by Andrea Kane
“I will.”
Casey disconnected the call and pressed Patrick’s speed dial number. By the time they hung up, he was halfway out the door, on his way to Sloane Kettering.
Casey flopped back against the pillows with a heavy sigh.
“You okay?” Hutch asked, rolling onto his side and propping himself on one elbow.
“Frustrated.”
“Then I didn’t do as good a job as I thought.”
Casey smiled. “Yes, you did. That’s the only way I’m not frustrated. But this damned case…”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Hutch asked, playing with a strand of Casey’s red hair. He was as respectful as she about not overstepping his bounds with her cases—at least until he sensed she was in danger. Then all bets were off. Casey often muttered that he was a caveman, although they both knew that wasn’t true. Hutch was the furthest thing from sexist. His longtime BAU partner, Grace, was female, and they worked together seamlessly and respectfully. But Grace was a trained law enforcement agent. Casey wasn’t. And Hutch had just seen way too much, first as a D.C. cop, then as a BU agent, to be okay with Casey throwing herself smack in the middle of big-time danger.
Unfortunately, that’s what she always seemed to do.
“You know a lot of it already, thanks to YouTube,” Casey said now, still staring at the ceiling with a troubled expression on her face. “Amanda Gleason’s baby has a life-threatening autoimmune disease. He needs a stem cell transplant. No donor match has been found. His best chance of survival is his father. FI’s job is to find that father—Paul Everett.”
Hutch arched a brow. “Now why don’t I think it’s that simple?”
“Because you just heard me on the phone. And because your instincts are almost as good as mine.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Hutch said drily. “How much can you tell me without violating client confidentiality?”
“I can tell you that Paul Everett is supposedly dead, the victim of a no-body homicide. That’s the official police report. I can tell you the cops found his abandoned car, complete with a fair amount of his blood on the driver’s seat, just east of the Hamptons on Long Island. And I can tell you that no one on my team believes that he’s dead.”
Hutch didn’t need time to digest that speech. “That last part is the only thing we need to discuss—or not discuss. The rest is all fact, not investigative work.”
Casey nodded, chewing her lip thoughtfully. Then, she angled her head toward Hutch. “I need to speak to my client. But, hypothetically, if I asked you to check someone out and see if they were on the FBI’s radar for some criminal act, or because of some criminal act, could you?”
“You’re not sure if this someone is an offender or a victim—hypothetically.”
“Right.”
“I could check our system, sure. If there’s a federal crime involved, the BU would be as eager to solve it as you are.”
“Then let me get Amanda’s permission. I’m sure she’ll jump at the offer. This isn’t the kind of case she wants to keep under wraps. The sooner we find Paul, the better chance that Justin, her baby, will make it—assuming Paul’s a healthy donor match. But from what I understand, the odds are good.”
“I take it Amanda’s not a match?”
“She’s not eligible to be tested for health reasons,” Casey replied carefully.
“Got it.” Hutch studied Casey’s face, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Go ahead and call your client. You won’t get any sleep until you do. And, for what I have in mind, you need your sleep to recoup your strength.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ryan turned off the headlights as he slowed the van to a crawl, then pulled onto a deserted stretch of the Shinnecock Bay shoreline, just around the bend from the marina.
Marc was peering through his night-vision binoculars. “No one’s around,” he announced.
“What a surprise.” Ryan grinned. “It’s after 1:00 a.m. on a December night. Who wouldn’t be basking on the beach?”
“I wasn’t looking for sunbathers, smart-ass. I was looking for pot-smoking kids and anyone else who might want a dark, deserted spot to do their thing.”
“The idea of kids smoking up or drug dealers doing business here—that I get. But you’d have to be really desperate to choose this spot to hop in the backseat and get laid. On the other hand, hormones do trump atmosphere when you’re a teenager.”
“Yup.” Marc put down the binoculars. “You take Gecko. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot. Although, like I said in the van, I doubt I’ll need you. This is a one-story shack, not an office complex. You won’t have to get access to the roof and feed Gecko down. I’ll just jimmy my way in, unscrew a return and put the little critter in.”
“Uh…”
“I know. No one touches Gecko but you.”
“True. But it’s not just that. I need to find a good location to plant my black box. It will pick up Gecko’s video and audio feeds, encrypt them and route them over the internet using a secure tunnel between the black box and the Forensic Instincts firewall.”
“Fine, whatever. Let’s just get moving.”
They climbed out of the van, both dressed in black, Marc with a fanny pack of tools, Ryan with Gecko. Staying low, they made their way toward Morano’s cabin.
Abruptly, Marc came to a dead halt.
“Wait,” he whispered, stretching his arm across Ryan to block him from proceeding.
Ryan obeyed, his head snapping around in surprise. “What is it?”
“Someone’s coming.” A pause. “A truck.”
Ryan didn’t question Marc’s keen sense of hearing. No one on the team did. These were the moments when Marc was pure Navy SEAL.
“Is it headed in this direction?” Ryan asked in a low tone.
“Yeah. Listen. You’ll hear the diesel engine in a minute.”
A few moments later, Ryan heard precisely what Marc had described—the low roar of a diesel engine. The two of them crouched low to the ground as the headlights of a pickup truck drew closer to where they hid.
It stopped diagonally across the street from Morano’s office, and the driver cut the motor.
“What the hell…?” Ryan muttered. “Why is someone here? We know Morano’s not in the office. He’s home. We checked, and saw him walking around his apartment. Those high-tech binoculars of yours don’t lie. So who’s here and why?”
“It’s two ‘who’s,’” Marc identified. “I can see by the movement in the truck. As for why, we’re about to find out.”
Two shadowy figures emerged from the pickup truck and walked rapidly but stiltedly toward Morano’s shack. “They’re both carrying something,” Marc added in a low voice. “Something heavy enough to be weighing them down. Maybe this is a drop-off of some kind?”
“I wish Gecko and the black box were already in place,” Ryan said in frustration. “Then we’d know what they’re up to.”
“We’ll figure it out. If they leave Morano’s office without whatever their cargo is, we’ll find it when we get inside and see what it is.”
They fell silent and waited.
One of the men put down whatever he was carrying and hunched over the front door, concentrating. The other made his way around the back of the cabin.
“We can assume that Morano wasn’t expecting them,” Marc noted. “Since the guy out front is picking the lock. This wasn’t prearranged.” Marc gave a knowing grunt as the door opened and the man went inside. “Like I said, a piece of cake. A friggin’ baby could get into that dump.” A puzzled pause. “What’s the other guy doing? There’s no back door.”
“Maybe he’s climbing in a window?” Ryan suggested. “There must be at least one of those, or Morano would suffocate.”
“Yeah, there are. Two windows. But it doesn’t make sense. Even if he planned on jimmying one of them open, why bother now, especially lugging a heavy load? His partner could just whistle, letting him know he was in. Then the other guy could come a
round front, get inside ASAP and drop off whatever it is they came here to leave.”
As Marc spoke, the second man reappeared, walking slowly around the perimeter of the shack. He was leaning forward, taking a few steps at a time, and sprinkling something from whatever it was he’d carried over.
“Gasoline,” Marc diagnosed instantly. “He’s pouring it all around the shack.”
“I smell it.” Ryan stifled a cough. “Shit, they’re going to torch the place. What are we supposed to do?”
As he spoke, the first guy came running out of the cabin. Simultaneously, a light began flickering inside.
“He already lit something inside—probably a stack of paper or a pile of rags. That dump is a walking fire hazard.” Marc grabbed Ryan’s arm. “It’s too late to do anything. That shack is gonna go up like a forest fire. Let’s get the hell out of here.” He tightened his grip, as he felt Ryan make an instinctive move to stand up and run. “No. Stay down. They’re taking off at the same time as we are. They’ll see us. Time to show me what you’ve got. Run like a duck.”
As he spoke, the shack ignited. Just the way Marc said, it erupted like a volcano, flames shooting skyward, wood burning like paper.
Ryan saw the two offenders race for their pickup truck.
He pivoted and followed Marc’s lead, pausing only long enough to get a glimpse of what was involved. Marc remained squatting, and used his thigh muscles to take long strides away from the impending explosion.
Ryan followed suit, staying low to the ground and directly behind Marc.
They reached the van just as the pickup truck sped by. The diesel blocked out any other sound, and the two men didn’t even glance out the window, much less see Marc or Ryan.
Ryan crept around to the driver’s side, and Marc half rose, staring at the back of the truck, trying to make out the grime-covered license plate. He could barely catch one number and one letter, it was so dark. Ironically, the thing that helped him see was the eerie light burning from behind them as the cabin burned to the ground.
“They’re gone. Get in,” Marc commanded. He and Ryan jumped into the van. Ryan backed it up and swerved out of their hiding spot and onto the road, speeding away from the fire as far and as fast as he could.
Marc was on his secure cell phone, calling 9-1-1. “I’m on the Hampton Bays side of Shinnecock Bay, off Lynn Avenue. There’s a fire at the marina. It looks bad. Send someone over ASAP.” He disconnected the call. “That takes care of that.”
“Shit.” Ryan dragged a sleeve across his forehead, sounding off balance and exhilarated at the same time. “That was like something out of a movie.”
A corner of Marc’s mouth lifted. “If you say so.”
Ryan gave him a sideways glance. “I guess that sounded pretty lame to you. I can BASE jump with the best of them. I’m just used to doing extreme sports for fun. I’m not used to doing military exercises to escape midnight arsonists.”
“You performed well under pressure.” Marc’s official-sounding praise was genuine. “You’re in great physical shape. And don’t kid yourself. You might get good at things like this, but you never get used to them. Violence is still violence.”
“Shit,” Ryan reiterated. “Either that hotel project is jinxed, or there’s something attached to it that makes the developer a target for killers.”
Marc nodded. “Which seems to support the theory that Paul Everett was a victim, not a participant. Someone wanted him out of the way.”
“Out of the way, but not dead. And now they’re following suit with Morano.” Ryan exhaled sharply. “This gets weirder and sketchier by the minute.”
“Yeah.” Marc looked thoughtful. “I think we’d better head over to Morano’s now and plant that tracker on his car. Once the firefighters rush over here to douse the pile of rubble that Morano’s office will soon be, and the cops show up to investigate, they’ll call the owner. And Morano will be down here like Greased Lightning.”
“Agreed. Not a good idea to plant a GPS tracking device with a swarm of cops and the owner of the car in your face. Let’s head straight over to Morano’s place before we drive to Westhampton Beach and crash at Amanda’s. We can be at Morano’s apartment in ten minutes and done and out of there in twenty.”
* * *
Ryan and Marc had just finished their task and hiked up the flight of stairs to Amanda’s apartment when Ryan’s cell phone rang.
He glanced down at the caller ID.
“It’s Claire,” he told Marc. Punching on the phone, he answered Claire in a short, clipped tone. “Hang on a sec.”
He waited until both he and Marc were inside the apartment, before resuming the conversation.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Are you okay?” Her voice was tight and anxious.
“Yeah, why?”
“I just got a quick flash that freaked me out. It was a fire, a big one, engulfing a shack on the water. I was afraid it might have something to do with you and Marc and your visit to Morano’s. I’m glad I was wrong.”
“You weren’t wrong.” Ryan dropped his gym bag and sank down on the sofa. “Morano’s office just went up in flames. And it wasn’t caused by a cigarette butt. Marc and I saw two men douse the place with gasoline and light the match.”
A sharp intake of breath. “Who were they trying to kill? Morano or you two?”
“None of the above. Morano was at home—we knew that and I’m sure they did, too. And they never saw Marc or me. We hid out until they were gone. Then we got the hell out of there.”
“So you weren’t near the cabin when it happened?”
“We were near enough. We got front row seats. But we didn’t get roasted.”
“That’s not funny.”
Ryan leaned back on the couch, finding himself smiling. “You were worried about me, Claire-voyant. I’m touched. I never knew you cared so much.”
“I don’t,” Claire retorted, back to herself now that she knew things were okay. “It was Gecko I was concerned about. He’s irreplaceable. I knew Marc could take care of you.”
Ryan threw back his head and laughed. “I’m so flattered. But don’t worry. We never made it inside the building. And Gecko was safely stashed inside my jacket. He’s in A-plus shape—just like me.”
“He’s not nearly as arrogant.”
“True. But he’s not as hot, either.”
“Debatable,” Claire quipped. Then she grew sober. “They were giving Morano a message.”
“Yup. A pretty direct one.”
“The same one they gave Paul Everett, no doubt. The question is, who are ‘they’ and do they plan on making a similar disappearing act happen to Morano?”
“Any signs from the universe?” Ryan teased.
“None,” Claire answered seriously. “I wish I had one. Maybe it would lead us to Paul Everett faster.”
“You’re still convinced he’s alive?”
“Definitely.”
“So am I.” Ryan shrugged out of his parka as he spoke. “This kind of thing smacks of the mob. But where does Lyle Fenton fit in?”
“I don’t know. But he plays a major part in this convoluted puzzle. The negative energy surrounding him is so strong, I could barely pick up on anything else with him in the room.” A pause. “Are you sure that you and Marc are okay?”
“Never better. Marc’s a pro when it comes to this stuff. He got us out of there like a black ops mission.”
Another pause. “I know Marc’s used to seeing arson and every other kind of violence there is. But you’re not. You’re shaken. That’s to be expected, Ryan—even for someone as cocky and egotistical as you.”
Ryan started to laugh. “Is that your way of saying you care, Claire-voyant?”
“Yes, you obnoxious pain in the ass, it is.”
A split second of silence. Ryan wasn’t laughing anymore.
“Thanks,” he finally said, with no trace of banter. “I appreciate your worrying about me. But I’m fine. Honest. A litt
le weirded out, but fine. Nothing a hot shower and a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”
“Then I’ll let you get both. Tell Marc to do the same. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Claire?” Ryan interrupted.
“Yes?”
This pause was a long one. “See you tomorrow.”
He disconnected the call, staring at his BlackBerry for a moment, eyebrows knit.
“Oh, for God’s sake, when are you going to stop being an asshole and do something about it?” Marc’s question sliced the silence.
“What?” Ryan’s head snapped up. He’d almost forgotten Marc was in the room, he’d been so preoccupied.
“You heard me. But if you need it spelled out, fine. You want Claire. You’ve wanted her since the day you met her. So stop doing this moronic dance and go for it. If it works out, great. If it doesn’t, you can go back to killing each other.”
Ryan shot Marc a look. “I don’t need lessons in hooking up with women from you.”
“Clearly, you do.” Marc stripped off his jacket and sweater and grabbed the gym bag that had his change of clothes. “I’m going in the shower. I’ll use up the hot water. That way, you can get the cold shower you so desperately need.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
As he stepped out of the shower, Ryan could hear Marc talking. From the tone of his voice, it was obvious that it was Casey at the other end of the phone. Marc was, no doubt, filling her in.
Ryan pulled on some sweats and headed out to the living room.
Marc glanced up. “Ryan’s here. I’ll put him on.” He handed Ryan the phone. “It’s Casey,” he informed him.
“I figured.” Ryan put the phone to his ear. “Hey, boss. I assume Marc woke you up to report in about our boring night.”
“He did—in detail,” she replied. “Sounds like you became an instant action figure.”