The Line Between Here and Gone (16 page)

“Actually, we didn’t. We didn’t even know about the video until this morning. We were as surprised as you were.” Casey carefully watched Fenton’s expression. His gaze was still averted from hers, but he didn’t fidget or exhibit any increased signs of uneasiness. Fine. He hadn’t known Amanda was making that video. No shocker there. It wasn’t part of his agenda. Very little Amanda did was—except saving her son. On the other hand, if, thanks to the video, Paul should crawl out of the woodwork, Fenton would be all over it like white on rice. So, if anything, Amanda had aided her uncle without realizing it.

Which meant he’d be sticking close to his niece—and keeping closer tabs on Forensic Instincts.

“This whole situation with Amanda and her baby is tragic,” Cliff Mercer said. “She’s a wonderful young woman, and a very talented photojournalist. She covered my campaign when I ran for reelection. My heart goes out to her.”

Mercer was setting the stage, beginning by letting them know he had a good relationship with Amanda Gleason—a
working
relationship.

“What you did for her today was a kind and generous thing,” Casey continued. “Not many public servants show that much compassion for one of their constituents.”

A shrug. “As I said, I know Amanda. I consider her a valued colleague. Plus, I had very little to do. Giving blood is something I do regularly anyway. In this case, it was even more essential. It’s a long shot that I’ll be a match. Lyle and I both know that. But maybe it will set a precedent for others to do the same.”

“That’s what we’re hoping,” Fenton added. “I was about to offer a reward to the person who wound up being a donor match. But Amanda is convinced that person will be Paul. Besides, Cliff’s gesture is much warmer and more personal than writing a check. I think it will touch people and make them take action.”

Casey wondered if they’d run lines together. This certainly seemed like a scripted performance.

“What can I do to help counter the impact of that video?” Mercer asked. “I could have the calls routed to my office, to take some of the burden off you.”

Right. And to make sure any leads went first to Fenton.

“That won’t be necessary, although we appreciate the offer,” Marc put in. “We’ve already put a bank of receptionists into place and routed the overflow to a call center we’ve hired. This way, we won’t miss any leads, but we’ll take the burden off our office.”

“Then how can I help?”

“We were hoping you could continue to draw attention to the importance of being tested to see if there’s a match for Justin,” Claire said in that gentle, sensitive tone of hers. “Maybe make a statement about that to the press. Shift the emphasis off finding Paul Everett to saving an infant’s life. That will ease the pressure off our investigation and onto Justin, where it belongs.”

Mercer looked puzzled. “I have no problem doing that. But why would you want to downplay the search for Justin’s father? Isn’t he the best hope for a donor match?”

“Yes,” Casey replied. “But he’s also a controversial figure right now. The circumstances of his disappearance—or what was presumed to be his death—means that something criminal went on. We need to find out if that criminal activity happened
to
Everett or was made to happen
by
Everett. Either way, the last thing we need to do is to alert the wrong people to the fact that he’s being hunted down by a professional investigative team.”

“I see your point.” Mercer nodded. “But hasn’t that ship sailed already?”

“To a point, yes, thanks to the first three or four hours during which time the video went viral. But we’ve already done damage control on that front. We’ve worked with Amanda and substituted the toll-free number for ours and eliminated our contact information from the video. So if you check out YouTube now, you’ll see a different message at the bottom. The phone calls and the connection to FI should start petering out.”

“I see.” Mercer’s gaze flickered ever so briefly to Fenton’s. “Then of course I’ll help you. I’ll issue statements to everyone out there, and send written statements to the rest of the press. I’ll also be on live TV in—” he checked his watch “—seventeen minutes. I’ll stress Justin’s predicament and I’ll have the stations air the toll-free number, if you give it to me.”

“Thank you so much, Cliff.” Claire was studying him as she spoke. “This could make all the difference in saving Justin’s life.”

“I hope so.” Mercer rose. “So unless there’s anything else?”

“Just one quick question,” Casey said swiftly. “Mr. Fenton told us you barely knew Paul Everett. So I realize there’s not much you can tell us. But it’s clear to me that you’re a good judge of character. When you met Everett, did you sense anything about him that made you uncomfortable or suspicious?”

Okay, it didn’t take a psychic to sense the tension in the room. Mercer cleared his throat and blinked a few times. And Lyle Fenton looked pissed as hell.

Mercer recovered first.

“As you said, I met Paul Everett once, maybe twice. He was an enthusiastic supporter, which explains why he was at the campaign party where he met Amanda. We were introduced, he spoke highly of me and my political platform, and that was it. He seemed friendly, personable and intelligent. That’s about all I can tell you. I didn’t sense anything off-putting about him. Then again, I doubt he’d show that side of himself to me if it existed. He wanted my support in the construction of his hotel.”

“That’s true.” Casey backed off as fast as she had started. She’d gotten what she needed. Now it was time to part friends. She never knew when they’d need to speak to Mercer again—as an ally or an adversary.

“I appreciate your time, Cliff,” she said. “We’ll leave the way we came. And thank you so much for helping us out.”

“My pleasure,” the congressman replied.

Hardly,
Casey thought.
I wish I could be a fly on the wall when we leave you and Fenton alone.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Forensic Instincts team had just driven out of the hospital parking lot when Casey’s cell phone rang.

The caller ID flashed
Unknown.

Glancing at the other occupants of the van, Casey pressed the button on her steering wheel.

“Casey Woods.”

“Ms. Woods, this is Detective Jones of the New York State Police’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation. I need to speak with you about the case you’re currently working on—the one that involves Paul Everett’s homicide.”

Casey slowed down the van and pulled over to the curb. “May I ask why, Detective?”

“I’d rather not get into details on the phone. When can I meet with you at your office? Time is of the essence.”

Casey could have told him that she was driving by his neck of the woods right there in Long Island. But she didn’t. “I’m out of the office right now,” she said instead. “I won’t be back for several hours.”

“I see.” Jones cleared his throat. He was dying to ask her where she was and why. Casey could sense it as clearly as if he had spoken. Just as she had a strong hunch that he knew exactly what she was working on.

“Would it be easier to meet outside the office?” she asked, intentionally letting him know it would be closer to his troop. “I assume you’re located in Suffolk County.”

“Yes, in Farmingdale.”

“Republic Airport?” Casey asked, specifying the headquarters of Troop L, which handled all of Nassau and Suffolk Counties.

“That’s right.”

“There’s a Starbucks nearby. Why don’t we meet there at…” She glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. It was almost noon. “One-fifteen?”

“That would be fine.”

“See you then.”

* * *

The doorbell at the FI brownstone rang.

It struck Ryan that it had probably rung a bunch of times before it registered with him. He’d been staring at the computer screen, lost in his own world. But the insistence of the rings told him someone had been standing on the doorstep for quite a while.

He glanced up at the monitor above his desk and focused on the center window, which displayed the live feed from the video surveillance camera that protected the front door. A tall guy, whose powerful build and authoritative presence dominated the camera lens, stood outside. Ryan’s brows arched in surprise, and he rose, heading upstairs to the main level.

“Hang on,” he called out. “I’m coming.”

He punched the code on the Hirsch pad and opened the door. “Hey,” he greeted Hutch, gripping his hand in a guy-to-guy handshake. “What’s this—a surprise visit?”

“Nope.” Hutch walked in and dropped his bag on the floor. “Just a surprise arrival time. My flight got in early.”

“Good afternoon, Hutch,” Yoda chimed in. “Your body temperature is low. A coat is required in winter weather. You must not be wearing one. A cup of tea will restore your body temperature to a normal 98.6.”

“Thanks, Yoda,” Hutch responded. “I’ll take a hot shower instead.”

“A satisfactory cure.”

“What do you mean this isn’t a surprise visit?” Ryan interrupted. “Casey knew you were coming?”

“Yup. Since yesterday.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Nobody tells me anything.”

“I wouldn’t take it personally.” Hutch gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Considering how wound up Casey sounded when I talked to her on the phone, I’m guessing she’s obsessing over the case you’re working on. It sounds like a real house of cards.”

Again, Ryan’s brows rose. Casey was a stickler for not discussing ongoing cases, not even with Hutch. “She told you about it?”

“Not a chance. I just heard that intense note in her voice. So I looked up FI on Google just before I jumped on the plane to see if there was any new media buzzing around your company. And I found that YouTube video. Doesn’t sound like the kind of advertising you normally do. I’m guessing it was your client’s idea?”

“Oh, yeah. It came at us out of left field. Just ask Yoda. He woke me up right after I’d pulled an all-nighter. Our client almost fried my communications server.”

“That’s correct,” Yoda supplied.

“Anyway, it’s under control now. If you check out the video, you’ll see a change in contact info. Casey saw to that in a New York minute.”

“I’m sure she did.” Hutch’s lips twisted into a crooked grin—the only thing that ever softened his hard features. He looked every bit like the D.C. cop he’d been before joining the Bureau, right down to the jagged scar across his left temple. Despite his dry sense of humor, he was self-contained in a way that made most people squirm. He had a way of staring people down and waiting them out, staying silent until they felt compelled to speak. It was an asset in his professional life, and it spilled over into his personal life.

Hutch was very much an enigma. He kept his emotions in check and revealed very little of himself to others.

Casey was the exception to that rule.

“After Casey twisted your client’s arm to get FI’s name and number off that video, did she also ream her out?” Hutch asked.

Ryan shook his head. “She and I were too ripping pissed to deal with Amanda. Casey sent Marc over to the hospital to handle things. He has some magical, soothing effect on our client. She holds on to him like a life preserver.”

“That shouldn’t surprise you. Between that solid, calming way of Marc’s and his feelings about little ones with their lives on the line—he’d be your go-to guy with this client.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ryan stretched, getting the kinks out of his body. “I wish I could get into more detail with you. This case is really gut-wrenching.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Some more than others.”

“I hear you.” Hutch’s sharp blue eyes swept the area. “I take it Casey’s not here.”

“Nope. Just me and my to-do list. Casey’s out working the case with Marc, Claire and Hero, and Patrick’s pounding the pavement. What time is she expecting you?”

“We have a dinner date. Till then, I’m on my own. Which is fine with me, because I’m beat. I slept a little on the plane, but not enough to make a difference. I think I’m going to crash in Casey’s room, and then take that shower so I can be human when she gets home.”

“Good plan. I’m taking a break myself. I’ll be heading over to the gym. I need a two-hour workout to get my brain in gear—but I’ll settle for one. The fallout from Yoda’s phone call robbed me of that second hour.”

“An unfortunate necessity, Ryan,” Yoda said. “I apologize.”

“No apology necessary, Yoda. You did the right thing. Then again, I programmed you.”

“Again, that’s correct.”

“In any case,” Ryan told Hutch. “My brain is on overload. Time to pump some iron.”

Hutch nodded. Everyone knew what a gym rat Ryan was. Hutch just found it amazing that his full-scale workouts plus his eight hours of sleep a night left him time to be as productive as he was. But the guy managed to do it all, and do it better than any technology pro Hutch had ever seen in action.

“You need my key?” Ryan asked. “You’ll either have to go out for food or get something delivered. I doubt Casey has much in her fridge.”

“Nah. I’d rather sleep. I’ll make up for the lack of food at dinner.” Hutch picked up his overnight bag, yawning as he did. “Oh, and Yoda? I promise to use warm blankets. My body temp will rise in no time.”

“Very good, Hutch.”

Hutch headed for the stairs. “Enjoy your workout,” he called over his shoulder to Ryan. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

* * *

The two men met in a private office. Neither of them was happy.

“Have you seen the video?” The stockier of the two wasted no time on small talk.

“Yeah, I’ve seen it” was the equally terse reply.

“We’ve got a problem.”

“I know. A big one.”

“We need to have that video blocked. We can’t risk him seeing it.”

“That’s no problem. He won’t. But the rest of the world already has. Someone’s going to say something to him. It’s just a matter of time—and probably not a lot of it.”

“Have him isolated,” was the order. “And fast. It’s the only way.”

The second man nodded. “I’ll figure something out and make it happen.”

“Make it happen today.”

* * *

The Starbucks near Republic Airport was crowded just like every other Starbucks Casey had ever been in. She sometimes wondered if the regulars actually lived there with their laptops, having their first cup of Pike Place at 6:00 a.m. and their final decaf latte at closing time, all the while clinging to the brownies and the Wi-Fi until they were forcibly removed from the store. It was even worse now, since it was lunchtime, which meant that there was a line for paninis that spilled out into the street.

Casey scanned the packed café, wondering how she was ever going to find the man they were here to see.

She needn’t have worried. He found them.

Even in the lunchtime crush, Detective Jones had spotted the FI team and was now gesturing them over to the table he’d obviously claimed a long time ago. His venti coffee cup was sitting on the table, half-empty, along with a partially eaten blueberry scone and an official-looking manila folder. Customers were glaring at him and the three extra chairs at his table as they passed by, but he ignored them. And the few patrons who went up to the counter to complain were spoken quietly to, after which they shut their mouths and went away.

Okay, so the staff knew who and what Jones was. And no one wanted to mess with the State Police.

Jones was a middle-aged guy with a lean build and a balding head. He was wearing a white shirt and a staid red tie with dark blue stripes. The BCI were plainclothes detectives, and Jones epitomized the word
average.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he began after the introductions had been made and everyone was sitting down. He cast a dubious eye at the long line of patrons. “Did you want some coffee?”

Casey followed his gaze to the line of people snaking from the door to the counter, and she gave a wry grin. “Not unless we want to postpone this meeting for a week. Let’s get down to business. Why did you want to see us?”

Jones interlaced his fingers in front of him. “You’re conducting an investigation into Paul Everett. More specifically,
finding
Paul Everett. I personally closed that file. So I’d like to know what makes you believe he’s alive. Did you find something we may have missed?”

“I assume this conversation was prompted by the YouTube video?”

“Yes. It’s pretty hard to miss.”

“We didn’t make it or give our consent to have it made,” Casey clarified. “It was all done by our client on her own initiative. We didn’t even know the video existed until after the fact.”

“Why was your contact information withdrawn and replaced by a toll-free number?”

“For privacy and proper handling of phone calls.” It was Marc who answered. “Trust me, Detective, if there were any content issues, we would have demanded the video be pulled—or dropped our client. We’ve done neither. Now that the cat’s out of the bag, we’re just hoping the video brings in more donors to check for possible matches—a long shot, but one that we agreed could at least make Amanda feel like she’s doing something.”

“So my question remains,” Jones said. “Do you believe that Paul Everett is alive?”

“Yes,” Casey stated flatly.

“What proof do you have?”

“We have a photo of a man that our facial recognition software tells us is Everett—a photo that was taken within the past few weeks. We have at least one person who believes she’s seen Everett regularly and recently. And we have strong professional gut instincts that convince us he’s alive.”

“Gut instincts?” Jones’s brows went up. “That hardly constitutes evidence. What are you basing these instincts on?”

“Experience—and me.” Claire spoke up for the first time. “I don’t know how much research you’ve done into the FI team, Detective Jones. But I suspect it was thorough. In which case, you know that I’m an intuitive. And there’s not a doubt in my mind that Paul Everett is alive.”

There was that typical look of skepticism that Claire had learned to expect—and to ignore.

“We’re a private investigative firm, Detective Jones,” Casey reminded him. “You require hard evidence. We don’t. We’re not going to court. We’re trying to find a dying infant’s father.” She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table and folding her hands under her chin in an aggressive stance. “But let me turn the tables. What solid evidence do you have that Paul Everett is dead?”

Jones’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you called and made some police inquiries already. So you have your answers.”

“I do. And everything I heard was speculative, suggesting, but not proving, a no-body homicide. Without a corpse, all you can do is draw a logical conclusion. But not a concrete one.”

That one made Jones visibly uncomfortable. “Is your theory that the man’s been walking around with amnesia for the past eight months? Or that he’s in hiding?”

“Amnesia isn’t really on the table,” Marc replied with the same note of sarcasm in his tone as Jones had. “Other than that, anything is possible. I’m sure you checked out Everett’s background, his business dealings, his potential enemies and his friends and colleagues. There could be dozens of reasons for his disappearance. But, frankly, that’s your problem. Ours is just finding him.”

Jones’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Withholding evidence is a crime, Mr. Devereaux.”

“And discussing our case is unethical, Detective Jones. Casey just told you the only solid evidence we have. If we had more, we’d be sharing it with you. I was an FBI agent. I know the law.”

Casey had to bite back a smile on that one. Marc knew the law, all right. He also knew how to break it.

“We’re the least of your concerns, Detective,” Casey said aloud. “We have no plans of hiding any evidence from you that we stumble upon. But we will keep hunting down Paul Everett. And I believe we’ll find him. In the meantime, you have more pressing problems to contend with. A few hours ago, Congressman Mercer met with the media and made a personal appeal to find blood donors for our client’s infant son—an appeal that will make the evening news cycle. Once that happens, and once people start putting together the YouTube video and the congressman’s plea, your phone will be ringing off the hook. So I hope you have all your ducks in a row—and a good media person. You’re going to need it.”