by Andrea Kane
“Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.”
Casey laughed. “It’s good to hear you’re still yourself. Arrogant and cocky. Thanks for making me laugh. I needed it.”
“Really?” Ryan perched on the edge of an armchair. “If I’m your best source of entertainment tonight, I’d say Hutch isn’t doing his job.”
“His job isn’t to make me laugh,” Casey returned drily. “So much for that subject. The reason I asked Marc to put you on the phone is to tell you that Amanda got a threatening call tonight. No caller ID. Voice scrambler. Warning her to stop looking for Paul Everett, and for us to stop looking, too. He knew too much about what she was doing at that minute not to have been right there in the hospital.”
“You want me to see if I can hack into her phone records?” Ryan jumped right on that. “Maybe I can get something.”
“Yes. Try.”
“Done.” Ryan was already walking over to his laptop, which was sitting on the coffee table. “Is Amanda really freaked out?” he asked as he logged into his secure network.
“Big-time,” Casey replied. “She wanted me to send Marc over for protection. I sent Patrick over instead.”
“Better qualifications. Better availability,” Ryan agreed.
“Not as pacifying, at least to Amanda. But, in this case, I got her to come around. Patrick’s the right choice. He took off for Sloane Kettering the minute I called him. He’s staying outside the PICU all night. He’s also made arrangements with two of his security buddies. They’re each taking an eight-hour shift a day. Between the three of them, Amanda will be covered 24/7 until this crisis is over.”
“Smart move.”
“I’m going over there myself first thing in the morning to check on her.”
“You mean in three hours?” Ryan asked, noting that his watch said 3:30 a.m.
Casey sighed. “Yes, in three hours. And, while I’m there, I’m going to ask her if I can bring Hutch on board. He can check the FBI’s internal systems and see if there are any warning flags on Paul Everett.”
“Good move. I doubt she’ll refuse. Hutch’s credentials are pretty impressive. Not to mention he’s at Quantico. That word alone infuses everyone with awe.” Ryan was clicking away on the keyboard as he spoke. “Get a few hours’ rest, boss. I’ll call you if I find anything. I’m not holding my breath. It was probably a throwaway phone. But, if I’m wrong, you’ll hear from me.”
* * *
Lisa Mercer knew that her father was back in D.C. She also knew that he jogged every morning at 5:30 a.m. So when she got back to her dorm at Northwestern at 4:00 a.m. CST—after cramming all night for finals—and listened to her voice mail, she called him right away.
“Hi, Lisa.” The congressman didn’t sound a bit surprised to hear from his daughter. It was still 2:30 a.m. in Pasadena, or Tom would be on the phone from Cal Tech, as well.
“What’s going on, Dad?” she asked without preamble. “I got your cryptic message. I also read about you and Mom getting tested as donors for that poor little baby, and I think that’s superamazing. But why were you calling me about it?”
Cliff Mercer pressed his lips together and sank down onto the bottom step leading into his front hall. He wished he could keep his lips just that way, so he didn’t have to open his mouth and dive into this can of worms. But it wasn’t an option. His career was on the line. All he could do was to try to keep this as simple and innocent as possible, in the hopes that his secret didn’t leak out—not even to his children. They weren’t all that close to his father—or rather, the man who’d raised him. But he was the only grandfather they knew. The only person he’d trusted with his secret was Mary Jane. And his wife was as determined as he was to protect it.
As for the rest of the world, if the truth came out, given how deep into Lyle Fenton’s pocket he was, his political aspirations would be over before they began.
“Dad?” Lisa repeated.
“Sorry, honey. I was just tying my sneakers. I didn’t mean to sound cryptic. It’s just that Amanda Gleason, the baby’s mother, is a photojournalist who’s done media coverage on both my campaign and ongoing events during my current term. She’s a real sweetheart. And the idea of her possibly losing her child… It’s unthinkable. That’s why Mom and I got tested. As a gesture of good faith, I’d like you and Tom to get tested, too. I’m not optimistic that any of us will be a match, but if it inspires others in the district to get tested, it’s worth it.”
“Knowing you, I’m going to assume this is a gesture of good faith, not a political ploy.”
“That’s exactly right. I’m not going to use a critically ill infant for political gain.”
Lisa sighed. “I’m sorry. This just came at me out of left field. What happens if I’m a match? Do I have to donate an organ or something?”
“Of course not. I’d never ask that of you. It’s simply a type of blood transfusion. Nothing more. But we’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. I can’t force you to do this. But I know how bighearted you are. So I wanted to ask.”
“It’s no problem. I can run over to Evanston Hospital after my last class today. But, Dad, please, no media. No announcements. Just let me do this quietly. If you want to put out a press release about your kids getting tested, just wait until finals are over. Tom’s bound to feel the same way. We’ve got enough on our plates without local reporters banging on our dorm room doors, wanting to interview us about what altruistic kids we are.”
“That goes without saying.” Cliff rubbed his temples. He felt like the world’s shittiest father. “We don’t even have to announce this, if you’d prefer. The same goes for Tom. I’m sure I’ll be hearing from him in a couple of hours. And I’ll tell him exactly what I’m telling you. What you’re doing is a wonderful, selfless thing. I’m sure Amanda will be incredibly grateful. How you want it handled—publicly, privately—that’s your call.”
“Okay.” That put Lisa’s mind at rest. “I’ll take care of it later today. And I’ll call you afterward.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. You’re a great kid.”
“Yeah, I think so, too,” she quipped. “Talk to you later.”
Cliff disconnected the call. By the time he’d finished his run, taken a shower and gotten ready for his day, Tom would be on the phone. He’d go through the whole charade again. It didn’t make him feel any better that he wasn’t lying about wanting to help Amanda Gleason’s critically ill baby. His reasons were still steeped in self-protection. He’d sworn never to be one of those dirty politicians. Yet here he was, being just that.
The whole situation sucked.
Warren Mercer might be a cold SOB.
But Lyle Fenton was a scumbag.
* * *
Patrick walked over as soon as he saw Casey in the PICU waiting room.
“How is she?” Casey asked.
“Not great. Shaky,” Patrick replied. “I think the phone call was the straw that broke the camel’s back. She was holding on by a thread to begin with. I don’t think there’s been any improvement in Justin’s condition. He’s still on the ventilator. And when she got that phone call… Well, you can imagine.”
“She knows you’re here, though, right?”
“Definitely. She’s come out three times in the past few hours to check. She’s terrified that someone’s going to get by me and hurt her son. We’ve talked. I think I finally established a rapport with her. I’m not Marc, but I’m kind of a father figure to her, which seems to soothe her. That’s why I’m not letting Carl relieve me for the next shift. She’s just gotten used to me. I don’t want to throw any more changes her way.”
Casey patted his arm. “You’re a good guy.”
“That’s true. Maybe you should be paying me more,” Patrick replied good-naturedly. “Do you want to see her now?”
Nodding, Casey explained what she was hoping to have Amanda agree to regarding Hutch.
“Excellent idea.” Patrick glanced over his shoulder as Amanda appea
red outside Justin’s room. “Here she comes. You can discuss it with her. I doubt she’ll turn you down. The poor woman is desperate.”
As he spoke, Amanda caught sight of Casey. She stripped off her sterile attire and walked over. “Hi.” It was a tentative greeting, accompanied by a pleading look. “Do you have any news?”
“Not from the phone calls, no. But half the Hamptons population is getting tested, thanks to Congressman Mercer.”
A flicker of hope lit Amanda’s eyes. “What he did was very kind. I know it was a favor to my uncle, but he did it nonetheless. And his gesture inspired so many others to offer their help. I’m so grateful. I called the congressman’s office late yesterday afternoon and asked them to give him my thanks. It would be a miracle if another donor came through. The chances of finding Paul…”
“Are still very strong,” Casey finished for her. “We’re following up on an unexpected occurrence, one that’s too coincidental to ignore. John Morano—the man who took over Paul’s hotel project—also took over Paul’s office. I don’t know if you ever saw it, but it’s a shack at the marina on Shinnecock Bay.”
“I was there once. Did Paul leave something behind that just now turned up?”
“It’s not that. The place burned to the ground last night. And the police don’t think it was an accident.”
“Someone tried to kill this John Morano?” Amanda gasped.
Casey shook her head. “He wasn’t there. It was a warning of some kind. Which leads us to believe that whatever trouble Paul was in somehow related to that project. If we figure out what the connection is, we’ll be one step closer to finding Paul.”
The hope faded from Amanda’s eyes, tears once again dampening her lashes. “An investigation like that could take weeks, maybe more. Justin doesn’t have enough time.”
“Which is why I’m here.” Casey used the opportunity to address what she came here for. “The FI team has a close contact at the FBI. Would you object if I were to share the entirety of your story with him and ask for his help? If Paul is in the federal system—for whatever reason—our contact could try to find that out.”
“You really think Paul was involved in a crime,” Amanda said sadly. “And now you’re thinking even bigger—a federal crime. Who was this man I thought I knew?”
“Don’t go there, Amanda,” Casey replied. “Yes, we’re pretty sure Paul found himself in the middle of some sort of crime. That’s no surprise, given the violence of his disappearance. But, as I told you before, it’s possible he was a victim, not an offender. We just don’t know. And we won’t have answers unless we dig deep. I’m asking for your permission to do just that—with the help of a federal agent.”
Amanda nodded. “Of course. Get whatever help you need. My life is an open book at this point.” She glanced past Casey, her anxious gaze seeking out Patrick, ensuring he was there. “Do you have any leads on the person who called me?”
“Ryan’s checking out phone records, but I doubt we’ll find anything.” Casey didn’t try to sugarcoat the facts. “On the other hand, we know that whoever’s following us, and now calling you, is hell-bent on keeping us away from Paul. If we understand the ‘why,’ we’ll find the path that leads us to Paul.” A compassionate pause. “And stop worrying. Patrick’s not going anywhere. He’s here for you and for Justin. So concentrate on your son and on staying strong so you can be there for him.”
Before Amanda could answer, a monitor from inside the PICU began sounding loudly. The staff all mobilized at once, rushing inside to attend to the emergency.
Dr. Braeburn appeared from another section of the hospital, hurrying into the PICU.
“Justin,” Amanda whispered. Sheer terror filled her eyes, and she began running back down the corridor.
The curtains outside Justin’s section of the unit had been drawn shut. A nurse was exiting the glass doors to get some medical equipment. She saw Amanda and stopped her in her tracks. “You can’t go in there right now.”
“Is it Justin?” she demanded. “What’s happening?”
“Dr. Braeburn will be out to talk to you as soon as he can. I’ve got to go back in now to assist him.”
“Just tell me what that alarm means.”
The nurse was already in motion, heading back toward the room. “It’s the ventilator alarm,” she supplied. “I’m not sure why it went off. Please, Ms. Gleason, let us do our job.”
She disappeared back inside.
“Oh, God.” Amanda was trembling from head to toe. “He can’t breathe. Justin can’t breathe.”
Casey and Patrick both hurried to her side.
“Don’t anticipate the worst,” Casey cautioned, taking Amanda’s hands in hers. “These things go off for all kinds of reasons. Not all of those are serious. Let’s just wait to hear what the doctor says.”
“Casey’s right,” Patrick concurred. “I’ve even seen monitors malfunction. So don’t let your mind go crazy.” He gently patted her shoulder. “I’m sure the doctor will come out as soon as he can.”
“It’s not a malfunction,” Amanda said. “They’ve been in there too long. Why? What’s happening to my baby?”
The door swung open and Dr. Braeburn strode out.
“I can only stay a minute,” he told Amanda. “Justin’s being prepped for a procedure.”
“A procedure.” Amanda was as white as a sheet. “What kind of procedure?”
“Justin developed a pneumothorax—a collapsed lung,” he explained in simpler terms. “The ventilator can’t compensate for that. We have to insert a chest tube to suck the air leakage out of the chest cavity. Once the lung heals, we can remove the tube.”
“What if it doesn’t…” Amanda began.
“Don’t speculate. A pneumothorax isn’t uncommon in newborns on ventilators. We caught it right away. And we’re doing the procedure immediately.” Dr. Braeburn turned to go back inside. “Wait here with your friends. I’ll give you an update as soon as the procedure is over. It should take about fifteen minutes.”
“Can’t I be with him?” Amanda pleaded.
The doctor paused. “Unfortunately, no. This is a sterile medical procedure.”
A hard swallow. “Will he be in pain?”
“No. We’ll be administering pain medication. Now I really have to get back in there.” This time, Dr. Braeburn didn’t look back. He walked straight into the PICU.
The door shut behind him.
“Oh, God,” Amanda whispered again. She turned away, her hands pressed to her cheeks, her head bowed in unspeakable pain. “My poor baby.” She was talking more to herself than to Casey and Patrick. “He’s so tiny. So tiny. How can he live through this? More tubes. More procedures. More apparatuses. He’s doesn’t even weigh ten pounds. How is it possible for him to win this fight?”
Casey didn’t care that the questions weren’t aimed at her. She answered them anyway.
“He will win this fight, Amanda,” she said, walking around so she could face her client. “The tube will work with the ventilator. Between the two, he’ll be breathing normally. The lung will heal. The tube will come out. And once the antibiotics do their job, he won’t need the ventilator anymore.”
Casey’s own lashes were damp, but she refused to show anything but calmness and certainty. Because that was what Amanda needed at that moment.
“Amanda, you’re so strong,” she continued. “So is Justin. He’s his mother’s son. He wants to live. The doctors are going to make sure that he does.”
“As are we,” Patrick inserted with a fervor that startled Casey. “We’ll find Paul Everett. We won’t give up until we do. All you have to do is hold on. I’m a newer member of Forensic Instincts. But I’ve seen what this team can do. I’ve helped them do it. Don’t lose faith.”
Amanda lowered her arms and pivoted slowly to gaze at Patrick. “You have children,” she stated with certainty.
“Three. Two daughters and a son. And I’d give my life for any one of them. I understand what you
’re feeling. Helplessness is one of the hardest emotions to deal with as a parent. But you will deal with it. Because all that matters is Justin and the fact that he needs you.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” Amanda was trying to bolster herself with Patrick’s words. “Thank you. I’ll pull myself together. I have to.”
“I can stay here and wait with you,” Casey offered.
“No.” Amanda shook her head. “You go talk to your FBI friend. Find Paul. That’s the best thing you can do for me, and for Justin.”
“Go ahead, Casey,” Patrick said. “I’m here. And I think Amanda mentioned that her friend Melissa was coming by.”
“Yes, she is,” Amanda confirmed. “She’s stopping by right after she puts her kids on the bus. So she should be here soon. Between her and Patrick, I’ll have all the support I need.”
“Okay.” Casey squeezed her hands again. “I’m just a phone call away. And Patrick’s right. We’re going to find Paul.”
* * *
Behind the closed doors of his office, Lyle Fenton grabbed his cell phone as soon as he got word about the fire at Morano’s place. He didn’t have to wait for an investigation to know it was arson.
“Are you fucking crazy?” he demanded the instant his call was answered. “Don’t we have enough of a spotlight shining on us with the reopening of Paul Everett’s disappearance? Now you’re torching his successor’s office? Do you think the cops are idiots? They’re bound to tie the two together. Why the hell did you do this?”
“The son of a bitch wasn’t going to pay us anymore,” Franco Paccara snapped. Paccara was a union business manager—and a key member of the Vizzini family. “You’re worried about your ass. I’m worried about mine.”
“Well, you can stop worrying,” Fenton told him. “I pushed the permit applications through. You’ll be starting work on that massive construction job two months sooner than expected. So you and your crew will be making a hell of a lot more than the pocket change you’ve been extracting—and you’ll be doing it from outside a jail cell. Enough. Leave Morano alone.”
“He spit in our faces.”
“And you burned down his shack, his files, his computer, and everything else he had in there. He better have all his building files backed up on a flash drive or you screwed yourselves. Look, you probably scared the shit out of him. Fine. Threaten him throughout the entire project, for all I care. Just don’t do anything. I don’t want another Paul Everett on our hands.”