by Andrea Kane
“You don’t. Life’s a gamble. The way I see it, you could start demolition, ground-breaking and dredging before winter, or you could go broke and probably wind up dead.” A shrug. “Your decision.”
“Great choice.”
“One other reminder while you make your decision. My company only uses union labor. You’ll have to get the business agents on board with this project.”
John frowned. “It’s one thing to be union on your end. I’m not sure I can afford an entire project using union labor.”
“Again, that’s your issue, not mine.”
“I’ll have to straighten that out with the business agents.”
“Indeed you will.” Lyle paused, nodding at the waitress as she placed their breakfasts in front of them.
“Now I’m going to sit back and enjoy my breakfast,” he informed John as soon as they were alone. “I suggest you do the same. No more on this subject. You know where I stand. My demands are not up for negotiation.”
John’s jaw was working. “Fine. You win. Get me my permits.”
“I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers.” Lyle calmly chewed and swallowed a bite of his omelet. “Once they’re signed and locked away in my safe, I’ll get you what you need.”
“How long will that take?”
“Not long.” A tight smile. “My lawyer gets paid by the hour.”
* * *
Claire had tossed and turned all night.
Her dreams were plagued by shadowy figures looming close by, threatening…someone. Or someones. Was it the team? Amanda? All of the above? She didn’t know. All she knew was that the vision incited a new dark energy inside her—one that was in addition to the eerie vibe she was already trying to make sense of.
Around dawn she sat up in bed, arranging herself in lotus position—her automatic pose for keeping her mind and her body open to whatever energy surrounded her. She loved the serenity of her East Village studio—her little oasis away from the Manhattan madness outside her window. Everything in her home was the antithesis of the congestion, wild pace and loud noise of the streets below. Her apartment was perfect—one spacious living room/bedroom, a galley kitchen and a bathroom. The large room was done in muted pastels, and consisted mostly of uncluttered space. Claire was a minimalist. It gave her room to breathe and to be. Even her furniture itself was open and airy, all natural wicker with pale aqua and sand-colored cushions. Ditto for her bedding. The walls were that same soft sand color, and they were adorned only by a few of her favorite landscape paintings.
She shut her eyes, letting the morning energy flow through her, hoping it would ease the tight knot in her stomach.
It didn’t. Too much wasn’t right. Something had definitely happened to Paul Everett. But it wasn’t death. It was something that conveyed mixed energies—positive and negative—to no energy at all. Maybe he’d barely escaped death? Maybe he’d briefly experienced it? No. Neither of those things felt right. Nor did they explain the perpetual binary energy surges she was experiencing. If Ryan hadn’t all but stated beyond the shadow of a doubt that the man standing on that street corner was Paul Everett, she’d wonder if perhaps he was in a coma, drifting in and out of consciousness.
But she wasn’t visualizing a hospital setting. Then again, she wasn’t visualizing anything at all. Damn, it was frustrating.
The shadowy figures unnerved her equally as much as the eerie flashes of Paul. Danger factored into this equation. She had to zero in on the how, the why, and, most importantly, the who.
Abruptly, another, more painful energy shot through her—and this energy was as clear as glass.
The baby. Oh, no, the baby.
* * *
Amanda was dozing beside Justin’s crib when his whining and restless shifting awakened her. She was on her feet in an instant, and she knew something was wrong the minute she touched him. He was hot. Very hot. And his breathing was raspier than it had been. His tiny chest made a rattling sound each time it rose and fell with a breath.
She raced for the door, nearly running down a nurse who was on her way in.
“Get Dr. Braeburn,” Amanda said frantically. “Justin’s worse. He’s burning up with fever. And his breathing is bad. Please. Get the doctor.”
Not two minutes later, Dr. Braeburn strode into the reverse isolation unit and straight over to Justin’s crib.
He examined him quickly, took his vitals and listened carefully to his chest. “It looks like we’re dealing with a new infection in addition to the others,” he told Amanda, gesturing for the nurse to come in.
“What kind of infection?” Amanda asked in a high, thin voice.
“That’s what we’re going to find out. It could be anything from bacterial sepsis or pneumonia to a fungal infection.” He turned to the nurse, issuing instructions. “I’ll need blood cultures drawn, as well as chest X-rays…” A pause. “Make that a chest CT. We’ll start broad spectrum antibiotics. If I don’t like what I see on the CT, I’ll want a bronchoscopy.” Seeing the terrified look in Amanda’s eyes, he explained. “A bronchoscopy sounds far worse than it is. It’s only a test to check Justin’s lungs. We’ll insert a flexible tube through his nose into his lungs and take some tissue and fluid samples. He won’t feel a thing. He’ll be asleep. We’ll do the procedure in the ICU. Once we know what we’re dealing with, we’ll know how to treat it.”
“You’re already adding more antibiotics. How else would you treat it? What is it you’re looking for?”
“I suspect that Justin has bacterial pneumonia on top of the parainfluenza pneumonia,” Dr. Braeburn replied as gently as he could. “In which case I’m going to put him on a pediatric ventilator to ease his breathing.”
“A ventilator?” All the color drained from Amanda’s face.
“Yes. But it’s likely to be temporary,” Dr. Braeburn hastened to add. “Once we get the infection under control, we might be able to remove the ventilator support.”
“Might.”
“Let’s take this one step at a time, Amanda. First, let’s run the tests, find out what we’re dealing with. Then we can proceed.”
“Another hurdle.” Amanda was trembling. “He’s so tiny, Doctor. How many more complications and procedures can he take before…” She broke off, clenching her teeth to fight back the tears.
Dr. Braeburn cleared his throat. “No other donors have turned up yet. Have you had any luck locating Justin’s father?”
“No.” Amanda met his gaze. “But, as you know, I’ve hired an excellent investigative team. They’re working round the clock.”
“Good. Round the clock is what we need.”
He didn’t have to elaborate. Amanda saw it in his eyes. And she knew exactly what he was telling her.
* * *
Marc arrived at the marina at ten-fifty. He climbed out of his rental car and stretched, simultaneously taking in the dock, the boat masts and the run-down shack that was John Morano’s office—for now.
But what a location.
Shinnecock Bay was beautiful, even in December. There wasn’t much activity going on, other than some fishing boats. But there was something incredibly invigorating about the cold air mixed with the smell of salt water. Extreme sports addict that he was, Marc had the sudden urge to go windsurfing.
Not going to happen now, he reminded himself, turning away from the temptation and restoring the ironclad discipline that had been ingrained in him since his days as a Navy SEAL. Today was about getting information from John Morano. It had to be done with finesse, not threats or violence. He was supposed to be a news writer. That meant words, not muscle. But, dammit, it would be a challenge to keep himself in check if he suspected Morano knew more about Everett than he was willing to say. An infant’s life was on the line. An innocent baby. The clock was ticking. And accepting failure wasn’t
in Marc’s DNA—especially where it came to kids.
His early-morning interviews hadn’t yielded much. Paul’s neighbors described him as friendly but private, not the type to attend block parties. And his poker buddies—at least those Marc could track down on such short notice—knew only that he was a real-estate developer with great ideas and a great sense of humor, and that he’d become a less familiar face around the poker table once he got involved with Amanda. They’d ribbed him about it mercilessly, but they were pretty easygoing guys. Besides, Paul was a relative newcomer to the game, so he wasn’t a regular, meaning that his absence didn’t break up the game. And Amanda, who dropped by once or twice during a game, was a sweetheart. So the guys went with the flow. They were pretty shaken up by Paul’s murder, but not one of them could think of a reason why he’d been killed.
All that added up to was a whole lotta nothing.
This meeting had to be different.
Marc straightened his tie, picked up his writing tablet and stuck his hand in his pocket to ensure that his ID was there. Check, check and check.
He pulled out the ID, clipped it to his lapel, then walked across the wooden deck and knocked.
“Come in,” a male voice called.
Marc swung open the rickety office door and stepped inside. He was immediately struck by the smell of damp wood and fish—both of which he’d expected. And John Morano looked pretty much like he’d expected, too. Maybe a little taller and broader-shouldered than he’d imagined. But a well-put-together guy who, beneath the surface, Marc could sense was a little rough around the edges, the kind of businessman who could handle himself in down-and-dirty dealings. Again, no surprise, since, according to Ryan, Morano had made his way from the bottom up. He wore an open-collared business shirt and a Hugo Boss jacket—okay, so he was definitely not hurting financially, but not rolling in money. either. Not yet.
Morano rose from behind the desk, buttoning his sport jacket and giving Marc a cordial smile. “Mr. Curtis?” A swift confirming glance at Marc’s credentials.
“Mr. Morano.” Marc extended his hand. “I really appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.”
“No problem. And it’s John.”
“Rob,” Marc replied.
“Rob it is.” Morano shot a quick glance around the room. “Sorry for the less-than-comfortable quarters.”
“I have a feeling they won’t stay like this for much longer.”
“You’re right. They won’t. In fact, my office will be disappearing altogether.” He gestured for Marc to sit down, although he himself remained standing. Marc followed suit. It leveled the playing field when one party didn’t loom over the other, something Marc avoided—unless he was the one doing the looming.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Morano indicated a drip coffeemaker on the shelf behind him—one that looked older than the hills. “It’s hardly high-tech, but it makes exceptional coffee.”
“That would be great. Never enough caffeine for me.”
“I hear you.” Morano grabbed a couple of mugs. “How do you take it?”
“Black. Thanks.” Marc waited until Morano had handed him one of two steaming mugs and reseated himself behind his desk. Only then did Marc lower himself to the wooden chair across from him.
“I’m flattered that Crain’s is interested in talking to me,” Morano said, setting down his coffee mug.
“How could we not be? Real-estate prices in the vicinity are already skyrocketing in anticipation of your project. That, combined with the Shinnecock Indian Casino—it’s a windfall waiting to happen.” Marc took an appreciative gulp of coffee and then placed his cup on the desk.
He pulled out his writing tablet, simultaneously shifting the chair around on the rickety wooden floor until it was on somewhat stable ground. Taking notes while balancing on a wobbly chair was less than optimal. “What you’re striving to accomplish here could result in a local economic boom—a rarity in today’s strained business environment.”
“That’s exactly what my goal is.” Morano leaned forward, propping his elbows on his desk and steepling his fingers. “I can’t claim to have thought up the concept myself. But when the opportunity presented itself for me to take it over, I jumped on it.”
“I don’t blame you.” Marc began jotting down notes. “You have an impressive real-estate development background. But nothing of this magnitude.”
“True.” Morano nodded. He was clearly on sure footing—for now. “I’m lucky that my timing and resources made it possible for me to go forward with this project.”
Damn, that would be the perfect segue to bring up Morano’s predecessor. But it was way too soon. Any mention of Paul Everett at this point would raise major red flags. This article was supposed to center around John Morano and his ambitious project, not the guy who’d originated the concept and laid the groundwork. Patience was essential in this all-important interview. And Marc was trained to have plenty of that.
“Describe your ultimate vision to me,” he began instead. “How do you see the hotel in its finished state? Its layout, what kind of new luxury amenities you have in mind, that sort of thing. If you have a sketch or architectural drawings, that would be great. Next, how will your guests travel from Manhattan to here and back? And, finally, how does the new Shinnecock casino factor into the equation?”
Morano chuckled. “In other words, tell you everything, soup to nuts.”
“Something like that, yes.”
“I’m not ready to release the drawings. Let’s just say that the hotel will be opulent and spectacular, even for the Hamptons. I’m having a comprehensive brochure printed up, which will describe the key architectural and design elements, as well as all the planned amenities. Simultaneously, I’ll be launching a website dedicated just to the hotel, which will include details about the entire experience, both to and from Manhattan, and to and from the casino. But it’s way too soon to be releasing all that.”
“Right.” Marc nodded his comprehension. “If you start the buzz too soon, your prospective guests will either get impatient and pissed off or lose interest. You want maximum impact at just the right time.”
“I couldn’t have said it better. But off the record?”
He waited for Marc’s nod of professional courtesy before continuing. “I’m going to offer both a chartered luxury yacht service and scheduled ferry service. The former will be more picturesque and exclusive, the latter will be quicker and more frequent. That way, everyone’s needs will be provided for—those who want to savor the overall experience, and those who want to get to their destination ASAP. As for the casino, the hotel will provide private car service there and back.” A hint of a smile. “No shuttle buses, not for this crowd. Just town cars and, for those who prefer it, limos.”
“With fully stocked bars, of course.”
“Of course.”
“How does the casino feel about getting barraged with this overwhelming influx of patrons?”
“They’re thrilled. The casino is large enough to accommodate my hotel guests, and to provide them with an exclusive gaming experience. It was the choice of the Shinnecock Indians not to use up a major portion of the acreage they’d allocated for the casino on a hotel resort—at least not initially.”
“And perhaps not at all,” Marc commented.
“Exactly. They opted for the concept of a casino on the bay, which was a brilliant business move. They created the ultimate gaming facility and an islandlike beach experience. They’re about to add to that by building an entertainment arena, two stories of exclusive stores and restaurants, and a theater for their guests’ shopping, dining and entertainment pleasures. But, for now, they know what I have in mind. And it’s far more lucrative for them to leave the luxury hotel aspect of things to me. We’ll complement each other, and have a mutually beneficial business relationsh
ip.”
“It sounds like a win-win relationship,” Marc noted. “And a genius of an idea. Can we go back on the record now?”
“Sure,” Morano agreed magnanimously.
“Let’s talk about the local fishermen. Will you be phasing out your wharf and marina’s dock service business?”
“Not at all. I don’t plan on abandoning the locals. Shinnecock Bay is an ideal spot to supply local restaurants with the freshest catches. The fishing boats will still be coming and going from here—just a little farther down the way.” Morano pointed out the window, over and to the right. “A newer, larger pier will be constructed to accommodate more fishing boat traffic and to provide the fishermen with ample warehouse space. Meanwhile, the current pier will be redesigned and become a private pier for the hotel guests.”
“For their yachts and ferries,” Marc supplied. “I like it. An upscale environment. A local flavor. Very smart.”
And he meant it. John Morano was a shrewd businessman. By continuing to offer services to the fishermen, he’d win a whole lot of goodwill while giving the tourists a flavor for the area. Not to mention the cash flow from his dock services would still be incoming. Fishermen would have more customers—thanks to Morano’s hotel restaurants. It was good news all around.
On to a stickier subject.
“What about the town of Southampton?” Marc asked. “They’re typically very strict about minimizing the influx of tourist traffic. The locals like things the way they are—fairly quiet, except during the season. This will change all that. Was it difficult to obtain your building permits?”
A heartbeat of silence. Just a heartbeat. But Marc didn’t miss it.
He glanced up from his notes just in time to see the look of discomfort that crossed John Morano’s face.
It vanished as quickly as it had come.
“It’s a challenge. But nothing I can’t handle. The town is being very cooperative. I’m in the process of getting all the necessary permits,” he replied, his tone so smooth that it almost dispelled any doubt or anxiety.
