by Andrea Kane
“Nope. Watching it.”
Ryan’s eyes widened. “Where?”
“There.” Marc jerked his thumb toward a spot across the way.
It took Ryan a few minutes to make out the black SUV tucked away in the sandy alcove. The damned thing was nearly invisible.
“How the hell did you see that?” he asked Marc. “Never mind.”
It was a stupid question. Marc had the instincts of a predatory cat.
“Is it the same arsonists about to do a repeat performance?” he asked instead.
“Uh-uh.” Marc shook his head. “I’d say it’s either the cops or private security. My guess? Private security. The cops would be patrolling, not sitting in the bushes, doing surveillance. And they can’t afford SUVs. Morano’s probably scared shitless. He must have hired someone to watch his new makeshift office.” A frown. “We need a distraction.”
He whipped out his cell phone and pressed Casey’s number on speed dial.
“It’s me,” he said without preamble. “We have company out here. A black SUV, parked diagonally across from Morano’s trailer on the Hampton Bays side of the marina.” He gave Casey the exact location. “I need you to call 9-1-1 and report it as a suspicious vehicle. When the cops show up to check it out, and while they’re busy interrogating the driver, Ryan and I will get inside the trailer. We’ll be out and gone by the time they leave.”
“We will?” Ryan asked incredulously as Marc punched off his phone.
“Yeah. We will.” Marc stayed crouched down, indicating to Ryan that he should do the same. “Follow my lead. When the cops show up, we go. Fast. I’ll get us in. You get Gecko installed. We’ll be gone in three minutes tops.”
“Shit. You’re tougher than my MIT professors.”
Marc gave a hard grin. “Get used to it. Real life is tougher than any Ivy League school. Now stay put.”
It didn’t take five minutes before a patrol car came speeding down the street and stopped behind the SUV.
Marc waited until the cop had gotten out of his vehicle and approached the SUV, his back turned toward them.
“That’s our cue,” he told Ryan. “Let’s go.”
They sprinted over to the trailer. Marc had the lock picked in thirty seconds. Then they were inside.
“I’ll keep watch,” Marc said. “You do what you have to.” He went to the trailer window and stared out.
Ryan quickly scanned the space, focusing on the area of the ceiling where Gecko would have the widest visibility. Perfect. A gap in the ceiling tile that would allow Gecko’s tiny video camera to see the whole room. He climbed onto Morano’s desk, used his palm to push the tile up and to a side, and placed Gecko in position. Then he lowered the tile back into place.
“Done,” he announced.
Marc was standing like a statue at the window, not moving or making a sound, just continuing his lookout. The cop and his partner were still talking to the driver of the SUV, probably checking out his credentials.
“Good.” He spoke to Ryan without turning. “Let’s get out of here.”
They crept to the door and slipped out, making sure to lock the trailer door behind them.
There was one more tricky feat to accomplish before they took off.
Ryan stopped at the van long enough to extract the all-important small black box and to pull on his boots with the ankle gaffs and his leather gloves. Next came the body belt and safety strap. Once all his gear was in place, he climbed noiselessly up an adjacent telephone pole—away from the view of the cops—where he mounted the black box. That baby would receive Gecko’s audio and video signal, encrypt them and transmit them over the internet via a secure tunnel opened between the black box and their firewall.
And Forensic Instincts would be able to watch and hear everything Morano did or said.
* * *
They drove away quietly, headlights off until they reached the main road. Then, Ryan flipped on the headlights, accelerated to a normal speed and steered the van around to the Southampton side of Shinnecock Bay where the marina and Fenton’s yacht were located.
While Ryan was finding a hidden spot to park the van, Marc shrugged into a down parka. The hunter-green jacket was bland enough to be less than memorable, but contrasting enough so he didn’t look like a cat burglar. For this second of his two break-ins, he wanted to seem like a regular guy taking a stroll with his dog.
Ryan parked the van in a desolate area a few hundred yards from the marina. He unbuckled his seat belt and snapped off a salute to Marc.
“Have fun, you two,” he said, indicating Hero. “I’ll be in the back of the van with my computer doing the real work.”
“Good to know I’m getting off easy,” Marc retorted, zipping up his parka. “I’ll try not to worry about you.”
Ryan grinned. Marc didn’t waste his time worrying. He just planned, executed and succeeded.
“I’m going back another decade on Everett and Morano,” Ryan told him. “Hell, I’ll go back to nursery school if I have to. There’s got to be some kind of connection. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Neither do I.” Marc had jumped out of the van, and was now leashing up Hero and collecting the backpack of items he needed for his excursion.
“I mapped out the location of the security cameras for you,” Ryan reminded him.
“Got it.” Marc pulled out the printed diagram Ryan had given him. “I’ll make sure that Hero and I avoid them.”
“The place is fenced in and gated, and there’s a friggin’ guard sitting in that booth in front.” Ryan cast a troubled look at the marina. “The commercial building that Fenton’s made into his personal boat garage is way in the back. You can’t scale the fence, not with Hero in tow. And who knows what kind of private security Fenton has in place? This isn’t going to be as easy as breaking into Morano’s trailer.”
“Never thought it would be.” Marc shrugged, urging Hero to stand beside him. “I’ll handle whatever’s thrown at me. You just figure out what link there is between Morano and Everett.” He slung the backpack over his shoulder. “See you in a while.”
“Yup. See you.”
* * *
First things first.
Marc ambled along the pavement as if taking Hero for an evening stroll, but using that opportunity to pass by and assess the guard in his booth. The guy looked half-asleep, his feet up on the desk, his chin on his chest. No obstacle there.
Turning around, Marc strolled back to the gate. He assessed the lock and pulled out his tools. No challenge here, either.
Once he’d taken care of the lock, he opened the gate a crack—just enough so that he and Hero could slide through. He shut it behind them, leaving the lock hanging in place so the guard wouldn’t notice anything. It was too dark for him to see that the lock was open—not that he was looking anyway.
Marc and Hero were inside.
Referring to Ryan’s diagram, Marc walked Hero through the docks in a zigzag pattern that avoided the security cameras. Hero was intently sniffing, taking in every new and interesting scent around.
They reached the commercial building without incident.
Sure enough, there was a burly-looking security guard sitting outside the building. He jerked into a standing position the instant he saw Marc and Hero approach, then come to a halt beside him.
“Who the hell are you and what do you want?”
“I’m a mechanic,” Marc replied, using his peripheral vision to ensure that no one else was around. “Mr. Fenton asked me to check out something on his yacht.”
“He didn’t say a word to me.” The guard fumbled for his cell. “You’ll have to wait.” He glanced down at his phone. “I’ve got to verify…”
The guard never finished his sentence.
Marc’s arm was around his throat, his thumb pressing down on the carotid artery. With his other hand he pressed the guard’s neck sideways in the same direction, and waited the few seconds it took for him to lose consciousness. Marc rele
ased his grip as the guard sank to the ground, and caught him as he did. He dragged the guy to the side of the building, where he’d be out of sight. He then tied his wrists and ankles with the thick cord he’d brought with him and stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth—just in case he regained consciousness before Marc’s exit.
Hopefully, this wouldn’t take long.
The lock on the building was almost as easy to pick as the one on the front gate had been.
He and Hero were inside in three minutes, the door shut behind them.
The building was dark, illuminated only by the faint moonlight that filtered in through the large skylight in the ceiling. It was enough to reveal the outline of a ship. Marc reached into his backpack and pulled out a flashlight. He clicked it on, shining it directly on the yacht. It was an exquisite vessel—streamlined, white, ninety feet long, and with the name Lady Luck printed in bold letters on the bow. An apt name for Fenton’s private treasure.
Marc didn’t waste a second. He gathered Hero up, balancing his ninety pounds of weight against his chest, and climbed up the ladder and over the side, placing the bloodhound onto the main deck of the yacht.
They explored the berth deck, concentrating on the stateroom and the bath. It didn’t take long to find a few of Fenton’s personal items—an old razor and a pair of swim trunks. Marc let Hero sniff them, then he shoved them into his backpack.
He pulled out the scent pads he’d made with Paul’s smell on them, and gave one to Hero to sniff. Hero sniffed at it long and hard. Then, he picked up his head and bounded across to the galley kitchen. There, he sat down and pawed the ground. He refused to move, no matter what.
Bingo. Marc had his answer. Paul Everett had been on this yacht. And Fenton had never mentioned it. Casual business associates? Yeah, right.
With that important knowledge stored away, Marc gave Hero a coveted treat and then led him along the main deck and up the ladder to the bridge. All the controls—including the electronic radio controls—were located there.
Marc went straight for the control panel and quickly zeroed in on what he was looking for.
He pressed the power button on the rack-mounted Sailor Broadband unit and waited for the system to acquire a satellite. Once that was accomplished, he extended the retractable ethernet cable, plugging one end into his netbook, the other into the wall jack adjacent to the mahogany tabletop that served as Fenton’s maritime office. When the Power, Terminal, and Antenna status lights on the Sailor 250 were solid green, Marc powered up his netbook. Opening up Firefox, he entered http://192.168.0.1 to gain access to the main menu.
Done.
Marc clicked on the Messages navigation button to look at all of Fenton’s recent calls and text messages. He downloaded the call log to his netbook, saving the details for Ryan to decipher later.
Abruptly, while examining the phone book, something caught Marc’s eye. It was an entry for Big Money.
Interesting.
He went into the software’s edit mode, then copied the mobile number—870 area code. Didn’t recognize it.
Clicking the Messages navigation button, and selecting the Write Message option, he pasted Big Money’s phone number into the Recipient field and then composed a cryptic, one-word text message:
Status?
He changed Delivery Confirmation to Yes, clicked the send button and waited.
A brief interval passed. Then Marc got a confirmation. Shortly thereafter, his response arrived:
Why are you on your boat? Thought it was in storage for winter.
Marc considered what Fenton’s reaction would be to having his whereabouts questioned. Then he responded:
My business, not yours. WHAT IS YOUR STATUS?
Sure enough, came the reply:
Sorry. All containers retrieved. Heading 4 Bayonne.
Marc did a double take. Then he typed his final message:
Good. Signing off.
Containers retrieved? In Marc’s experience that meant one of a couple of things—either of which would put Fenton behind bars for a long, long time.
* * *
Ryan was sitting in the back of the van, thoroughly studying his computer screen, when Marc yanked open the back door and instructed Hero to jump in.
“Hey.” Ryan’s head snapped up. “How did it go?”
“It went.” Marc gestured for him to return to the driver’s seat. “I’ve got a call log for you to decipher. And we’ve got three other stops to make. Let’s start with Westhampton Beach. We’re picking up Claire.”
“And the second stop—you’re going to see Fenton.”
“Yup. And third stop, Mercer. It’s time to blow the lid off this case.”
* * *
Thirty minutes after Marc left the marina, the captain of Big Money was crossing under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge when the incoming-message indicator on his communications display terminal flashed again. Pressing the icon on the touch screen, he read:
Fenton (mobile).
The captain was puzzled about why Fenton would text him again, this time from his cell phone. While aboard Lady Luck, he’d made it clear he was signing off, the implication being Don’t bother me.
Quickly, the captain opened the text message. He panicked when he saw Fenton’s request:
Status?
He didn’t wait. “Goddfrey,” he shouted to his first mate. “Call Fenton on his cell phone. It’s an emergency.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Fenton was waiting for Marc when the van arrived at the iron gates of his estate.
He eased aside his living-room drapes to watch the approaching headlights illuminate his lawn. This time he was worried. Very worried. He had no idea how much damaging information Marc Devereaux had come away with, but what Fenton had been briefed on was bad enough. This wasn’t going to be a harmless fishing expedition like last time. It was going to be an ugly confrontation.
He would have called his lawyer and asked him to be present. But that would make him look as guilty as he really was.
He sucked in his breath and readied himself for what was to come.
Outside, the guard posted at the property entrance complied with Fenton’s earlier instructions. He opened the iron gates and let the FI van pass through.
“Do you want me to come in with you two?” Ryan asked Marc, as he maneuvered down the labyrinth driveway.
“Nope.” Marc shook his head. “I want you to continue your research and share some trail mix with Hero. He must be starved after his long night. As for Fenton, this visit will be most effective if I just walk in and surprise him with the team psychic. That’ll freak him out.”
“It freaks everyone out, right, Claire-voyant?” Ryan teased.
Claire’s brows rose. It was the first normal comment Ryan had made to her since…well, since then. “Not everyone,” she replied. “Mostly you.”
Ryan met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Freaked out is not the term I’d use. More like intrigued and frustrated.”
Claire swallowed. “That’s an improvement over dismissive.”
“Yeah, well, people change. Although I still don’t buy the communing with inanimate objects.”
“Then how do you explain Gecko?”
“He’s very animate. He just speaks a different language than we do.”
“So do victims’ personal items.”
“Save it, you two,” Marc interrupted. “Let’s get the truth out of Fenton. And Mercer. Then you can go back to your game of one-upmanship.”
“Good idea,” Claire said. She averted her gaze and readied herself as the van approached the manor. “This should be interesting.”
“Don’t flip out if I go after the guy—I mean really go after him,” Marc cautioned her.
“You mean beat him up?” She shrugged. “If it will help us save Justin, feel free. I’m a lot tougher than the bunch of you think.”
Ryan coughed, but he said nothing. He just pulled the van around to the front of the house. “Good
luck,” he told them. “Shoot some video if you kick the guy’s ass.”
“Sure,” Marc replied good-naturedly. “Claire, you have your cell, right?”
* * *
The butler ushered Claire and Marc directly to the study where Fenton sat at his desk. He did a double take when he saw Claire.
“We met at the hospital,” he remembered aloud, scrutinizing her.
“We certainly did. Claire Hedgleigh,” Claire reminded him.
“Right.” Try though he did to keep up appearances, Fenton was definitely thrown. He knew who and what Claire was.
Shuffling some papers around on his desk, he snapped off commands to his butler. “Go. And shut the door behind you. I don’t want to be disturbed—not for any reason.”
“Yes, sir.” The thin, uneasy-looking man disappeared.
“Why did you bring Ms. Hedgleigh with you?” Fenton demanded right away. “She wasn’t there when you broke in and trespassed on my boat with your trained bloodhound.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Marc’s expression was nondescript. He glanced around the room. “I hope you’re not stupid enough to have this room bugged. Your admissions, or lack thereof, are a lot more incriminating than mine.”
“The room’s not bugged. I’m an average man, Devereaux, not a spy.”
“An average man?” This time, Marc raised a brow. “I wouldn’t use that term to describe you. As for Claire, she’s my colleague, and a trusted judge of character. I asked her to be here.”
“She’s a psychic.”
“Yes, I am,” Claire confirmed. “I pick up on all kinds of energy, good and bad.”
“Bad energy isn’t admissible in court,” Fenton mocked her.
“I wasn’t planning on testifying. Why? Should I be?”