by Andrea Kane
“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 Moneyboque 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 thi
s 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.