by Andrea Kane
“I can’t wait.” Marc grinned, shaking Morano’s hand. “Interviewing you has been a pleasure, John.”
“Thanks. When will the article appear in the magazine?”
“Either next week or the following week’s issue would be my guess,” Marc replied. “Do you have a business card with your contact information on it? I’ll email you the specifics once I know them.”
“Certainly.” Morano fished in his pocket and pulled out a card. “There you go.”
“Excellent.” Marc gathered up his writing materials. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
“You do the same.”
Morano’s smile faded the minute the door shut behind Marc’s retreating figure. He waited until he heard the car drive away. Then he picked up his cell phone and punched in a number.
“We’ve got a problem,” he informed the person at the other end. “And it could mean trouble.”
CHAPTER NINE
Casey spent the morning leaning over Ryan’s shoulder, then following up on anything he produced. Intermittently, she called Amanda to check on the baby’s condition. What she heard didn’t sound good. Neither did Amanda. She sounded as if she were coming apart at the seams. And who could blame her?
The clock inside Casey’s head ticked loudly.
They needed more time. They didn’t have any.
Her lips tight with frustration, Casey paced back over to Ryan, folding her arms across her chest and tapping her toe on the floor.
That did it.
“You know, I don’t work well with people breathing down my neck, boss,” Ryan flat-out stated. If he didn’t speak up, he’d lose his mind. “Not only does it drive me nuts, it also slows me down.”
Exhaling sharply, Casey walked away and began fiddling with one of Ryan’s gadgets. “Sorry. I just hear the sheer panic in Amanda’s voice and I feel helpless. I don’t do helplessness.”
“I hear you. But I’m on the verge of hacking into John Morano’s bank accounts. I want to see if he’s got the same kind of pattern going as Paul Everett did—whopping bank balances, equally whopping withdrawals. I also want to see if he’s paying the same twenty grand at the same six-week time intervals as Paul Everett was. If he is, then it’s a safe bet that the payoffs have to do with the hotel construction. If not, then Everett was in over his head about something else. Either way, we need to know.”
Casey nodded. “We also need to know if his payment methods are the same—cash, rather than bank transfers. To me, that screams organized crime. This isn’t a kidnapping, so it’s not ransom money. And big wheels who extort money do it through anonymous wire transfers to overseas accounts, to places like the Cayman Islands.”
“Yeah, all the data seems to be pointing in that direction.” Ryan’s brows knit in concentration. “Interesting. As hard as it was to break into Everett’s account, it’s harder to break into Morano’s. Anyone less talented than me would never get through.”
Despite her somber mood, Casey’s lips twitched. “You really should work on your self-esteem, Ryan. It sucks that you think so little of yourself.”
A shrug. “Just being honest. You hired me because I’m the best. And I am the best. I’m just wondering if, after Paul Everett had to be dealt with, whoever dealt with him decided to tighten the reins so it would be near impossible to get into John Morano’s… There!” Ryan exclaimed, leaning back and pumping his arms in a “yes-s-s-s” motion. “I’m in.”
“Okay, you win.” Casey was appended to his side again. “You’re a techno-god. I bow to your genius. Now let’s see what you found.”
They both peered at the screen as Ryan scanned through a list of bank entries and withdrawals. “Look.” He pointed at a series of lines. “Same pattern. Same dollar amount. Same time frame. But still ongoing.” Ryan angled his head toward Casey. “Maybe that explains why he’s still with us and Paul Everett is—in whatever capacity—gone. Maybe Amanda’s boyfriend refused to play nice anymore. And that made him a liability rather than an asset—especially if he threatened to report the blackmail to the cops.”
“What would make him do a one-eighty like that?” Casey asked. “First he’s playing ball with the bad guys and then he suddenly stops—why? You can’t tell me that love for Amanda transformed him into another man—not when it meant risking jail time. No real-life relationship is that strong.”
Ryan snorted. “This is me you’re talking to. I don’t deal in romantic crap.”
“Well, something made him stop. Something or someone.” Casey was thoughtful for a moment. “Let’s talk about Lyle Fenton. You said that he was the one holdout in terms of lining up contractors.”
“Yup. That’s true with Everett and it’s still true with Morano. He didn’t sign on with either of them. I don’t know what he wants, but I’d love to ask him. He’s clearly holding out for something.”
“Patrick is playing fly-on-the-wall during Fenton’s lunch with Congressman Mercer today. He’ll see if there’s any tie between them, beyond financial support for his political career. That’s step one toward getting inside Lyle Fenton’s head.” Casey shot Ryan a quizzical look. “You checked Fenton’s itinerary?”
A nod. “His private jet is scheduled to land at Long Island MacArthur Airport in Islip at 5:30 p.m.”
“Islip. So he’s going straight back to the Hamptons, not stopping in Manhattan.”
“Right, or he’d be flying into JFK.”
“Good. Then he’ll be home in the evening. Let’s hear what Patrick has to say. Then I’m giving Amanda a call and asking her to set up a meeting for Marc and me with her uncle—for tonight. She already told him she hired us. Given the urgency of Justin’s condition, there’ll be no question about our timing. Marc’s already out there. I’ll jump in the car and join him.”
Ryan’s brows raised. “So you’re making this all about the baby. I get that. But Fenton was already tested to see if he was a donor match. He wasn’t. So what else is there to ostensibly talk to him about that’s so urgent—unless you plan on telling Amanda the truth about our suspicions and asking for her help in fabricating a reason?”
“No way. I don’t want Amanda knowing a thing about that until and unless it becomes necessary.”
“I didn’t think so. But Fenton’s not stupid.”
“No, he’s not. Neither is Amanda. But you’re coming at this from the wrong angle, Mr. Strategist. Remember, we’re hunting down Justin’s father. And he and Fenton were business associates.”
Abruptly, comprehension lit Ryan’s eyes. “I’m with you now. Smart move. If you come at it from that angle, Fenton will think we’re interviewing him strictly to learn what we can about Paul—not the blackmailed Paul, but the colleague Paul. He’ll think we’re hoping to gain any insights that might lead us in the right direction. Naturally, he’ll think he’s controlling the conversation. The truth is, he won’t even be controlling the reason behind it—that we’re actually checking into him.”
“Bingo. Our real goal will be to figure out why Fenton’s continually holding out on the dredging contract for the new hotel—and if he has any connection to the payoffs that Paul made, and John Morano is still making.”
“That should be fun to accomplish.”
A hint of a smile curved Casey’s lips. “Have faith. I can read anyone, and Marc can get information out of people they didn’t even realize they had, much less spilled. You’ve got a double-dose of the best. How can we possibly fail?”
“You really should work on your self-esteem, Casey,” Ryan parroted her words. “It sucks that you think so little of yourself. Marc, too, for that matter.”
“Yeah.” Casey grinned. “It’s a team problem. Maybe it’s contagious.”
“Well, you know where the buck stops,” Ryan clarified cheerfully.
“With the person who puts those bucks in your pocket.” Casey arched a brow.
“Ouch.” Ryan pretended to wince. “Okay, you win. You’re the boss. And the boss is always right.”
* * *
Patrick was not in a good mood.
After all his years with the Bureau, working cases that took aeons before—and if—they were solved, he still hated investing his time and coming up empty. And that’s exactly what had happened this morning.
He’d gone to that damned diner at 6:30 a.m., just in case the guy the waitress had tentatively identified as Paul Everett came in earlier than his customary seven-thirty.
Not only didn’t he come in early, he didn’t come in at all.
Great. With Patrick’s luck, the guy had scheduled his annual physical checkup for this morning.
Dragging breakfast out as long as possible, Patrick had ordered poached eggs—which took a while to make—and toast, along with three cups of coffee, lingering over each bite and each damned sip, until he was flying on caffeine. Still nothing. Finally, he’d given the waitress his name and cell phone number, plus a fifty-dollar tip, and asked her to call him ASAP if the guy in question dropped in—and not to mention to the guy that Patrick was looking for him. The unspoken message was that, should she be successful, there was more where that came from. She’d quickly agreed, dollar signs gleaming in her eyes.
From there, Patrick had shown Paul Everett’s picture around to the morning commuters. Zilch. At that point, he’d had enough time only to work off his breakfast at the hotel gym, shower and get ready for lunch. Most people would relish this kind of workday. Lots of eating. Not lots of demanding tasks. Patrick didn’t. If something didn’t materialize at lunch, he was going to punch someone.
* * *
He strode under the green-canopied entrance of the Monocle Restaurant on Capitol Hill at twelve-twenty. The restaurant was pure class, but it wasn’t huge. So he could easily scan the dining room from the waiting area. No sign of the congressman or Fenton. Which meant he’d beaten them there. Good. He wanted to be settled and inconspicuous by the time his quarry arrived.
He didn’t have long to wait.
He’d just opened his iPad in front of him and was presumably hard at work on something when Mercer walked in, closely followed by Fenton. The two men shook hands vigorously in greeting.
Patrick recognized them from the photos Ryan had given him, although he would have recognized them anyway. Mercer had been interviewed on several news shows, and Fenton’s picture had appeared in the business section of a couple of New York newspapers.
Neither man was imposing in stature, yet each of them had his individual type of commanding presence. Mercer was much younger, probably in his mid-forties, and he was an avid sportsman. So he was muscular and fit. Although Fenton looked pretty damned good for a man in his sixties. Hours of golf would do that for you. He was just stockier than Mercer, with a little more flesh on him. Still, he had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, and a tan that looked year-round. Yup. Money and power definitely agreed with him. And Mercer probably couldn’t allow himself the luxury of a December tan. His constituents might think he was slacking off, spending time at the tanning salon.
Patrick cut his evaluation short as the waiter handed him his menu and filled up his water glass. Simultaneously, the maître d’ was showing Mercer and Fenton to their table. Patrick kept his head down, his eyes on the screen of his iPad. He murmured a “thanks” to the waiter and shifted his attention to the menu, scanning it and waiting until the two men had passed by. He almost had to laugh aloud when he saw where they were being seated—at the table diagonally to the right of his. Ryan was a friggin’ magician.
Well, it was time for Patrick to call on an enviable skill of his own. He had a rare ability to totally shut out all surrounding noise and activity, and focus just on the one thing that interested him—whether it was a conversation, an interesting article on the internet or a football game. When he was singularly—and intentionally—focused like that, there could be an earthquake around him and he wouldn’t notice.
He called this ability a gift. His wife called it something else—especially when she’d asked him the same question five times and he still hadn’t answered her.
Before he could start his tune-in process, the waiter reappeared at his side. “What can I get you, sir?”
“An Angus burger, extra peppers.” Quick and easy.
“How would you like that cooked?”
“Medium.”
“And to drink?”
Patrick indicated his glass. “Water’s fine for now. Maybe coffee later.” He handed over his menu. “Thanks.”
“Very good, sir.” The waiter was well trained. He sensed when a patron wanted his or her space. So he didn’t dawdle. He simply took the menu and left to place the order.
From his ideal seating location, Patrick had no trouble following Fenton and Mercer’s conversation. And, clearly, he hadn’t missed very much, because the two men were still exchanging niceties.
“You look great, Cliff,” Fenton said, settling himself in his chair. “A little tired maybe. But that’ll be remedied soon enough. Congress is almost out of session and you’ll be free to come home and enjoy the holidays with your family. How is Mary Jane?”
“She’s great.” Mercer’s smile was practiced, whether from force of habit or because Fenton made him uncomfortable, Patrick wasn’t sure. “Looking forward to having me home.” A chuckle. “Looking more forward to having the kids home. Finals are over next week, and the twins will be flying in right afterward.”
Fenton’s brows drew together as he searched his memory. “Tom’s at Caltech, right?”
A nod. “And Lisa’s at Northwestern. I can’t believe they’re finished with the first semester of their freshman year. To me, it flew by. To Mary Jane, it lasted an eternity. I actually think she’s looking forward to doing laundry—mass quantities of it. Lord only knows what those two are bringing home with them.”
“Straight As, I’d imagine,” Fenton commented.
“They’re doing well.” Mercer sounded like a proud father. “Most of all, they’re enjoying what they’ll later learn is the happiest stage of life.”
“They’re successful. They take after their father. Good genes clearly go a long way. You’re doing a fine job. I’m very impressed.”
“I appreciate that.” Mercer cleared his throat. “Your support during the campaign made all the difference. But I think you know that.”
“I do.” Fenton paused as the waiter approached their table, holding up his palm. “I don’t need a menu. I’ll have the crab cakes and a glass of sauvignon blanc.” He glanced at Mercer. “Do you know what you want?”
“I do indeed.” Mercer gave the waiter a pleasant smile. “I’ll have a chicken club and some sparkling water. I’ve got meetings all afternoon,” he explained to Fenton. “So no wine for me.”
“Understood.”
There was a moment of awkward silence at their table after the waiter left, which seemed to be on Mercer’s part. Clearly, there was an elephant in the room. Patrick just didn’t know what it was, or if Mercer was going to address it.
Leaning forward, Patrick propped his iPad in the upright position. He fired up the FaceTime app and switched to the back camera to record Fenton and Mercer in action. Simultaneously, he listened intently, watching their expressions over the top of the iPad.
Unfortunately, the waiter chose that exact minute to deliver his lunch. It wasn’t the poor guy’s fault that Patrick was on a mission that had nothing to do with food. Nevertheless, the interruption was a pain in the ass.
“Your lunch, sir,” the waiter announced.
“Thanks.” Patrick accepted his Angus burger with a courteous nod at the waiter, hoping the guy wasn’t going to hang around. Once again picking up on his customer’s vibes, the waiter took his cue. He paused only long enough to tell Patrick to let him know if he needed anything else, then turned and left.
“Any news about those maritime contracts?” Fenton was asking in a low tone.
Ah.
Business. Finally.
Patrick picked up his burger one-handed and took a bite, watching Mercer’s reaction.
To his surprise, the congressman appeared almost relieved at Fenton’s choice of subjects. Whatever it was that Mercer was reluctant to address, this clearly wasn’t it.
“No worries on that score,” he assured Fenton. “I already spoke to the Army Corp of Engineers. Your company will get its government maritime contracts.”
“Excellent.” Fenton looked pleased, but not surprised. Obviously, he was accustomed to Mercer coming through for him. “I’m glad to hear it. When will it be official?”
“Soon. But, trust me, you can relax. Fenton Dredging’s got a strong reputation and a wide regional presence. It didn’t take any arm-twisting to get my recommendation unanimously approved.”
Okay, so Fenton was seeking U.S. government maritime contracts. Made sense. His company was a maritime construction company, and landing government contracts would mean big money—money that Mercer was helping him achieve. One hand washing the other. More evidence that Fenton had used his leverage to get Mercer elected.
The arrangement might be sketchy, but it was an everyday occurrence in politics. Unless there was more to it. How deep in Fenton’s pocket was Mercer?
As if to answer Patrick’s question, Mercer continued.
“Where do things stand on the Southampton hotel? I’m getting pressure from both sides—the ayes and the nays.”
“Which side is exerting more of that pressure?” Fenton inquired. He didn’t sound too concerned.
“It’s pretty damned close to fifty-fifty. And both sides have solid reasons to back them up. The financial gain versus the intrusion to their way of life. Hey, I’d love to see the profits and the job opportunities for my constituency. But I’m a local myself. I get it. No matter how I position myself, this is going to cause a major outcry—one it’ll be up to me to keep a lid on. I need to know which side you want me to come out in favor of. Are you signing onto this project or not?”