The Line Between Here and Gone (25 page)

“The call log?” Marc asked.

“Nope. That’s next on my list. But I finally found a link between Paul Everett and John Morano. Weird that I missed it until now. It seems the two guys have the same real-estate attorney.”

“Interesting.” Marc processed that piece of data. “So this attorney is the one who worked with each of them on the hotel project.”

“Yup. I saw the real-estate documents themselves, pulled them up on the computer. The lawyer’s name is Frederick Wilkenson. He’s got a stellar reputation, a spotless record and an office right in Southampton. I think we should spend the night at Amanda’s place so I can pay him a visit tomorrow morning—just to size him up. He’s not going to say anything. He’ll cite attorney-client privilege.”

“I agree. But it’s worth you feeling him out. It’s interesting—and somewhat unusual—that he represents both Morano and Everett. And it’s suspicious that you didn’t uncover this until now, not given the in-depth search you’ve been doing. It makes this whole situation smell even worse. And while you’re visiting Wilkenson, I’ll make my repeat performance at Fenton’s and see what I scared up.”

“Works for me.”

“Let’s just make sure we’re not needed at home,” Marc said. “We’ll check in with Casey after our chat with Mercer. If she agrees, we’ll make our morning social calls.”

* * *

Casey was frustrated as hell.

She was batting zero, having gotten nothing out of the cops and nothing out of Detective Jones. Oh, he knew something. Casey picked that up from his body language. But he’d obviously been told to keep quiet, whether by his supervisor or by someone higher up, she wasn’t sure. But, short of getting herself tossed in jail, Casey had tried everything, to no avail.

Then there was Patrick’s phone call to his buddy with the U.S. Marshals. Another stone wall. His friend hadn’t come out and denied that Paul Everett was in the Witness Protection Program, but he hadn’t admitted it, either. Again, whatever was going on with Paul Everett, the U.S. Marshals had also been told to keep a lid on it.

After that unproductive attempt, Patrick had had the unpleasant task of talking to Amanda, telling her about her uncle.

She didn’t take it well. In fact, it had taken all of Patrick’s abilities of persuasion to keep her from calling Fenton up and demanding answers. Thanks to Claire’s advice, which Patrick had employed, Amanda had settled down enough to concentrate on Justin and let FI handle her uncle.

Justin hadn’t gotten worse. Then again, he hadn’t gotten better, either. He was still on the ventilator, his breathing labored as he continued battling the pneumonia.

Things on Casey’s end just plain sucked.

Things weren’t going too well with Hutch, either. The tension between them was so thick, it was stifling.

When Casey went upstairs to grab a quick nap before Marc called in, she found Hutch sitting at the edge of the bed, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His half-packed bag was sitting on the floor beside him.

Casey paused in the bedroom doorway. “You’re leaving?”

He turned, his jaw tight. “I’m due back the day after tomorrow. I was just trying to decide whether or not it paid to stay till then. I’m trying to help you, but I’m afraid we’ll kill each other if I hang around.”

Sighing, Casey shut the door behind her. “I know you’re angry at me and worried about me. I also know you understand where I’m coming from. You’re torn. I get it. But we’ve had this discussion a dozen times. I’m not trying to impede an FBI investigation. I’m just trying to save my client’s child. And if those two things conflict, then I have no choice but to piss off the Bureau.” She paused. “If you’d tell me more, perhaps I could avoid messing up their investigation.”

“You know I can’t do that. Not that I’m a fountain of knowledge. You already figured out that I was shut down. I just know that the Bureau is not open to discussion on this one. Which tells me you’re dealing with dangerous people. So, yeah, I’m worried. And I’m pissed. You’re so fucking stubborn. There’s got to be another way to help your client.”

“Come up with it, and I’ll listen.”

Hutch frowned. “Maybe we can come up with it together.”

“We can do a lot of things together, Hutch. This isn’t one of them. I already screwed up by telling you too much. You took it all back to the Bureau. I want to punch you for that. And I want to punch myself for letting it happen.”

“I understand.” Hutch blew out a long, frustrated breath. “And I’m not sure there’s a way around your impasse. Any step you take is going to be the wrong one. It’s driving me crazy to watch. It’ll be worse if I see something I shouldn’t—and I have to report it. Which is why I think I should head back to Quantico.”

Casey gave a resigned nod. “I hear you. I don’t like it. But I hear you.”

Hutch rose and walked over to her, gently caressing her shoulders. “We really have one hell of a complicated relationship, don’t we?”

“That’s the understatement of the year.” Casey sighed. “Hope I’m worth it.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re worth it. I always did like complicated.”

Casey smiled, raising her gaze to meet his. “I’ve got some downtime right now. I was going to take a nap. But I could be persuaded to change my plans—if you’re willing to leave a little later for Virginia.”

A sexy grin curved his lips. “Virginia? Where’s that?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Unlike Fenton, Mercer was definitely
not
expecting the FI team.

He looked puzzled and upset when they rang his doorbell.

“Is there some emergency?” he asked. He was dressed comfortably in a pair of sweatpants and a fleece top—the expected attire of a man lounging at home at midnight. “I was just about to turn in.”

“We’re sorry to bother you, Congressman.” It was Claire who spoke up, softening the late-night intrusion. “But, yes, it is urgent that we speak to you right away. Otherwise, we never would have come by this late.”

“Okay.” Mercer opened the door and gestured for them to enter.

“Cliff? Is everything all right?” Mary Jane Mercer hurried down the stairs, wearing a lounging robe and the frightened look of a mother whose mind had immediately gone to the well-being of her children. She stopped halfway when she saw who was there. “What’s happened?” she demanded.

Marc kept his gaze fixed on the congressman. “An urgent matter. We need to talk to your husband immediately.”

“Your children are fine,” Claire clarified at once. “This has nothing to do with them.”

Mrs. Mercer visibly relaxed. “It can’t wait till morning?”

“Afraid not,” Marc said.

“It’s okay, honey.” Mercer indicated that his wife should go back upstairs. “This won’t take long. And if it concerns Amanda Gleason’s sick baby, I want to help.”

“Of course.” She turned around and retraced her steps.

“Why don’t we go into my office?” Mercer suggested. “It’s comfortable and private.”

Nodding, the three of them followed the congressman and assembled in his spacious home office.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Cliff Mercer said to Ryan.

“We haven’t.” Ryan extended his hand. “Ryan McKay. I work for Forensic Instincts, as well.”

A nod. “Well, have a seat and tell me what this is all about. Is the baby all right?”

“He’s holding his own,” Ryan said carefully. “But it’s touch-and-go. Which means that every second counts. And that his best chance of survival is still his father.”

“Have you had any luck locating Paul Everett?”

“We’re hoping for a breakthrough—soon,” Marc said, taking over. As planned, he was going to run the conversation.

“How can I help?”

“By telling us about Lyle Fenton.”

Cliff stiffened, visibly taken aback by the topic. “Lyle? What is it you want to know?”

“A great deal. We just came from his house.”

By now, Mercer was clearly on guard. “And?”

“And it wasn’t pleasant. Nor did we get very far. All we found out is that Paul Everett was aboard Fenton’s private yacht a short time before he disappeared.”

Mercer’s eyes widened. “You suspect Lyle of having something to do with Everett’s disappearance?”

“Do you?”

“No, of course not. Lyle Fenton is a friend of mine.”

“Yes, we know.” Marc just pushed right on. “He subsidized your campaign. And now he counts on you to help him out.”

This time, Mercer’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing that isn’t true. You’re in Fenton’s pocket. We know it. And frankly, we really don’t care. But you do.” Marc waved away Mercer’s oncoming protest. “Don’t bother denying it. We don’t want your head. We want leverage. We intend to use it to save a child.”

“What kind of leverage?” Mercer was starting to get angry.

“Anything you know about Fenton that might help us find Paul Everett. As I said, we don’t give a damn about nailing anyone to the wall. All we want is information.”

“So you’re blackmailing me.” Mercer stared from one of them to the other. “With what? The fact that I share the same goals for my district as Lyle Fenton, and that I use my influence in Congress to promote those goals? I think I just described every politician I know.”

“Except for the fact that, in your case, the reason you promote Fenton’s goals is because he’s your father.”

Mercer started as if he’d been struck, all the color draining from his face. He said absolutely nothing.

“We’re talking about a whole different level of scandal,” Marc continued. “So, before you answer, decide what’s most important to you.”

“Who else knows?” Mercer asked bluntly.

“We haven’t gone public. We don’t intend to—not unless you force our hand. Just tell us everything you can about Fenton, the people he associates with, any illegal activities he’s involved in—anything that might lead us to Paul Everett.”

Mercer blew out a weary breath. “I purposely separate myself from Lyle’s outside life. Frankly, I don’t want to know the answers you’re looking for, so I’m careful not to ask questions. Which means I have nothing to tell you. Does that mean you’re going to announce my paternity to the world?”

“No.” It was Claire who spoke up. “You don’t deserve that.”

Both Marc and Ryan turned to look at her.

“He’s telling the truth,” she said simply. “He’s weak and Fenton uses that to his advantage. He has a good idea what his biological father is capable of, but he divorces himself from it. So, as I said, he’s a weak man, but he’s not a bad man. Most important, he’s completely in the dark about what happened to Paul Everett or where he might be. We’d have nothing to gain by ruining his career. He can’t help us.” She rose. “Let’s go.”

Marc hesitated, then gave a tight nod. “You’re very lucky I have so much faith in my colleague, Congressman,” he said. “I wouldn’t be walking away so readily if she weren’t as certain as she is.”

“She’s right.” Mercer was visibly grateful and relieved. “I’ll turn a blind eye to a lot of things, but not to violence or murder. Plus, I’m a parent myself. I love my children. I’d never stand in the way of Amanda Gleason’s search for her baby’s father. Especially not under these circumstances.” He paused. “Do you really believe Lyle had something to do with Everett’s disappearance?”

“More and more, it’s looking that way, yes,” Marc replied.

“Then I’ll keep my ears open. If Lyle says or does anything that I think you should know, I’ll call you.”

Again, Marc glanced at Claire, and again, Claire nodded.

“Then we won’t keep you any longer,” Marc said, coming to his feet. “Thank you for seeing us, Congressman. Good night.”

* * *

Casey sat up in bed to take Marc’s call.

She listened carefully to everything he had to say. “So let’s cross Mercer off our suspect list. Back to Fenton. You think that Paul figured out he was involved?” she asked cryptically, and quietly, so as not to awaken—and alert—Hutch. “And that, as a result, he had to be disposed of?”

“Or he disposed of himself,” Marc replied. “It’s possible that Everett disappeared off the grid out of fear for his own life.”

“So thoroughly that even the FBI can’t find him?”

“It’s happened in the past. You know that. Even fugitives on the FBI’s Most Wanted list have gotten away and vanished for years. Everett could be anywhere, in hiding with anyone. Remember, Amanda only knew him for five months. He could have old friends, distant family members, even a wife that she doesn’t even know exists.”

“And the FBI is searching for him in order to get a solid case against Fenton.”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Actually, yes, it does.” A pause as she glanced over at Hutch, whose slow, even breathing told her he was still in deep slumber. But she wasn’t taking any chances. “Uh…I think we should continue this discussion in person.”

“Hutch is with you,” Marc deduced. “How much did he overhear?”

“Nothing. He’s asleep. But I don’t want to press my luck. Are you headed home now?”

“We weren’t planning on it. We were planning on staying out here till morning.” Marc went on to explain Ryan’s findings about Everett and Morano’s mutual real-estate attorney.

“Ryan should pay him a visit,” Casey agreed. “Plus you’ll want to follow up on Fenton. See if putting the fear of God in him had any results. If nothing else, you showing up on his doorstep again will probably make him wet his pants.” Casey couldn’t help but smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve gotten that response from a suspect.”

“True.” Marc sounded more matter-of-fact than amused. “So what’s on tap for you?”

“Hutch is leaving in the morning.” Casey stated it as a fact. She knew that Marc wouldn’t ask for, nor require, any further explanation. “As soon as he takes off, I’m heading over to the hospital to check on Amanda. She didn’t take Patrick’s news too well. And, after what you just told me, it’s even more important that she not confront her uncle. She could screw up everything.”

“She can’t,” Marc agreed. “We’re right on the brink.”

Fallujah, Iraq

It was pouring—a bone-chilling, miserable day.

Rain was a common occurrence in this portion of Iraq in December. As a rule, if you got off lucky, the precipitation was light and spotty. Not so today. It was coming down in sheets, the heavy winds blowing the palm trees around. Unlike back home, the ground here didn’t absorb the water, so it turned the sand into deep, thick mud, making the ground you walked on feel like a vat of peanut butter. In an attempt to deal with the water, the military spread stones over acres of land. It did a decent job, but, between the stones and the mud, walking became next to impossible. And he could forget about his daily five-mile run. That sure as hell wasn’t happening.

He was trudging toward his barracks, drenched and ankle-deep in muck, when the military transport drove by. It stopped, deposited its sole passenger and his bag, and then continued on its way.

The two men saw and recognized each other right away. They’d both served in the same U.S. Army infantry squad fifteen years ago.

“Hey, Paul.” Gus Ludlock yelled out and waved his arm.

Paul stopped, dragging the hood of his rain slicker higher on his head to block out the rain. “Gus, hey,” he called back. “I didn’t know you were out here.”

“Me, either.” His Army Reserves friend grinned. “Do we ever?” He shielded his face against the elements. “We’ll talk later. Oh, apparently, you’re famous.”

“What?” Paul gave a puzzled shrug.

“Famous,” Gus repeated. “I saw you on a YouTube video at the NEC. Couldn’t catch the audio because I was headed out. But some hot brunette was holding up your picture. You must’ve done something heroic you don’t know about—the video has over a million hits.”

The wind chose that moment to pick up, nearly blowing down both men.

“Let me check in,” Gus shouted. “We’ll catch up later.”

Paul stood there for a long moment after his friend had headed off. Oblivious to the pelting rain and the sludge that was oozing up his legs like quicksand, he stared off into space, plagued by a growing sense of unease. This whole trip had felt wrong from the start. Now it was beginning to feel like one ugly, well-planned manipulation. Being sent out to this godforsaken place with a line of bullshit justifying the training he was instructed to provide. Being at a Forward Operating Base in a high-threat situation. Being allowed no internet access, given the three soldiers who’d recently been killed nearby, and whose families had to be notified. Being in an area that just happened to have little to no cell phone reception—effectively cutting off all communication with the outside world.

There were way too many coincidences.

And now this odd piece of news.

Whatever charade he was being forced to live was over.

* * *

As a military veteran who knew how the system worked, Paul had no trouble calling in a few favors. When the bad weather temporarily subsided, a military buddy of his picked him and his bags up in a crummy Humvee and drove him to the helipad located on the FOB. The sergeant responsible for the flights was stationed in a tent right on-site. He was expecting Paul and arranged to put him on the first flight out. Someone would be pissed off at being bumped.

Paul didn’t give a damn.

It was a fifty-mile trip. A little over an hour later, Paul was back in Baghdad.

He waited awhile, the sergeant having made arrangements for a trusted buddy stationed at the New Embassy Compound to pick him up. A beat-up SUV eventually arrived, driven by Private Kenny Robinson. Fifteen minutes after that, Paul was back at the Embassy.

He didn’t waste time. He went into Kenny’s office cubicle and used his computer to log on to YouTube. He searched for the name Paul Everett, and the video popped up.

He watched it three times before the impact of what he was viewing fully sank in. He went from shocked to numb to livid in rapid succession.

Culminating in an urgency he’d never before possessed.

Everything that happened next was a frenzied blur.

He grabbed his BlackBerry and tried to call out. The storms in the area refused to make that possible. Well, they weren’t going to stop him from getting home.

He used Private Robinson’s computer one more time—to send an internal email. He knew that the message would furiously keep trying to leave the local email server, waiting until the storms let up. But eventually it would find its mark.

His boss would cringe. Not at his profanity. Nor at his threats. But rather at the thought of who had been CC’d: the head of the Review Committee.

The email was clear and straight to the point:

I’m done being jerked around. I now know everything. I’ve seen the video and I’m flying back to the U.S. When I land, I’m going straight to Sloane Kettering to see Amanda and try to save my son. If anything happens to him, I hold you and every other fucking bureaucrat responsible. STAY OUT OF MY WAY!

Paul knew he was racing the clock, not only to get to his son, but to thwart any efforts to prevent him from getting home. He turned to Kenny, asked for his help in getting to Baghdad International Airport. From there, he’d talk himself onto the next military flight to Kuwait. He’d get from the airbase to the airport. There’d be waiting time—a lot of it. But he’d wait for days if he had to. He was heading home.

To Justin.

The emergency meeting took place in a small, nondescript conference room.

The group—and the subject matter—were classified: the head of the entire office, the team leader and the Assistant U.S. Attorney were all there.