by Andrea Kane
Silence.
Fenton went for the brass ring. “There’s a bonus in this if you agree to go along with me.”
That woke Paccara up. “How much?”
“How does a hundred thousand sound to you? Half now, half when construction is finished. Share some with your guys. Keep the rest for yourself.”
“Yeah, okay, fine. We’ll leave Morano alone—as long as he cooperates and doesn’t try to screw us over.”
“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. Count on it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hutch was sitting at the counter in Casey’s kitchen, wearing only a pair of jeans, nursing a cup of coffee and working on his laptop, when Casey walked in.
“Hey.” He took one look at her, then got up and poured her a cup of coffee. “Here,” he said gently, pressing the cup into her hands. “You look like you need this.”
“More than you know.” She took a deep swallow, then placed the mug on the counter. “Thank you… I…”
In an uncharacteristic emotional meltdown, Casey walked straight into Hutch’s arms, pressing her face against his bare chest and winding her arms around his waist. “Watching this…seeing it firsthand…I don’t think I could go through what Amanda is,” Casey admitted in a watery voice. “Between this—and our last case—I doubt I’ll be having kids, ever.”
Hutch put down his own cup and wrapped his arms around her. “These cases are the toughest.” He pressed his lips into her hair. “I know. That’s why I transferred.”
She nodded against his skin. “I know you do. And I know you managed to compartmentalize it. I usually do, too.”
“I didn’t compartmentalize…I internalized,” Hutch corrected. “And it never got easier.”
Casey drew a deep, shaky breath. “I’m sorry I’m acting so weak and infantile. It’s completely unlike me. I’m just…”
“Human?” Hutch finished for her. “Sweetheart, you don’t always have to be the formidable president of Forensic Instincts. Sometimes you can just be Casey—at least with me.” His palms slid up and down her spine in a soothing gesture. “I think we’ve come at least that far, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Casey conceded.
Their relationship was complicated—intense, passionate, meaningful, but long-distance. Two strong-willed, independent people with equally consuming careers. They never talked about a future, never even put a label on what they had. It was better that way.
Still, there was no denying how close they’d grown.
“Tell me what happened at the hospital,” Hutch urged. “Is the baby worse?”
“Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure.”
Casey stepped out of Hutch’s embrace, blinked away her tears and picked up her cup of coffee. “The monitors in the PICU went off while I was there. It seems that Justin has a collapsed lung. The medical team was performing an emergency procedure to fix it when I left. Amanda will call me. She’s on the verge of a complete emotional breakdown. And who blames her? Every time she feels a shred of hope, something else happens to beat her down. We’ve got to find Paul Everett, Hutch. It doesn’t matter how.”
Hutch evaded that last sentence. He and Casey had different restrictions when it came to operating within the boundaries of the law. So they avoided that topic like the plague.
“Did you ask Amanda if you could unofficially consult with me?”
“Yes. She was thrilled. So here’s where we are.”
Casey proceeded to bring Hutch up to speed, filling him in on everything—including some things that even Amanda didn’t know. But, in order to do his job, Hutch had to be apprised of the FI team’s suspicions about Lyle Fenton and his involvement in whatever prompted Paul Everett’s disappearance. Casey hesitated when it came to the part about Fenton’s relationship to Congressman Mercer. Was it imperative that Hutch know that? Yes. Not only was it a major facet of the bigger picture, but it elevated the entire situation to a bigger, more federal level.
By the time Casey was finished, Hutch was one hundred percent up to speed.
He sipped at his coffee, brows knit, as he digested everything Casey had just told him.
“This is a lot bigger and more complex than I realized,” he finally said.
“Exactly,” Casey replied. “It might involve a crime family as well as a national politician. We don’t know. We will know, because we wouldn’t have it any other way. But an infant’s life is on the line. We don’t have the luxury of time. And you have the ability and the resources to accelerate the process. So anything you could find out would be crucial to our search for Paul Everett.” A pause. “After that, the case is all yours. Turn it over to the Bureau. Bring down everyone involved. All signs point to Fenton being a scumbag, so I’d be thrilled. But, for our purposes, all we need is Justin’s father.”
“Fair enough.” Hutch’s mind was already racing, considering the best sources for him to approach. “Let me make a few phone calls and send out some emails. I’ll see what I can dig up.”
* * *
Casey’s cell phone rang ten minutes later. She’d been sitting on the floor, scratching Hero’s belly in the hopes of unwinding. Now, she saw the caller ID and snatched up the phone. It was Patrick.
“What’s happening?” she demanded.
“The procedure was successful,” Patrick informed her. “Justin’s out of crisis mode—for now. Amanda’s in the PICU with him. She asked me to call you.”
“Thank God.” Casey felt a wave of relief. “Whatever time this bought us, I’m using. I filled Hutch in on everything. He’s closeted in one of the downstairs offices, reaching out for his contacts, as we speak.”
“Good. Meanwhile, there have been no more phone calls at this end. That doesn’t mean a thing. Someone’s keeping a sharp eye on Amanda and on us. My guess is he’s in restraint mode while he gets a read on me. But he’ll be back. He’s not going anywhere as long as we’re continuing this manhunt.”
“Which we are—full force,” Casey stressed.
“Any word back from Ryan on the phone records? Not that I think he’ll find anything.”
“No, and I agree. The guy probably used a burner phone. He’s not an amateur. He’s not going to get caught through phone records.”
“And what’s going on with Morano’s office? Have the cops officially declared it as arson yet?”
“Nope. They’re playing it very close to the vest. But I plan on calling our friend Detective Jones in a few hours. He’s been busy checking us out. It’s time I did a little information pumping of my own.”
* * *
The captain of Big Money eyed the sonar display as he carefully scanned the sea floor for the specially modified container.
Several hours behind schedule and fifteen nautical miles from New York Harbor, he was anxious to recover the last “catch” of the night. The container had been jettisoned two weeks ago in great haste, narrowly avoiding interception by the U.S. Coast Guard, which had stepped up drug interdiction efforts. Fashioned from an old shipping container with large cutouts on all sides, the steel box would have rapidly filled with water and sunk like a massive boat anchor. Steel mesh, welded over the manhole-size holes, would be keeping larger fish out of the container, where they might try to feed off the hermetically sealed bricks of cocaine.
The container and its contents were safe on the ocean floor, but their location, close to the center of the Hudson Shelf Valley, could be problematic.
Extending southeast from the Verrazano-Narrows at a forty-five-degree angle, the Hudson Shelf Valley bisected the New York Bight region of the continental shelf. Depths could reach over two hundred feet, which would make it impossible for the ship and its team of divers to retrieve the valuable cache of cocaine.
But luck was with them today.
The outline of the shipping container appeared on the LCD display—at a depth of 120 feet. Swiftly, the captain motioned to his first mate to dispatch the two divers. In a matter of minutes, the expert underwater team had d
eployed into the icy waters, attached a grappling hook to the loops of heavy steel cable welded onto the container and begun to haul it to the surface.
Two hours later, Big Money and its precious and highly illegal cargo pulled into the Fenton Marine dock in Bayonne, New Jersey.
* * *
The fire in Hampton Bays was ruled as arson.
The announcement was made, not by the police, but by the media. As was often the case, they beat the police to the punch—perhaps not with the conclusive findings, but with the revelation.
Within three hours, they’d made enough intrusional headway at the crime scene to put together the pieces and shout them out to the tristate area.
The facts were clear. A shack thoroughly doused with gasoline. The office of a real-estate developer about to embark on a multimillion-dollar project. The successor of a developer who was the victim of a bloody, no-body homicide eight months ago.
It was the kind of story ambitious reporters lived for.
Casey heard the breaking news on her headphones while jogging with Hero back home from the park. It explained why Detective Jones hadn’t returned her call. She’d thought he’d just been hiding from her—which no doubt he had been. But he’d also been directing all his resources to shutting down the media.
Unfortunately, not only would that be an impossible task, it would also be like closing the barn door after the horse was out.
Hurrying inside, Casey unleashed Hero, who bounded up the stairs behind her as she made her way to FI’s main conference room with its gigantic, multiscreened video wall.
“Hello, Casey. Hello, Hero,” Yoda greeted them.
“Yoda, I need to see all local TV news,” Casey instructed him.
“Are you looking for breaking news?” Yoda inquired. “Otherwise, you’ll find it problematic. It’s eleven forty-five—none of the local stations carry news programs at this time.”
Casey contemplated that truth.
“Would you prefer local news radio?” Yoda asked. “That would be on the air now.”
“I’ve already heard the radio announcement. I’d like visuals to go along with it.”
“I see. Then how shall I proceed?”
“What about midday news?” Casey asked. “A few of the local stations broadcast that.”
“Correct. Both CBS and ABC have news at noon. Shall I pull up both stations and we’ll await the midday hour?”
“Yes, Yoda, please.”
“Certainly.” The screens came to life. “I’m showing CBS on your left and ABC on your right. News will begin in precisely thirteen minutes, twelve seconds. Please advise me if you’d like one of the two stations expanded to full screen.”
“Thanks, Yoda. I will. One more thing. While we’re waiting, can you please search the internet for any stories about the fire at John Morano’s office?”
“Beginning search,” Yoda replied. Seconds later, he announced, “Nothing found.”
“Okay then, please check out the live internet feed from the local TV station in the Hamptons. The rest of Long Island, as well. Then, add those to the video display.”
“Very well.” A pause. “Local news will now begin in twelve minutes thirty-four seconds. Internet video feeds displaying now.”
“Good.”
As Casey had expected, the Long Island news stations were the first to scroll the breaking news of the fire across the bottom of the screen. A few minutes after noon, CBS showed a live report on the fire itself. Obviously, they’d had a TV crew in the area filming something else and had diverted them to the scene of the fire for more sensational coverage. The CBS reporter stated that they were awaiting confirmation from the local authorities that the fire was suspicious. Minutes later, ABC echoed the same information.
Casey’s phone rang. A quick glance at the caller ID.
“Hey, Ryan. Did you find anything in the phone records?” Casey asked. “Or are you just calling to tell me that the local news stations are jumping the gun on the arson story.”
“Actually, both,” Ryan replied. “Nothing on the phone records. The burner phone is probably lying at the bottom of the East River. And I’m glad you heard the local news reports.”
“I not only heard them, I’m watching them right now. As Yoda pointed out, CBS and ABC have midday news coverage. And the reporters are all over the arson story.”
“Did you reach Jones?”
“What do you think?”
Ryan chuckled. “I think he’s in deep shit and trying to shovel his way out with a teaspoon.”
“For sure. But I’ll get through to him. He can’t dodge me forever. I’ll just drive there and get in his face.” Casey paused, a fine tension lacing her tone. “Justin had another setback this morning,” she said. “It was pretty rough at the hospital.” She went on to explain the pneumothorax to Ryan.
“What happened?” she heard Marc call out from the background.
“Hang on,” Ryan said to Casey. She heard him telling Marc the specifics.
“Give me the phone,” Marc responded.
No surprise there. Not when there was a baby involved.
“Is he okay?” Marc asked Casey without prelude.
“Right now, yes. He’s holding his own,” she replied. “For how long? I don’t know. I’m no doctor, but it seems to me that Justin’s compromised immune system can only fight off so many setbacks.” She swallowed, then spoke to Marc with her customary honesty. “If you’re asking me if I’m worried—more worried than before—yes, I am. I feel like the clock is ticking away—louder and louder. I feel like we’re chipping away at our investigation, making small gains here and there, but nothing substantial enough to write home about. Hutch is on it now. Maybe we’ll get lucky and Paul Everett will show up in the Bureau system. But we can’t count on it.”
“I might still beat the crap out of Lyle Fenton,” Marc muttered with none of his usual composure. “You and I both know he’s up to his neck in this whole dirty dealing.”
“I agree. But the bottom line is, he doesn’t know where Paul is. He wouldn’t let Justin die. And finding Paul is all we’re focused on. Law enforcement can handle the rest.”
“Yeah. Right. Fine.” Marc blew out a frustrated breath. “We’re done here. Ryan slapped a GPS on Morano’s car before the guy took off for the arson site. Since then, Ryan’s been digging into phone records. Now he’s back to cross-checking Everett’s and Morano’s pasts. He can do that best in the office. We’ll pack up and head to the city.”
“Fine.” Casey knew exactly what was on Marc’s mind. “And, yes, Amanda did ask for you. But Patrick is there in his security capacity. And Amanda has started to trust him in a kind of father figure way. So she’s in good hands. You can’t be in all places at all times, Marc. I know you want to save Justin. We all do. But that’s not always accomplished by being Amanda’s babysitter. She’s a strong woman. And, as for the investigation, she needs to count on all of us, not just you.”
“I’m not trying to play knight in shining armor,” Marc assured her. “And I know very well what a shrink would say—that I’m compensating for what I’ve witnessed in the past by trying to save this one infant’s life. I’m sure that’s true. I’m also sure that nothing is going to erase memories that are burned inside my brain. But I’m the one who took on this case. I feel responsible—not only to Amanda, but to the team.”
“I know you do. That’s who you are.” Casey thought for a moment. “You’re right. There’s nothing else you can accomplish in Long Island, not at the moment. So come home. You drive. That way, Ryan can keep doing his computer search on the road.”
* * *
The two men sat across from each other in the private room, their conversation low and intense.
“They’re trying to tap into the FBI’s resources now,” one of them said.
“I know. And we can’t let that happen.” The second man slammed his fist on the table. “What the hell does it take to scare these pain-in-the-ass investigato
rs off?”
“We haven’t found it yet,” the first man replied. “But we will.”
Fallujah, Iraq
The trip had been arduous—and it still wasn’t over.
He’d caught the first flight to Ali Al Salem Airbase in Kuwait City, where he’d taken a military transport to Baghdad. If he was being stationed at the New Embassy Compound, it would be fairly simple, assuming the daily threat condition was in his favor. But he was heading out of Baghdad, traveling to Fallujah and one of the forward operating bases. Ground transportation was an impossibility. He would have to rely on military transport by helicopter. And who the hell knew when that could be arranged? Between the sandstorms that shut them down, the limited seating and the erratic schedule, it could be days before he traveled the ten fucking miles to his destination.
The urgency for this had been off-the-charts, and unnecessary.
Something was going on.
He just wasn’t sure what.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Claire had the oddest feeling.
And it wasn’t a happy one.
It was one of deception. And the deception was happening within the tight circle of Forensic Instincts.
She paced around her apartment as long as she could. She had to share this with someone. But who?
Ryan.
She had no idea why his name popped into her head. She could just as easily have talked to Casey or Marc or Patrick. But, for some reason, she knew the one to talk to was Ryan. The aura of deceit didn’t come from him. It was elsewhere, cloudy, but real. But Ryan’s aura was clear.
They’d probably argue. But she had to take a chance.
She pressed his number on speed dial.
“Hey, Claire-voyant, what’s up?” He sounded preoccupied.