by Andrea Kane
“An unfortunate necessity, Ryan,” Yoda said. “I apologize.”
“No apology necessary, Yoda. You did the right thing. Then again, I programmed you.”
“Again, that’s correct.”
“In any case,” Ryan told Hutch. “My brain is on overload. Time to pump some iron.”
Hutch nodded. Everyone knew what a gym rat Ryan was. Hutch just found it amazing that his full-scale workouts plus his eight hours of sleep a night left him time to be as productive as he was. But the guy managed to do it all, and do it better than any technology pro Hutch had ever seen in action.
“You need my key?” Ryan asked. “You’ll either have to go out for food or get something delivered. I doubt Casey has much in her fridge.”
“Nah. I’d rather sleep. I’ll make up for the lack of food at dinner.” Hutch picked up his overnight bag, yawning as he did. “Oh, and Yoda? I promise to use warm blankets. My body temp will rise in no time.”
“Very good, Hutch.”
Hutch headed for the stairs. “Enjoy your workout,” he called over his shoulder to Ryan. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
* * *
The two men met in a private office. Neither of them was happy.
“Have you seen the video?” The stockier of the two wasted no time on small talk.
“Yeah, I’ve seen it” was the equally terse reply.
“We’ve got a problem.”
“I know. A big one.”
“We need to have that video blocked. We can’t risk him seeing it.”
“That’s no problem. He won’t. But the rest of the world already has. Someone’s going to say something to him. It’s just a matter of time—and probably not a lot of it.”
“Have him isolated,” was the order. “And fast. It’s the only way.”
The second man nodded. “I’ll figure something out and make it happen.”
“Make it happen today.”
* * *
The Starbucks near Republic Airport was crowded just like every other Starbucks Casey had ever been in. She sometimes wondered if the regulars actually lived there with their laptops, having their first cup of Pike Place at 6:00 a.m. and their final decaf latte at closing time, all the while clinging to the brownies and the Wi-Fi until they were forcibly removed from the store. It was even worse now, since it was lunchtime, which meant that there was a line for paninis that spilled out into the street.
Casey scanned the packed café, wondering how she was ever going to find the man they were here to see.
She needn’t have worried. He found them.
Even in the lunchtime crush, Detective Jones had spotted the FI team and was now gesturing them over to the table he’d obviously claimed a long time ago. His venti coffee cup was sitting on the table, half-empty, along with a partially eaten blueberry scone and an official-looking manila folder. Customers were glaring at him and the three extra chairs at his table as they passed by, but he ignored them. And the few patrons who went up to the counter to complain were spoken quietly to, after which they shut their mouths and went away.
Okay, so the staff knew who and what Jones was. And no one wanted to mess with the State Police.
Jones was a middle-aged guy with a lean build and a balding head. He was wearing a white shirt and a staid red tie with dark blue stripes. The BCI were plainclothes detectives, and Jones epitomized the word average.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he began after the introductions had been made and everyone was sitting down. He cast a dubious eye at the long line of patrons. “Did you want some coffee?”
Casey followed his gaze to the line of people snaking from the door to the counter, and she gave a wry grin. “Not unless we want to postpone this meeting for a week. Let’s get down to business. Why did you want to see us?”
Jones interlaced his fingers in front of him. “You’re conducting an investigation into Paul Everett. More specifically, finding Paul Everett. I personally closed that file. So I’d like to know what makes you believe he’s alive. Did you find something we may have missed?”
“I assume this conversation was prompted by the YouTube video?”
“Yes. It’s pretty hard to miss.”
“We didn’t make it or give our consent to have it made,” Casey clarified. “It was all done by our client on her own initiative. We didn’t even know the video existed until after the fact.”
“Why was your contact information withdrawn and replaced by a toll-free number?”
“For privacy and proper handling of phone calls.” It was Marc who answered. “Trust me, Detective, if there were any content issues, we would have demanded the video be pulled—or dropped our client. We’ve done neither. Now that the cat’s out of the bag, we’re just hoping the video brings in more donors to check for possible matches—a long shot, but one that we agreed could at least make Amanda feel like she’s doing something.”
“So my question remains,” Jones said. “Do you believe that Paul Everett is alive?”
“Yes,” Casey stated flatly.
“What proof do you have?”
“We have a photo of a man that our facial recognition software tells us is Everett—a photo that was taken within the past few weeks. We have at least one person who believes she’s seen Everett regularly and recently. And we have strong professional gut instincts that convince us he’s alive.”
“Gut instincts?” Jones’s brows went up. “That hardly constitutes evidence. What are you basing these instincts on?”
“Experience—and me.” Claire spoke up for the first time. “I don’t know how much research you’ve done into the FI team, Detective Jones. But I suspect it was thorough. In which case, you know that I’m an intuitive. And there’s not a doubt in my mind that Paul Everett is alive.”
There was that typical look of skepticism that Claire had learned to expect—and to ignore.
“We’re a private investigative firm, Detective Jones,” Casey reminded him. “You require hard evidence. We don’t. We’re not going to court. We’re trying to find a dying infant’s father.” She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table and folding her hands under her chin in an aggressive stance. “But let me turn the tables. What solid evidence do you have that Paul Everett is dead?”
Jones’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you called and made some police inquiries already. So you have your answers.”
“I do. And everything I heard was speculative, suggesting, but not proving, a no-body homicide. Without a corpse, all you can do is draw a logical conclusion. But not a concrete one.”
That one made Jones visibly uncomfortable. “Is your theory that the man’s been walking around with amnesia for the past eight months? Or that he’s in hiding?”
“Amnesia isn’t really on the table,” Marc replied with the same note of sarcasm in his tone as Jones had. “Other than that, anything is possible. I’m sure you checked out Everett’s background, his business dealings, his potential enemies and his friends and colleagues. There could be dozens of reasons for his disappearance. But, frankly, that’s your problem. Ours is just finding him.”
Jones’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Withholding evidence is a crime, Mr. Devereaux.”
“And discussing our case is unethical, Detective Jones. Casey just told you the only solid evidence we have. If we had more, we’d be sharing it with you. I was an FBI agent. I know the law.”
Casey had to bite back a smile on that one. Marc knew the law, all right. He also knew how to break it.
“We’re the least of your concerns, Detective,” Casey said aloud. “We have no plans of hiding any evidence from you that we stumble upon. But we will keep hunting down Paul Everett. And I believe we’ll find him. In the meantime, you have more pressing problems to contend with. A few
hours ago, Congressman Mercer met with the media and made a personal appeal to find blood donors for our client’s infant son—an appeal that will make the evening news cycle. Once that happens, and once people start putting together the YouTube video and the congressman’s plea, your phone will be ringing off the hook. So I hope you have all your ducks in a row—and a good media person. You’re going to need it.”
Jones’s lips tightened. “Thank you for the advice, Ms. Woods.”
“Anytime.” Casey rose, placing her business card on the table. “Call us if you have any further questions. And we’ll do the same with you.”
* * *
Jones watched Casey, Marc and Claire leave. He waited until they’d walked their bloodhound, then climbed into their van and driven away.
He entered a number on his cell phone and pressed Send.
“It’s Jones,” he said when the call was answered. “Consider this a heads-up. This Forensic Instincts team has skills and smarts. They’re not giving up. And they’re putting the pieces together. I’m doing my part. I’ll beef up my file and run as much interference as you want me to. But I’m telling you now, you don’t have much time.” He paused. “And neither do I.”
* * *
“We’re making a lot of people nervous,” Casey stated as she accelerated onto the highway and headed for home. “Fenton. Mercer. The cops.”
“Do you think Jones’s division is just worrying about covering their asses, or do you think there’s more here?” Marc asked. “Jones could be dirty.”
“Everybody’s beginning to feel dirty,” Claire said in exasperation. “I haven’t had a positive feeling all day—except when the Mercers gave blood.”
“You think Cliff Mercer is a match?”
Claire shugged. “I have no idea. That’s not what I meant. I just meant I had a sense that he was glad to help, even if he wasn’t too happy about the reasons why.”
“What else did you pick up on?”
“A slew of conflicting emotions. When I shook his hand, my palm was actually burning. He was nervous, worried, resigned, caring in an ambiguous way and trapped in a tangled web, partially of his making.” Claire chewed her lip thoughtfully. “There’s no doubt that he’s in Fenton’s pocket, or that he has a personal tie to Fenton. A strong personal tie, which would go along with Ryan’s determination that he’s Fenton’s son. But the real ugliness I picked up on was from Fenton. He’s one cold, single-minded man.”
“Capable of murder?” Marc asked.
Claire blew out a breath. “I can’t answer that. Everyone’s capable of murder. But has he committed one? I don’t know. All I can sense is how guilty he feels, which is not at all. If he committed a crime but feels no regret, there’s less explicit energy for me to pick up on. But negative energy? That’s there in abundance. And, for the record, Hero didn’t like him much, either. He barely glanced at Fenton when he walked over to Mercer in the parking lot. On the other hand, he sniffed Mercer out thoroughly. No negative reaction there. Just a good memorization.”
“I’d have to agree with Claire’s assessment,” Marc said. “Mercer’s smooth. But I don’t see an evil guy. I’m sure he’s way deep into Daddy’s pocket. But that’s not our problem. Paul Everett is our problem. And I just don’t see Mercer having anything to do with his disappearance—at least not directly.”
“Nor do I.” Casey frowned. “But we’re missing something here. I just don’t know what. And without figuring out what that something is, we’re not going to find Paul Everett.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ryan came upstairs the minute he heard the team’s voices in the front hallway.
“Anything?” he asked, squatting down to roughhouse with Hero.
“Yes and no.” Casey filled him in on what happened at the hospital and on the surprise phone call and meeting with Detective Jones.
“We’re worrying the cops.” Ryan rose, a speculative expression on his face. “That’s interesting. Especially since I can’t find a damned thing on Everett that doesn’t make him sound like a Boy Scout—other than those periodic bank withdrawals. Same thing with Morano. But, clearly something exists. So I say we use the little critter to check out Morano’s office. It’s time to figure out what’s going on—who he meets with, what his relationships are with his contractors, and who might be extorting twenty grand from him every six weeks.”
“Ah, Gecko.” Casey grinned. “I was wondering when you might use him.”
“The little critter” as Ryan affectionately dubbed him—or “Gecko” to the rest of the team—was one of Ryan’s most prized robotic creations. It looked a little odd, but what it lacked in appearance, it made up for in versatility and talent.
Gecko had suction-cup-like attachments on his feet and was small enough—not quite the size of a paperback book—and technologically sophisticated enough to walk up walls and inside ductwork. It sported miniature video cameras and microphones, and Ryan could manipulate it in any one of a dozen ways, including around corners.
All he had to do was get access to Morano’s office and plant Gecko in an air duct or drop ceiling, then watch and listen from his laptop.
Breaking into an old, one-story wooden dump would be a piece of cake for Marc. He and Ryan would drive to Morano’s place at night, Ryan would park the van a safe distance away, and Marc would do his thing. After that, they’d have front row seats to Morano, any visitors he might entertain and any phone calls he decided to make.
It was the perfect idea.
“We’ll go late tonight,” Marc said as if reading Ryan’s mind. “Another road trip. I feel like I’m on autopilot to the Hamptons.”
“I’ll drive,” Ryan said. “And we’ll stay over at Amanda’s. That way, we can make one more trip to Morano’s office in the morning. We’ll slap a GPS tracking device under his car. Then we’ll know where he is at all times. The guy’s entire life will be an open book.” Ryan glanced at Casey. “That okay, boss? You’re going to be busy anyway.”
Casey shot him a look. “And you know this how?”
Ryan jerked his thumb upward. “You’ve got a guest crashing on your bed. He got in early and tired. But he promised to be refreshed by dinner. So my guess is you’ll be occupied all night. It’s been how long since the two of you saw each other?”
“Careful, Ryan.” Casey’s tone was firm, but her lips twitched. “Keep heading in this direction and I’ll start spewing what I know about your love life. And it’s a lot more interesting than mine. Not to mention the secret crush you have…”
“Okay, okay,” Ryan interrupted. “My mouth is shut.”
“Now that’s a first,” Claire commented, looking and sounding a bit thrown by Casey’s comment. It had clearly never occurred to her that the team was aware of the whatever-it-was that hovered beneath the sharp banter between her and Ryan. She wasn’t even ready to analyze it herself. “I’ve never seen you at a loss for words.”
“I never am.” Ryan shot her a lazy grin. “I just know when it’s time to talk and when it’s not.”
Claire flushed, quickly changing the subject. “What’s happening at Patrick’s end?”
“He called in a while ago,” Ryan replied, visibly enjoying watching Claire squirm. “He’s seeing what he can do about figuring out who’s following us. Then he’s going home to spend some time with his wife. He’s barely seen her since we took on this case.”
“I think we can all use a few hours off,” Claire said with a meaningful look at Ryan and Marc. “Let’s grab something to eat. Then you two can catch some rest before you head back to the Hamptons, and I can go home and do some yoga. Some of my best insights come to me during that time.”
“We could order in, if you want,” Ryan suggested. “Hero can’t go into restaurants.”
“No. We can’t order in.” Claire’s
tone and look were so pointed this time that Ryan would have had to be dead not to notice them. “Hero’s exhausted from his day. See? He’s already sleeping on his favorite blanket. I doubt he’ll even venture upstairs.”
“Oh. Gotcha.” A quick glance at Casey. “We’ll catch you later.”
Casey was trying hard not to laugh. “For a team of very discreet investigators, you were about as subtle as the Keystone Cops. But thanks. I appreciate the privacy.”
* * *
Hutch had a towel wrapped around his waist and was briskly drying his hair with another when Casey walked into her bedroom.
“Wow,” she said, leaning against the wall. “Is this an early Christmas present?”
He looked up, tossing the towel he was holding aside and giving her that lazy, crooked smile that got to her every time. “It’s just the gift wrap. Wanna see what’s inside?”
“Sure.” She crossed over to him, unknotting the towel from around his waist and letting it drop to the floor. “Very nice,” she murmured, gliding her hands up his chest to wrap her arms around his neck. “You have excellent taste in gifts. How did you know what I wanted?”
“I guessed.” Hutch stopped talking. He lifted Casey up and pressed her flush against him. His mouth crushed down on hers and she wrapped her legs around his waist, kissing him back with the same heated intensity.
They toppled onto the bed, and he had her naked and under him in record time.
It was always the same. The first time was frantic, filled with the built-up sexual tension of being apart for weeks, sometimes months. Long, drawn-out lovemaking would come later, but right now, it was a wild rush for completion.
Casey tried to delay her climax, but she couldn’t. It boiled up inside her the minute Hutch penetrated her body, and by his second thrust, she was crying out, arching to take him deep inside her as her spasms pulsed around him. Hutch didn’t even try to fight the inevitable. He just let go, his fists making deep impressions on the pillow as he poured himself into her, throwing back his head and giving a guttural shout.