by Andrea Kane
Richard studied her unyielding expression. “Why this time?”
“Simple,” Patricia replied. “I will not be the one responsible for letting an innocent baby die. And I will not allow the FBI to be held responsible in the court of public opinion for letting an innocent baby die.”
* * *
Hutch was still asleep when Casey left the brownstone the next morning. But he’d clearly gotten up sometime during the wee hours of the morning, when she’d been out for the count, because his overnight bag was unpacked and his toothbrush was back in the bathroom.
Casey smiled. Tough as the situation was, she was glad he’d decided to stay. He had to be back at Quantico tomorrow anyway. And if they could grab one more night together, it would be worth the professional tension that permeated the air whenever their careers collided.
Nothing good was waiting for her at Sloane Kettering.
The minute she arrived at the PICU, Patrick warned her that Amanda was in a highly depressed state. Justin had had a fitful night, and Dr. Braeburn was concerned that there had been no improvement in his breathing or in his overall condition. The antibiotics should be doing their job by now.
Casey nodded, and then went down the hall.
She stood on the other side of the window, watching Amanda try to hold Justin. It was next to impossible with the ventilator and the chest tube in place. And she was clearly terrified about inadvertently jostling any of the apparatus, for fear that it would cause them to stop working—even for an instant.
It broke Casey’s heart to see Amanda bow her head and brokenly sob over this tiny little person who had endured so much in his few short weeks of life. Her shoulders quaked with emotion as she stroked his face, his downy head. Tears slid down her cheeks and fell onto the railing of Justin’s crib.
Dammit, Casey thought, squeezing her own eyes shut. Why couldn’t the FBI understand this? Why couldn’t she drag the whole miserable lot of them into this PICU to see the consequences of their actions, to see the result of their impeding FI’s search for Paul Everett? What if it had been their child whose life was on the line? What in the name of heaven could matter more? Some stupid case?
Tears brimming in her own eyes, Casey turned away. She’d lost all objectivity where it came to the FBI’s handling of this investigation. Obviously, whatever they were pursuing was major. But that wasn’t this poor baby’s fault. He deserved the right to live, to thrive. And—if he was lucky enough to do both—he deserved the right to know his father.
Amanda glanced up and spotted Casey outside, her back turned toward her. She resettled Justin in his crib and rose, walking slowly out to where Casey stood.
“Hi, Casey,” she said quietly, a tremor still in her voice. “How long have you been here.”
“I just arrived.” Casey dashed away her tears and turned around. She wasn’t fooling anyone with her show of bravado, but it was her job to appear strong. So strong she would be. “No change?” she asked, fully aware of the answer.
“None.” Amanda eyelids were puffy, and there were deep, dark circles beneath her eyes. She looked as if she’d aged ten years this week. “Have you gotten any information from my uncle?”
“Nothing concrete. Marc met with him last night. He’s going back again this morning. We honestly don’t believe he knows where Paul is. But it’s possible some of his colleagues do. We won’t let it go until we find out.”
“His colleagues,” Amanda repeated. “Yes, those were the words Patrick used. But I’m not a fool. What you’re saying is that my uncle has mob connections.”
Casey blew out her breath. “All we have is speculation to go on.”
“I don’t believe that. You’re too thorough of a woman to fly by the seat of your pants. You know something.”
“And when that something translates into hard facts, you’ll be the first to know it.” Casey raked a hand through her hair. “I realize how much we’re asking of you. But please trust us. We’re pushing this to the limit. If any of your uncle’s associates knows something, we’ll get at it. In the meantime, just promise me you won’t contact him. And don’t take his calls. It would only complicate what’s already a delicate situation.”
“I won’t.” Amanda’s lips thinned. “But if I find out he had any part in Paul’s disappearance—or even if he knew a thing about it—I won’t be responsible for what I’ll do.”
“I don’t blame you. Just do it after we find Paul.”
* * *
Marc called Casey as she was driving home.
“What’s up?” she asked, emotionally drained and bone weary.
“You sound like hell.” As usual, Marc cut right to the chase.
“That’s because I just came from seeing Amanda. She’s in hell. Tell me that Fenton gave you something.”
“Only a restraining order.” Marc chuckled. “Evidently I’m a danger to him. So I never got through his gates today. On the plus side, he’s been making phone calls like a demon. Probably warning off his ‘contacts’ and telling them they won’t be using his fleet to transport illegal cargo anytime soon.”
“And Ryan’s tracing the calls?”
“Oh, yeah. Your plan was genius—scare Fenton, watch him run. Ryan’s hard at work—we’ll probably have the names of half the mob by the time he’s done.”
Casey sighed. “All we need are the ones who took part in Paul’s disappearance—if any of them did.” A pause. “What happened with Ryan and that attorney?”
“It was a bust, just as we expected,” Marc replied. “The guy is a Boy Scout without a blemish on his record. He loves kids and puppies and gives to all the local charities. So you think he’d be the epitome of compassion in a situation like this one. But, nope. He shut down like a clam the minute he heard what Ryan wanted. Didn’t give him so much as a clue. He stuck to attorney-client privilege, and said he’d talk to us only if we got written permission from John Morano.”
“Right, like Morano’s going to give us that.”
“Exactly. But, judging from Ryan’s description, this lawyer is just too good to be true. It only makes this situation stink even more.”
“Agreed.”
Marc paused. “Is Hutch gone?” he asked diplomatically.
“No, I think he’s staying till tomorrow.”
Marc heard her loud and clear. “Good. Then he and I can grab a beer before he takes off.”
“I’ll let him know.” Casey pulled up to the curb and parked the car, grateful that she’d found a spot only half a block from the office. Meanwhile, she could hear Ryan’s muffled voice talking to Marc at the other end of the phone.
“Hey, Case?” Marc responded. “Ryan asked if you’d stop in the conference room when you get back to the office and see if we’re getting Gecko’s transmission from Morano’s trailer. It seemed to be functioning well the last time Ryan checked his laptop—which, by the way, was fifteen minutes ago—but he wants to double-check that it’s coming through clearly at your end so we have a backup copy on the server.”
“No problem. I’m here. I’ll do that first thing.”
“You won’t be seeing anything too impressive,” Marc reminded her. “Just the crappy interior of a trailer-turned-office. And a polished, harried-looking guy.”
“Morano.”
“Yup. Morano.”
“Got it.” Casey unbuckled her seat belt. “I’m hanging up now. I’ll give you a call later.”
She went straight upstairs to the conference room and sat down at the large oval table.
“Good morning, Casey,” Yoda greeted her. “Will you be requiring my services?”
“Yes, Yoda. Please display the live feed from Gecko.”
“Certainly. Would you like me to fill the entire wall?”
“No. Please size the video for optimal resolution.”
“Engaging Faroudja video enhancement,” Yoda announced. A brief pause. “Video is coming up now. How is the quality, Casey?”
“Perfect, Yoda.” Casey fo
cused on the screen and the clear image that had appeared. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Let me know if you need anything else.” Yoda fell silent.
Yup. Gecko was doing a fine job, Casey thought, leaning forward to scrutinize the picture. She could clearly make out the dumpy trailer that Morano was using as an office. Morano was in and at his desk. Casey recognized him from the online photos Ryan had showed her when he traced Morano’s background. The guy wasn’t doing anything too exciting; just typing at his keyboard and flipping through a few files.
Just as Casey was about to call her findings in to Ryan, Morano’s cell phone rang. Not the one on his desk, but another one, which he yanked out of his pants pocket.
“Yeah,” he answered. He went rigid. “What do you mean, he’s on his way home? How the hell did he get out of there so fast? And how did he put the pieces together?” A pause. “Shit. He’ll be flying straight to JFK. That’s just thirteen hours in the air. Which gives me one fucking day. How do you suggest I pull this off?” He stood up and began pacing, so agitated that he looked as if he might kill someone. “Okay, good. Just have him stopped. I need a little more time. I know, I know. Just buy me a couple of days.”
He punched off the phone. “Shit!” he shouted at the empty room. “Shit, shit, shit!” He picked up a mug and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into fragments. Then, he sank down at his desk, dragging an arm across his sweating forehead. Whatever he had to accomplish, it was big. And it was in the process of being compromised.
A myriad of thoughts flooded Casey’s mind.
The person Morano was referring to had to be Paul Everett. And Morano himself was in this as deep as Fenton. Maybe more so, if he were part of the mob.
Without further speculation, Casey punched Ryan’s number on speed dial. “Are you behind the wheel?” she demanded.
“Nope, a passenger,” he replied. “I just switched off with Claire, since I’ve been driving since last night. I needed to take a break.”
“Well, don’t. Tell Claire to pull over to the side of the road. All three of you get in the back of the van. Rewind the transmission from Gecko about three minutes. Then, watch.”
“Done.” Ryan didn’t ask any questions. He just acted.
While Casey stayed on the phone, she could heard a mingle of voices and a rush of activity. Then some slamming car doors and shuffling around.
“We’re all back here,” Ryan said. “I’m putting you on speaker, and putting down the phone so I can rewind the video feed.”
Casey waited impatiently while Ryan reversed the feed and backed it up about three minutes. Then, he shifted back into play mode.
“Yup, that’s Morano,” Marc identified. “Sitting at his desk.”
“Keep watching,” Casey instructed. She listened as her other team members watched and heard what she had.
“Holy shit.” Ryan reacted first. “I thought Morano was a victim. That must have been a setup. He’s one of them.”
“One of whoever’s keeping Paul Everett away,” Marc clarified. “It could be the mob. It could be law enforcement. We just don’t know.”
“We do know that it’s Paul Everett on a flight,” Claire inserted. “His energy has been in transition since I got to Amanda’s. I kept walking around her apartment, going from room to room, trying to understand what I was sensing. But this is it. He’s on his way home.”
“Which means he’s flying into JFK from somewhere,” Casey said. “We don’t know where and we don’t know when. All we know is that it’s a thirteen-hour flight, that it’s landing at JFK sometime today, and that whoever they are, they intend to stop him from getting to Amanda and Justin.”
“We might not know any of the details,” Marc said in a hard tone. “But Morano does. We could confront him. But that would only backfire. He’d shut down and refuse to tell us a damned thing. We’re better off sticking close by and monitoring him. Eventually, he’ll be having a follow-up chat.”
“I agree,” Casey said. “You three stay out there and keep a close eye on Morano. Call me ASAP if you see or hear anything before I do. I’m contacting Patrick and getting him to call in security relief. I want him at JFK’s International Terminal. Thirteen hours means the flight is originating overseas. Marc, you’ve done the most international traveling. Come up with a list of potential origins. In the meantime, Ryan, you search for flights about thirteen hours in length that are landing at JFK. The two of you compare notes to find the most likely time and terminal.”
“Done,” Marc said.
“In the meantime, Patrick can pick me up and we’ll go to JFK together. Two sets of eyes are better than one. Until we get your text, we’ll check out the arrival schedule and figure out some possibilities on our own. And, if either one of us spots Paul Everett, or anyone tries to detain him, we can act.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The large fifth-floor conference room at FBI Headquarters was filled to capacity.
Patricia had met with the team from the New York Field Office, together with the Assistant U.S. Attorney, before Richard called the CUORC meeting to order.
CUORC consisted of Richard, the Committee Chairman, plus a dozen FBI Section Chiefs and an equal number of Unit Chiefs spanning every division of the FBI, in addition to a Department Of Justice Director and a dozen DOJ division chiefs. It was up to CUORC to assess the benefits and the risks of the Undercover operation and the sensitive circumstances that existed.
Waiting in the wings to answer any questions their respective Section and Unit Chiefs might have during the meeting were SSA Robinson of the Public Corruption squad and SSA Camden of the Vizzini family Organized Crime Squad, along with the Assistant U.S. Attorney who was working with the New York Field Office.
Frank Rodriguez, Section Chief of Integrity in Government, spoke first.
“This investigation was initially ours. It began over a year ago. The Long Island Resident Agency got a tip from the original owner of beachfront real estate on Shinnecock Bay. He wanted to build a hotel to capitalize on the business opportunity created by the construction of the nearby Shinnecock Indian Casino. He sought all the appropriate permits from the Town of Southampton. Evidently, Lyle Fenton, using his position on the Town Board, was extorting him by withholding permits, zoning variances, road improvements, environmental approvals—you name it—unless he was guaranteed a portion of the hotel profits. Fenton was already on our radar, and we had reason to believe the corruption extended beyond Southampton to Washington, D.C.”
“Are you speaking of Congressman Mercer?” Richard inquired.
“Yes,” Rodriguez replied. “The problem was, there was no hard evidence against Fenton or Mercer. So when the case was referred to the New York Field Office, I approved the Public Corruption Squad’s request to aggressively pursue the case. We made arrangements for the landowner to sell his property to an FBI shell company with the understanding that, once our sting was over, we’d sell the property back to him at the same price.”
“And the new owner of the property became Paul Everett,” Richard stated, repeating the facts for the benefit of the CUORC members. “Or rather, Special Agent Paul Evans of the Philadelphia Field Office. Everett was his UC name.”
“Exactly. Paul was the ideal candidate for the job.”
“Not so ideal,” Richard said drily. “Getting romantically involved with Amanda Gleason was a colossal mistake—one we’re all paying for now.”
“Agreed.” Douglas Sawyer, Unit Chief of Undercover and Sensitive Operations, nodded, taking full responsibility for the case-altering snag. “But none of us, Paul included, anticipated that complication. Paul was the right choice for the assignment. He’d done UC work before, and he had a background in real-estate development, so creating his legend was easy. What happened afterward, his involvement with Ms. Gleason—that was a lapse in judgment we tried to correct. Paul refused.”
“Let’s stay on point,” Richard said. “What was your plan?”
Sawyer paused to drink some water.
Rodriguez continued. “Where Fenton left off, the Vizzini family took over. Their leverage was the unions. So now we had two targets—Fenton and the Vizzini crime family.” He gestured toward James Kirkpatrick, Section Chief of Criminal Enterprises for the Americas. “We brought in CE. Together, we arranged for Everett to make his payments to the mob and to strike up a working relationship with Fenton. We hoped to bring them all down, including those in Washington, D.C., who were involved.”
Rodriguez went on to explain that their investigation had revealed that Congressman Mercer was Lyle Fenton’s son, that he was in his pocket, and that they intended to find out how deeply.
“The problem was budget constraints,” Kirkpatrick said, taking over from Rodriguez with the Criminal Enterprise point of view. “We had limited funding. And the PC unit had already overextended itself with the land purchase. Paul was frustrated, and right on the brink of nailing Fenton. He took a weekend off and went to Boston, where he ran in a law enforcement charity 10K marathon. Evidently, he did this every year. Should have been no problem. Except that he ran into a buddy of his, Ron Pembrooke, his former roommate as a New Agent Trainee in Quantico. Pembrooke’s now a backup media specialist at the Boston Field Office. Even that would have been okay, if Pembrooke hadn’t placed in the damned race, if Paul hadn’t gone over to slap him on the back, and if a local photographer hadn’t snapped a shot of them together right in front of the Law Enforcement Officer’s charity banner—a photo that later appeared in American Police Beat magazine.”
Everyone in the room nodded, as the sequence of events became clear. Paul had compromised the investigation—not only by getting involved with Amanda Gleason, but by failing to maintain anonymity.