial pneumonia on top of the parainfluenza pneumonia,” Dr. Braeburn replied as gently as he could. “In which case I’m going to put him on a pediatric ventilator to ease his breathing.”

“A ventilator?” All the color drained from Amanda’s face.

“Yes. But it’s likely to be temporary,” Dr. Braeburn hastened to add. “Once we get the infection under control, we might be able to remove the ventilator support.”

“Might.”

“Let’s take this one step at a time, Amanda. First, let’s run the tests, find out what we’re dealing with. Then we can proceed.”




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/andrea-kane/the-line-between-here-and-gone/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.