by Andrea Kane
“We had to pull Paul out,” Sawyer said. “We were planning on scrubbing the entire UC op. If Kirkpatrick’s people hadn’t come up with their proposal, and if the ADIC and CE hadn’t approved the funding to support it, we’d have been dead in the water.”
“Which is how you made it look like Paul Everett was,” Richard commented.
“Yes,” Kirkpatrick confirmed. “We faked Everett’s death and made it look like a mob hit. We got the cooperation of the local State Troopers, who closed the murder investigation ASAP. CE bought the shell company from the Political Corruption unit. CE took over the entire operation and supplied one of our own UC agents—John Macari, now John Morano. We’re about to bring this case to fruition. We just need a few key pieces of evidence. And with so much invested by the Bureau, we can’t afford to back off or to compromise the investigation—certainly not for the personal needs of one agent.”
“We’re not discussing an agent,” Richard corrected. “We’re discussing a dying infant. And you wouldn’t be compromising the investigation. We could have Paul Evans escorted to Sloane Kettering and kept in hiding until you complete your operation.” A heartbeat of a pause, after which he played Patricia’s trump card—the one she had briefed him on just before the CUORC meeting. “Plus, as you yourself just said, you don’t have certain pieces of key evidence. We could change that.”
Kirkpatrick frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means we can obtain the evidence we need while simultaneously ensuring that Paul Evans will not be seen or identified at the hospital.”
“With all due respect, Rich, can you truly make assurances like that? Amanda Gleason is Lyle Fenton’s niece. What’s to stop him from visiting the hospital at the exact time that Evans is being donor tested? What’s to stop anyone in the New York area who knew Evans as Everett from recognizing him? And what’s to stop these Forensic Instincts people from inserting themselves yet again and screwing things up? Can you guarantee that none of that will happen?”
“Yes.” Richard didn’t miss a beat. “I can.” He carefully described Patricia’s entire plan, just as she’d instructed him to.
The room was filled with a deadly silence, as all the attendees contemplated the proposal, glancing at one another to gauge how others might vote.
Minutes later, Richard walked into his boss’s office to deliver the verdict.
* * *
Hutch was showered and dressed when Casey came upstairs to her apartment and walked into the bedroom.
“Good morning.” She smiled, went over to him and kissed him hello.
“Sort of.” Hutch wrapped his arms around her. “I would have preferred a proper good morning to a cold bed and a belated kiss.”
“Sorry. Duty called.” Casey kissed him again, then stepped away. “It’s been a crazy morning. It’s about to get crazier. Patrick’s picking me up. I have to race off again. I wish I could share the details with you.” A sigh. “Maybe when it’s over and we’ve saved little Justin.”
“You’ll save him, Casey. I have faith in you.” That was something Hutch could say with complete candor.
“Thank you. I hope you’re right. And, for the record, I hope we can do it without jeopardizing an FBI investigation.”
Before Hutch could reply, his cell phone rang.
He picked it up off the nightstand and answered it. “Hutchinson.”
“Hello, Hutch,” was the reply. “It’s Patricia Carey. I know you’re in New York, taking a few days off. Are you free to talk?”
Hutch couldn’t mask his surprise. He’d known Executive Assistant Director Carey for a dozen years, and they’d even worked together on several violent crimes investigations earlier in her career. They’d always shared a mutual respect, and even an occasional beer. But now that she was an Executive Assistant Director, they didn’t exactly travel in the same circles. And they definitely didn’t exchange social calls.
“Uh, yes.” He glanced up at Casey, about to request some privacy. “Just give me a minute.”
“If that minute involves asking Casey Woods to leave the room, don’t. I want her there. Or am I being too presumptuous?”
Hutch sat down on the edge of the bed with a stunned expression on his face. “You’re not being presumptuous. I just don’t understand why you’d…”
“Why I’d know you were involved with Ms. Woods? Or why I’d want her participation in this telephone conversation?” A hint of humor. “The former is common knowledge. As for the latter—please ask her to stay.”
“All right.” Hutch held up a detaining palm.
Casey halted in her tracks, a puzzled expression on her face.
“One last thing before we have Ms. Woods join in,” Patricia said. “You and I have worked together in the past. I’ve since followed your career. Your reputation is stellar. Plus, I trust you. So here’s my question—I’m aware of the fact that Forensic Instincts is trying to locate Paul Everett—and uncovering a wealth of information in the process. Please put your personal feelings about Ms. Woods aside. Are she and her team trustworthy?”
Trustworthy meant different things to different people.
“In what regard?” Hutch asked, trying to discern whether Patricia meant honorable or lawful.
Patricia read his mind and chuckled. “I don’t mean, do they follow the rules. I’m more than cognizant of the fact that they both bend and break those. What I mean is, if I were to strike a deal with them—one that would benefit their client—would they honor it?”
“Absolutely.” That one was a no-brainer. “I can vouch for their integrity, beyond the shadow of a doubt.”
“I assumed you’d say that. And I’m relieved. Now, would you please put us on speaker?”
Still totally at sea, Hutch did as she asked, beckoning Casey over as he did. “You’re on speaker, ma’am,” he said. “Casey, you’re talking to Executive Assistant Director Patricia Carey.”
Casey’s brows arched. Patricia Carey was the FBI’s highest ranking female, reporting to the Director himself.
“It’s a pleasure, Ms. Carey,” she said.
“The feeling is mutual,” Patricia replied. “Forensic Instincts has earned itself quite a reputation in a few short years—along with a few bent noses here at the FBI. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Casey paused, dying of curiosity as to the reason for the call.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” Patricia said. “You want to find Paul Everett. I want to successfully complete an investigation that might require a little creative energy—all within legal bounds, of course. Please understand that the FBI is unyielding about the interpretation of legal. Am I making myself clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“Good. Bearing that in mind, I believe that you and I are in a position to help each other. Are you interested?”
Casey inhaled sharply. “Are you telling me you know where Paul Everett is and you’re willing to turn him over to us?”
“I might be. If you comply with certain stipulations in order to protect him and our investigation. And if, in return, you supply me with what we need to bring this case to a successful close.”
Her wheels turning, Casey considered the confidentiality agreement that FI had with Amanda, and weighed it against the results being promised to her. She knew very well what Amanda would want her to do.
“I’ll give you everything I have,” Casey assured Patricia.
“Excellent. Then we have a deal.”
Casey glanced at Hutch. He knew that look. She was about to test the waters. “Is Paul Everett on a plane en route to JFK?” she asked.
Another brief chuckle. “I’m impressed. I had no idea you’d come so far. The answer is, yes, Paul is due back in New York at 4:00 p.m. on Flight 117 from Kuwait City. Now, let me lay out my stipulations. The first one is that I want SSA Hutchinson to be part of the operation I’m about to initiate. You and I both trust him, so it’s a win-win situation. Agreed?”
Casey shot Hut
ch a quick smile. “Agreed.”
“Good. Now here’s the rest—after which, I’ll need every shred of information you have on Lyle Fenton.”
“And John Morano?” Casey asked.
“No. John is one of ours.”
A long pause.
Abruptly, awareness exploded in Casey’s brain. “As is Paul Everett,” she realized aloud.
“Precisely,” came Patricia’s confirmation. “Paul is most definitely one of ours. Oh, and by the way, so is attorney Frederick Wilkenson. We added him to the equation to divert you. So you can tell Mr. McKay he isn’t losing his touch.”
Casey nodded, even though Patricia Carey couldn’t see her. “Tell me what you need of us. And then I’ll tell you everything you don’t already know. It’s more than enough for a conviction—and not just for Lyle Fenton. For key members of the Vizzini family.”
“That’s what I’m counting on, Ms. Woods.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The plane landed smoothly at JFK’s International Terminal.
Paul leaned under the seat and grabbed his carry-on bag, which was his only form of luggage. He was frustrated enough that he had to endure the time necessary to pass through customs. He’d be damned if he’d stand in a baggage claim area, watching a stupid carousel go round forever before it spit out his bags.
The plane was still taxiing to the gate when Paul’s cell phone rang.
He stared at the “unknown” caller ID, weighing his options. It had to be the Bureau. There was no doubt they intended to stop him. And they’d had hours to fine-tune their plans.
Answering the phone was his best bet. Any clue he could get about how they were going to go about this might help him circumvent the obstacles. But, the truth was, he didn’t care if he had to report a bomb scare and evacuate the whole airport. He was getting to Sloane Kettering.
He punched on his phone. “Yes?”
“This is Casey Woods, Mr. Evans.” Casey rushed on, getting in the crucial words before Paul could decide to hang up on her. “Amanda Gleason hired me to find you.”
A pause. “How do I know that?”
“Because you saw the YouTube video. That toll-free number was set up by my company, Forensic Instincts. You can dial it yourself and ask if you don’t believe me.”
“Actually, I can’t. My phone seems to have been deactivated.”
“It was. But it’s been reactivated. Again, if you don’t believe me, you can check for yourself after we hang up. But we’re in a time crunch. So right now, I need to give you instructions so we can get you to Amanda and your son as soon as possible.”
Paul did a double take. “Let me get this straight.” He spoke quietly, so as not to be overheard. “Obviously, if you know about my travel plans and my cell phone, you’ve been in touch with the Bureau. You’re telling me that they’re just allowing you to usher me out of the airport and straight to Sloane Kettering?”
“They’re working with me to make it happen and to protect your anonymity. But we have a certain protocol we need to follow. So please listen to me now and ask questions later. You’re almost at your gate. I need to talk fast so you’ll be ready to proceed as soon as that door opens.”
* * *
The ambulance pulled directly up to the plane the instant it came to a complete halt and was safe to do so. The captain had already advised the passengers to stay in their seats until further advised. The information given was that a fellow passenger was suffering what appeared to be a heart attack, and would be escorted directly to a waiting ambulance before everyone else could deplane.
Everyone, including Paul, stayed in their seats, although all eyes were on him and the doctor who was examining him.
“We should start oxygen therapy,” the doctor said, forehead creased in concern as Paul clutched his chest and left arm, his breathing short and uneven.
“We’ll do that, Doctor.” Two paramedics burst onto the plane, rushing directly over to Paul. He was quickly examined.
A minute later, he was on a stretcher, an oxygen mask over his face, and he was being carried out to the waiting ambulance.
Once the patient and his EMTs were inside, the ambulance driver took off, sirens blaring.
“I hope you brought my bag,” Paul said drily, as he sat up and removed the mask. “I carry my own aspirin.”
“We got it.” Hutch patted the travel bag, then leaned back on his haunches. “I wouldn’t get too comfortable. That mask has to be on your face when we go screeching up to the emergency room entrance. You’re being carried in there the same way you were carried out of the plane.” He extended his hand. “SSA Kyle Hutchinson,” he said. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“SA Paul Evans, although I doubt I have to introduce myself.” Paul shook Hutch’s hand. “Are you from the New York Field Office?”
“Nope. Quantico. I’m BAU-2.”
Paul’s brows rose. “They sent the BAU to get me?”
Hutch grinned. “Not in the way you mean, no. It’s a long story. You’ll hear all the details later. For now, let’s just get you to the hospital and your son.”
“Where is that woman who called me—Casey Woods?”
“She’s with Amanda, telling her what’s happening. You’re a lucky man, Evans. You’ve got a great woman, a fighter of a son and the best private investigative team there is all in your corner. Without Casey, this could never have happened.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed as he tried to absorb what was happening. “How did she get the FBI to cooperate?”
Another grin. “She’s not only one hell of an investigator, she’s one hell of a horse trader.”
“She dug up information on Fenton,” Paul realized aloud. “She knows what’s going on. She’s helping the Bureau complete their operation.”
“You got it.”
“Damn.” Paul shook his head in amazement. “So this is for real. Casey Woods was being straight with me.”
“As an arrow,” Hutch assured him. He indicated the man next to him. “This is SA Mike Shore of New York’s violent crimes squad.”
“I’m at the Long Island RA,” Mike said, shaking Paul’s hand. “I was part of the initial investigation into Lyle Fenton, before the whole UC operation began.”
“Good to meet you.” Paul still looked a bit dazed. “Can either of you fill me in on my son’s condition?” His voice quivered on the word son.
Hutch was frank. “All I know is that he’s holding on. I don’t know the details of his illness, but I’m sure the doctor will fill you in. He’s been advised you’re on your way. You’ll be donor tested immediately—right after you have a chance to see Amanda and to meet Justin.”
“Justin.” Paul tasted the name on his lips. “I still can’t believe this.” He dragged his hand through his hair, then lay back down on the stretcher. “Give me that oxygen mask,” he instructed. “And tell the driver to ignore rush hour traffic. Turn on that siren and drive up the shoulder of the Van Wyck and over the goddamned Queensboro Bridge. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no one else on the road.”
* * *
Casey sat Amanda down in a quiet corner of the waiting area, so that she could finally tell her client the news she’d been aching to hear. Amanda looked like a fine thread that had been frayed and was about to snap, as if she’d hung on just about as long as any human being could. This poor woman, this poor mother, had endured—and was still enduring—a living hell. She’d visibly aged this past week, internalizing each emotional blow that threatened to take Justin away. God, it would feel so good to share this wonderful, positive news with her.
“What is it?” Amanda searched Casey’s face. “The way you dragged me out of the PICU, I know it’s urgent. What’s happened?”
Casey took Amanda’s hands in hers, not even trying to conceal the tears of joy that were glittering on her lashes. “We found Paul,” she said simply. “He’s on his way to Sloane Kettering right now.”
Amanda lurched with shock, all the c
olor draining from her face. For an instant, she looked as if she might faint. “You… He’s…” She couldn’t seem to form a coherent sentence. “How? When?”
“I’ve known since earlier today. I just didn’t want to tell you until we’d successfully pulled it off. Now we have. His plane landed just after 4:00 p.m.—about forty-five minutes ago. We helped him stage a heart attack. He’s arriving by ambulance. He’ll be here before six.”
“A heart attack?” Clearly, Amanda was only absorbing pieces of what Casey was saying.
“He’s fine,” Casey assured her. “It was all an act. We needed to get him here as fast as possible.” Casey waved away the rest of Amanda’s questions. “Let Paul fill you in on the rest. Just know this—the instant he found out about Justin, he moved heaven and earth to get here. So don’t doubt his commitment.”
As Casey spoke, Patrick walked over, followed by the rest of the team, who’d just arrived. Everyone wanted to be here to see the culmination of their relentless search.
“They’ll be here soon,” Claire told Amanda with a smile. “Paul’s energy is overwhelming. I almost can’t breathe past it. The only thing rivaling it is your energy.”
Amanda laughed, something she hadn’t done in an aeon. “I don’t believe this. You’re miracle workers.”
“We can discuss how awesome we are after Paul’s been tested and confirmed as a strong donor match,” Marc said in true Marc style.
“Any psychic hints?” Amanda asked Claire.
Claire gave an apologetic shrug. “Right now, all I’m picking up on are relief and joy. Both are emanating from you and Paul. I can’t tell if that positive energy relates to anything more than your current feelings. We’ll have to wait and see. But my prayers—all our prayers—are right here with you.”
“Thank you,” Amanda whispered. “I…” She wanted to say more, but couldn’t find the words. “Thank you.”
“You’ll thank us afterward,” Casey said.
“And tell us how awesome we are,” Ryan reminded her with a wink.