The Line Between Here and Gone (Forensic Instincts)

by Andrea Kane

  “In the car.”

  “Then he’s following you. He’s wearing black. I can’t see his face, just a shadowy form. But his energy is dark. Lock your doors. And don’t drive anywhere remote. Stay in traffic.”

  “No worries there,” Casey said drily, searching her rearview mirror for a suspicious-looking vehicle. “I’m in Manhattan. I’m stopping at Sloane Kettering and then driving out to the Hamptons. That’s about as remote as Times Square on New Year’s Eve.” She shifted in her seat. Despite her flippant attitude, she wasn’t happy. “Is he armed?”

  “I don’t know.” Claire sounded terribly unnerved. “But he’s only going to follow us and Amanda for so long before he does something. And whatever that something is—it’s ominous. He’s ominous.”

  “I hear you.” Casey wished she could figure out which car in the converging traffic was the one. “I’ll make sure I’m not alone. I won’t park in the hospital garage…I’d have to walk through that connecting tunnel to get to the building. I’ll drive to one of the lots on Sixty-ninth between First and Second. That way, I can drop the car off up front and walk, blending in with the crowd. It’s the end of the workday. Everyone will be rushing out of their offices to head for home. I’ll just be another rat in the rat race.”

  “Do that. I don’t have a good feeling about that tunnel. You wouldn’t be safe. The hospital’s being watched, too.” Claire pressed her fingers to her temples. “My head is pounding. There’s too much happening at once. And none of it’s good.”

  “The baby, too?” Casey asked quickly.

  A heartbeat of a pause. “Get to Amanda,” Claire replied, her voice low and tense. “She needs you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Casey nearly ran from the parking garage to the hospital building. She reached the Pediatric Blood Marrow Transplant Unit in minutes. It was quiet…too quiet. Not just the kind of quiet that went along with the gravity of the unit. The kind that made Casey know that something was wrong.

  She stopped the first nurse who passed by.

  “Is Amanda Gleason here? I believe she’s with her son, Justin.”

  “And you are?” the nurse inquired.

  “A friend. My name is Casey Woods. You’re welcome to clear me with Amanda.”

  “She’s not here, Ms. Woods. She’s with Justin in the Pediatric ICU. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Oh, God, Casey thought silently. “Where is that located?”

  The nurse gave her directions. “But you won’t be allowed in.”

  “I know that. I’ll just get a message to Amanda that I’m here.”

  Casey took off again, arriving at the Pediatric ICU tense and out of breath. She spoke to the first hospital attendant she saw, who obviously got a message to Amanda, because she came out and met Casey in the waiting area a few minutes later. She moved robotically, her posture stiff, her face sheet-white and lined with worry.

  “What happened?” Casey asked without preamble.

  “The bronchoscopy results came back,” Amanda replied in a wooden tone. “They showed that Justin has bacterial pneumonia. That’s in addition to the parainfluenza pneumonia. Dr. Braeburn put him on a ventilator. His breathing is so labored, Casey.” Amanda’s voice broke, tears sliding down her cheeks. “We’re at a crossroads I can’t face. Because if the antibiotics don’t work… If the ventilator isn’t enough…”

  “Don’t talk that way,” Casey interrupted. “Don’t even think that way.”

  “How can I not?” Amanda turned her palms up in a helpless gesture. “The doctor all but told me we’d better find a donor. Urgently.”

  “We’re going to find Paul.” Casey didn’t miss a beat. “I told you we would and we will. Marc is questioning people at Simon’s Beach Bakery, and Patrick’s on his way back from D.C. with information that sounded significant. In the interim, Justin’s a fighter—you said so yourself. He’ll hang on.” He has to, she thought silently.

  Amanda’s nod was dubious. “I have to get back inside. The nurse said you needed to see me.”

  “I do.” Casey began her diplomatic mission. “We’ve been talking to everyone who dealt with Paul, even casually. We need to talk to your uncle.”

  “My uncle?” Amanda blinked. “Why? He barely knew Paul. And if he had any information on him, he would have told me the instant Justin was diagnosed.”

  “I’m sure he would have. But it’s our experience that people sometimes have information they don’t realize they have. It’s possible your uncle picked up something from Paul in a conversation or a business meeting that seemed so insignificant he forgot all about it.”

  “And you think you might be able to jostle his memory.” Amanda sounded more thoughtful than she did suspicious. Then again, she’d have no reason to believe Casey was being anything other than straightforward. “I doubt it will work. Uncle Lyle has a steel-trap memory. On the other hand, he believed Paul was dead—which would eliminate him from my uncle’s thought process altogether. So I guess it’s worth a try.”

  Casey jumped right on that. “Given Justin’s health, we shouldn’t waste a minute. I want to drive out to the Hamptons, pick Marc up and head over to your uncle’s East Hampton estate so we can talk to him tonight. Do you think he’d agree to that?”

  “Of course—if he’s home.” Amanda frowned. “I don’t know his schedule. He might be anywhere, even Manhattan.” She took out her cell phone and turned it on. “Let me find out before you waste a long drive.”

  Casey waited while Amanda made the call. It took a few minutes with several pauses before she got an answer and turned off her phone.

  “I spoke to Frances, his housekeeper,” she explained to Casey. “Apparently, my uncle was in Washington, D.C., today. But he’ll be back tonight. Frances contacted him and he said you and Marc should come by around eight o’clock. Does that work for you?”

  “We’ll make it work.” Casey squeezed Amanda’s hand. “Go back in to Justin. But don’t lose faith.”

  “I’m trying. It gets harder with every hour and every setback.” Amanda pressed her lips together. “Go. If my uncle can help you, he will.”

  Oh, he will all right, Casey thought. More than he realizes.

  * * *

  Amanda watched Casey walk away, battling the white panic that was building up inside her, eclipsing all else. Forensic Instincts was talking to her uncle. To them, that was a step in the right direction. To her, it was grasping at straws. Even if Uncle Lyle remembered something crucial about Paul—which she doubted he would—how long would it take to get concrete results and find Paul? Weeks? Longer?

  Justin might only have days.

  It was time for her to grasp at her own straws.

  She’d nixed the idea when Melissa had first suggested it, when she’d urged Amanda not to put all her eggs in one basket. But now Justin was worse. Amanda was beyond desperate. And the idea was promising. She had the contacts. Melissa would make all the arrangements.

  There was no need to mention it to the Forensic Instincts team—not until it was a fait accompli. It would sidetrack them from their current path and it would piss them off, neither of which would work to her advantage. All she wanted to do was to expand the number of people looking for Paul. And maybe, just maybe, the right someone—the someone who’d seen Paul—was out there and would respond.

  She had to try.

  FBI

  New York Field Office

  26 Federal Plaza, Manhattan

  Office of the Assistant Director in Charge

  Supervisory Special Agent Neil Camden, head of the Vizzini Criminal Enterprise Task Force, didn’t enjoy being reamed out. Least of all by the head of the entire New York Field Office

  But that was precisely what was going on at the moment.

  His superior at Headquarters, James Kirkpatrick, Section Chief of Criminal Enterprises for the Americas, had been advised in advance of this meeting. He wasn’t happy. Still, given how many resources had been poured into this operation,
it didn’t come as a surprise. What it did do was make Camden feel more ineffective.

  “What have you and your team been doing?” Assistant Director in Charge Gary Linden demanded. “I went out on a limb with this. I expected results. This is a priority investigation. We have limited time and even more limited funds.”

  “I understand that, sir.” SSA Camden could feel a fine sheen of perspiration form on his brow. “We have made progress. We know for a fact that Lyle Fenton is involved.”

  A brief nod. “No surprises there.”

  “Also, the video feed we planted in John Morano’s office caught his payoffs to the mob. We ran the pictures. They’re definitely from the Vizzini family. And, since the Vizzinis own the union leaders, there won’t be any construction until the Vizzinis are happy with the terms.”

  “Great,” Linden said sarcastically. “None of this is news. The reason I let your task force pick this up isn’t to catch some punks collecting bribes or some mob bosses controlling union workers. What we really need to know is who’s behind this whole operation. All of it, not just some extortion scheme. Is it Fenton? Someone else? And how deep does it run? Are other families involved? Who’s running things for the Vizzinis? I want it all—and I want the evidence to go with it. Otherwise, we’re going to look like idiots kicking a dead horse.”

  Camden nodded. “I realize that, sir. And we’re right on the brink. We just need a little more time.”

  “We’re running out of time. And money. So you need to figure out who’s behind all this and find the evidence we need to convict him. And not soon, Camden. Yesterday.”

  * * *

  Closeted in Amanda’s apartment, Casey and Marc situated themselves on the living-room sofa and dialed into their conference line at the agreed-upon time.

  “Everyone here?” Casey began.

  “Yup,” Ryan replied, speaking for the group. “All present and accounted for. Right down to Hero, who’s eating my trail mix and slobbering on my shoes.”

  “Good. Patrick, let’s start with you, since I’ve already caught up with Marc, who’ll fill you in later. What did you find in D.C.?”

  Succinctly, Patrick relayed his day’s findings, starting with the less-promising lead at the coffee shop, and moving on to the more significant revelations he’d gained from the lunch between Fenton and Mercer. “I’m hoping to hear back from that waitress, Evelyn, soon,” he concluded. “I was concerned that if I hung around much longer I’d scare Paul Everett off—assuming it’s him who’s frequenting that coffee shop. So that lead’s a maybe—although Evelyn did seem pretty certain it was Everett. That having been said, my lunch was a real eye-opener.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Casey agreed. “Least of all because Mercer’s clearly in Fenton’s pocket, which doesn’t come as a huge surprise. But let’s concentrate on the real issue at hand—Fenton’s slamming Mercer against a wall by dragging him back home to get tested as a potential donor for Justin. That’s not fueled by political manipulation. It’s very personal, and very pointed. Not to mention the fact that Fenton is also demanding that Mercer’s kids get tested. From what you just said, Patrick, Mercer’s wife was an afterthought, just to keep up appearances.”

  “You got it.” Patrick’s tone was intense. “I caught the whole thing on my iPad so you can check it out yourself. In addition, I’ve followed up since then. An hour after their lunch, Mercer’s PR department issued a press release stating that whole BS story Fenton spouted at lunch. Sounds like a heroic gesture on the part of a congressman and his family to save a dying infant whose mother is part of Mercer’s local constituency. The Hamptons press will be swarming around that hospital tomorrow morning, snapping photos of the compassionate, heroic congressman, and writing articles filled with accolades.”

  “No doubt. But we all know that Mercer’s motives aren’t based on altruism.” Casey paused. “Ryan…”

  “Already on it,” Ryan came back. “My facial recognition software and I are hard at work. I’m comparing Fenton’s features, bone structure, etc. to Mercer’s. If there are any physical traits that suggest a genetic tie, I’ll find them. I’ve also pulled up whatever photos I can of the twins. Their Facebook pics are good, but not good enough for me. I’m going after better ones. I want to be as precise as possible, so I can catch even the slightest resemblance between Fenton and the Mercer crew. Not to worry. I’ll hack into whatever network’s necessary. I’ll have what I need within the hour.”

  “I never doubted it.” Casey chewed her lip thoughtfully. “This changes Marc’s and my priorities when we see Fenton tonight.”

  “It sure as hell adds to the long list of them,” Marc commented.

  His voice made Claire chime in on a different matter. “Marc, you picked up on something in the Hamptons. Something in your meeting with John Morano. What was it?”

  “She’s not being Claire-voyant,” Ryan clarified in that “gotcha” tone he reserved only for Claire. “I told her what Marc said when he called in. She also got a glimpse of the research I was doing into Morano’s and Everett’s backgrounds. So her question is based on facts, not psychic inspiration.”

  Claire gave an exasperated sigh. “I was asking a question, Ryan. Not issuing a proclamation.”

  “Just making sure that was clear.”

  “It was,” Marc reassured him with a wry grin. “As for Morano, the guy is way too scripted. And way too blasé about Paul Everett and any connection his murder might have had to the development of that five-star hotel. Something’s up. I’m just not sure what.”

  “I’m still running those background checks on Morano and Everett, digging up every detail I can.” Ryan scanned the results of his work. “I’ve checked the trade groups each of them was affiliated with, any certifications they may have, and the companies they’ve worked with and for. I did a detailed analysis of their finances, right down to where they do their banking. Next, I’m moving on to their families, including any estranged relatives who might know each other. From there, I’ll dig into their full educational backgrounds. I’ll include all the activities that accompanied their academics, from summer camp to sports teams. I’ll go back to friggin’ kindergarten, if I have to. But, as of now, I don’t see Everett’s and Morano’s paths crossing, or even being mentioned in the same paragraph.”

  “Not until the hotel project and the controversy around it,” Marc guessed.

  “You got it. Once that came into play, the newspapers jumped on the story of the infiltration of the Citidiots and the divided opinions of the locals. But even in those articles, Morano and Everett are discussed as separate entities. Everett was killed. Morano picked up the reins. Period.”

  “Do the newspapers get into Everett’s murder at all?” Casey broke in to ask. “Any speculation as to who killed him?”

  “A paragraph on the unsolved homicide—but the tone was more dramatic than it was speculative. You know, like was Paul Everett an innocent victim or was he a high roller who got in with the wrong crowd and paid the ultimate price? Clearly that was old news, so it wasn’t the focus of the articles. The building of the hotel was.”

  “Remember, no one paid much attention to Paul’s murder,” Marc reminded them. “That’s why Amanda brought

  me next to nothing mediawise when she first met with me. Paul wasn’t a celebrity. He was just a shrewd real-estate developer who happened to buy into a good thing. There was no construction under way, so most of the public didn’t even know about his plans for the hotel. Only the locals. And they’d have no reason to connect his murder with a project that hadn’t even gotten off the ground.”

  “Clearly,” Patrick concurred. “Or the police would have pursued that angle more thoroughly. They didn’t.” A pause. “Of course, there are people who can pull off that kind of murder without leaving any leading evidence behind.”

  “Paul Everett is not dead,” Claire stated. “I can’t explain how I can be so sure, especially since my connections to his energy are so weir
d and binary, but I am. I just wish I could make a deeper connection. I spent hours on end today holding that suction-cup heart and trying to analyze its energy. It’s like I’m right on the verge of opening a window and peering inside, and then it’s gone. Not just the opening. The whole window. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “That tells me what my gut already knows,” Casey replied. “That either Paul Everett or whoever dragged Paul Everett off wants it this way. Which makes Paul either a criminal or a victim. All the more reason to find him. Most importantly, for Justin. Secondarily, for justice—or rescue. Right now, the ‘whys’ don’t matter. All that matters is that we find what right now looks like Justin’s only chance of survival.”

  “Then I think we all have our tasks cut out for us,” Ryan said.

  “I want to visit Amanda in the hospital,” Claire stated. “I have the perfect opportunity tonight, since both Casey and Marc are away. After them, I’ve spent the most time with her. I want to check on her and the baby. I want to touch something of the baby’s—maybe a sheet or blanket he came in contact with that’s no longer in the ICU with him. And I want to see if I pick up on anything weird on the way to the hospital.”

  “What do you mean by weird?” Ryan asked.

  “She means that she’s been sensing we’re being followed,” Casey supplied. “Us and Amanda.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Claire said. “But it’s getting pretty sinister.”

  “You’re sure?” For once, Ryan didn’t taunt Claire for her gift.

  “Positive.”

  “You shouldn’t go alone,” Patrick jumped in. “I’ll go with you. I’m a trained investigator. Maybe I’ll spot something you missed. Besides, I’m in a holding pattern, anyway. I can’t just sit on my hands and wait for the waitress to call me. I need to do something.”

  “Good.” Casey liked that idea. Patrick had a sharp eye, Claire had a psychic gift and there was also safety in numbers. “So we’re all in sync for this evening’s activities. We’ll report in if there’s something to say. If not, Marc and I will be home by midnight. We can resume our discussion then.”