by Andrea Kane
“Actually, I think Marc and I should go first. That’ll provide a good baseline for Lyle Fenton. Then, yes, I want to hear what your facial recognition software showed.”
Casey and Marc went on to detail the meeting with Lyle Fenton and their take on it.
“Got it,” Ryan said, summing it up for the team. “A dirtbag and a scumbag.”
“Is there a difference?” Claire asked, amused.
“Yeah. A scumbag’s a slimier dirtbag.”
“Ah. Thanks for enlightening me.”
“No problem.” Ryan pursed his lips. “As far as Fenton getting all weird when you brought Mercer into the conversation, I can explain that one—although I think we already know the answer.”
“Go on,” Casey urged him.
“I’ll spare you the mathematical details and just get to the bottom line. I ran a whole bunch of different facial recognition algorithms, just to see if the results came out the same. They did. There’s more than an eighty-percent chance that Lyle Fenton and Congressman Mercer are related. The percentages drop down somewhat when you compare Fenton with the twins, and even more when you compare Mercer with Amanda. But that’s to be expected, since the relationships are once or twice removed. They’re still high, though. High enough for me to conclude that there are blood ties across the board. Most important, in my opinion, Clifford Mercer is Lyle Fenton’s son.”
“No shocker. But it adds a whole new dimension to this investigation.” Casey tapped her fingernails on the table—a gesture that meant she was digesting and analyzing the situation. “Mercer’s being illegitimate wouldn’t mean the end of his career, not these days. But the fact that his biological father has as much to gain from this relationship—now that’s a whole different story. It’s bad enough to be in someone’s pocket. But being in the pocket of the man who’s secretly your father? A pocket deep enough to make or break your career? That’s a scandal-waiting-to-happen.” She gave Ryan a quizzical look. “Who’s Mercer’s mother?”
“She was Catherine Mercer, born Catherine Wilmot. She died of cancer four years ago.” Ryan glanced at his notes. “No eye-openers about her background. Middle-class. Born and bred in a less affluent section of Bridgehampton. Got married at twenty-one to Warren Mercer, a rich, significantly older attorney she met as a secretary in his law firm.”
“Let me guess. One child, Clifford, who was the light of his father’s life.”
“You got it.” Ryan shot Casey an admiring look. “Nice assessment.”
“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist,” Casey replied. “If there were other children, keeping the secret wouldn’t have been as crucial. Catherine would still be tied to her husband through the other kids. But an only child? And a son, to boot? Catherine wouldn’t risk her marriage by letting the cat out of the bag.”
“Are we sure Clifford Mercer isn’t adopted?” Claire asked. “We can’t assume Catherine had an affair with Lyle Fenton.”
“Sorry to burst your naive little bubble, Claire-voyant, but they were hot and heavy for a couple of years,” Ryan informed her. “I checked with a few of Catherine’s old friends. At first, they were guarded. But I managed to charm them into talking to me.”
“And how did you manage that?” Claire asked. “I doubt they’d be interested in a trade—their cooperation for one of your Superman comic books.”
“Nope. No need to trade.” Rather than pissed, Ryan looked amused. “Just some finesse on my part. I told them I worked for Congressman Mercer, and that I’d been assigned the job of protecting his political future by preserving his mother’s good name. I asked them to tell me what they knew about her extramarital affair so I could squelch it. Loyal friends that they were, they were happy to supply me with the information.”
“What about Warren Mercer?” Claire demanded. “Did they say whether or not he knew? Or is he still in the dark after all these years? Actually, is he even alive?”
“Oh, he’s alive,” Ryan assured her. “He was Lyle Fenton’s lawyer. And the two of them were golfing buddies.”
“Were?” Casey jumped on the past tense.
“Yup—were. Right around the time of Catherine’s death, all that went to hell. Warren Mercer dropped Fenton as a client right after Catherine died. And from everything I could dig up, he and Fenton had no further dealings after that, business or personal.”
“I smell a deathbed confession,” Marc surmised aloud. “Catherine probably had to clear her conscience. Her son was a grown man, so she wasn’t worried about his reaction anymore. And she probably knew her husband wouldn’t cut off ties with Cliff, not after forty-plus years of being his father.”
“I agree.” Casey’s brows were still knit. “The question is, when did Fenton find out? Did she also tell him when she was dying? Or did he know beforehand? Clifford Mercer certainly didn’t tell him. By the time his mother died, the man was a political figure. The last thing he’d want is to give Fenton that kind of power over him. No, my guess is that Fenton already knew. But for how long?”
“My gut feeling?” Marc replied. “For a long time. Maybe even before Cliff was born. We’re talking about a man with tons of street smarts. He sure as hell knew how to count. And, given the timing of the affair, he had to suspect that he was potentially Clifford’s father. On the flip side, when he went to Catherine and she assured him the child was her husband’s, Fenton was probably überrelieved. He’s a lot of things, but a family man is not one of them.”
“I agree with that,” Patrick said. “I watched the two men together at lunch. There’s no father-son bond there. If anything, they’re distant when it comes to personal matters. Fenton asked about the twins as if he were discussing the neighbor’s kids. He got more intense about business than he did about family. Except where it came to Justin. Then, he was single-minded. He practically forced Mercer to get tested.”
“Justin represents his future,” Casey replied. “A new life, like a blank slate waiting to be written on. A last-chance hope for being the future of Fenton’s business empire. When the congressman was born, Fenton wasn’t thinking along those lines. He was young, unconcerned about the future.”
“Let’s not forget that DNA testing for paternity didn’t come into play until the 1980s,” Ryan supplied. “So even if Fenton had a paternity test, it wouldn’t have been conclusive. I doubt he pushed for it, though. I agree with Marc. I’m sure he backed off with great relief.”
“The truth is, he didn’t even want to know he had a child.” Claire’s gray eyes were filled with disgust. “But eventually he found out. So how could he walk away? Better question—what prompted him to come back? Was it because he wanted something out of Clifford Mercer?”
Casey turned toward her. “Are you getting some kind of sense?”
“Nothing.” Claire shook her head. “I’m as stymied as you are. Remember, I’ve never met either Fenton or Mercer.”
“Maybe it’s time you did. Maybe it’s time we all did.”
“You want to show up at the hospital tomorrow.” Marc’s statement was a conclusion, not a guess.
“I sure as hell do. Not just me. You and Claire, too. And Hero. I want him to pick up some initial scents from the congressman. Who knows how corrupt he is? Not just by being in Fenton’s pocket, but worse. What if he’s connected to Paul Everett’s disappearance? For all we know, Everett found out the truth about Mercer and Fenton and blackmailed them. Maybe that factored into his disappearance. And, if it did, we can add Mercer to the list of people who might know where Paul is.” Casey’s gaze shifted to Patrick. “I’d love to get your firsthand take on this, but we can’t risk it. Not when you were sitting next to the congressman and Fenton at lunch. If Mercer were to recognize you, it would blow everything.”
“That’s okay.” Patrick waved away Casey’s explanation. “You’re right. Besides, I want to do some old-fashioned
digging of my own. I’ll see what I can learn about Fenton and Mercer, and any mutual ties they had to Paul Everett. That might give us a path to follow.”
“Good.” Casey glanced from Patrick to Claire and back. “Your turn. What happened when you saw Amanda at the hospital tonight?”
“Ladies first.” Patrick gestured for Claire to talk.
Claire blew out her breath. “Justin is the same. Hanging on. Fighting for his life.” A hard swallow. “I saw him through the ICU window. He’s hooked up to so many machines. The ventilator is helping him breathe, and the antibiotics are battling the infection. But he’s so tiny. I don’t know how much longer he can keep up this fight.” She swallowed again, this time to bring herself under control. “On a separate note, something’s up with Amanda. I felt it the minute she walked out to greet us. She was uncomfortable, like she wished we’d go away. She spoke quickly, assuring us that there was no need to stick around, that she was fine and just needed to be with her son. But it was a smokescreen. I could feel her anxiety and her impatience. It wasn’t related only to Justin’s health. There was something else.”
Casey frowned. “It couldn’t have been a reaction to our meeting with her uncle. We didn’t even arrive at his estate until eight o’clock.”
“And we were long gone from the hospital by then.” Claire shook her head. “No, it had nothing to do with her uncle. I think Amanda was expecting someone. Whoever he was, we’ve never met him.”
“Him?” Ryan was all over that one.
Claire rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t some secret lover, Ryan. It was business. Personal business, which I think had something to do with Justin.”
“Then why wouldn’t she talk to you about it?” Casey asked. “What is there that she’d prefer we not know?”
“I can’t answer that.” Claire turned her palms up in a gesture of noncomprehension. “I asked her a few questions, but she only got more anxious and more distant, which clouded the energy between us even more. So I backed off. I decided it would be more productive to try talking to her again in the morning, when she was less on edge and I could get a clearer read.”
“Okay,” Casey agreed. “We’ll find out what time the congressman is being tested, and we’ll work a visit with Amanda around that.”
“He’s due at the hospital at 11:00 a.m.,” Ryan supplied. “Perfect timing for the evening news cycle. He and his wife will give blood, answer the media’s questions and then leave. He’ll be back in Washington before dinner.”
“Okay, then we’ll head out to Southampton first, and be at Sloane Kettering in the late afternoon. I want Marc to do some damage control with Amanda anyway, just in case Fenton spins our conversation in a way that throws her for a loop.” Casey shifted her gaze to Patrick. “What about you? You obviously have something for me, too.”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Claire’s right. We were definitely being followed. Both ways. And whoever did it is a pro. He stayed far enough behind us so I couldn’t catch his license plate. And when we pulled into the parking lot, he drove right by, tinted windows raised, so I couldn’t get a good look at him. But he was right behind us on the trip there, and two cars behind us on the way back. I could try to get security footage from the hospital, but I guarantee it won’t show anything.”
“We’re making people very nervous,” Claire murmured. “And those people aren’t just pros. They’re dangerous.”
“Then I say, let’s keep pushing their buttons.” Marc had that hard, steely edge to his voice. “Eventually, they’ll slip up and let us know who they are.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was after 5:00 a.m. when Ryan finally crawled into bed. He wasn’t going to get a hell of a lot of sleep. But he’d be getting more than the rest of the team. They’d be on the road by nine o’clock, right after rush-hour traffic. He didn’t envy them. At least he could catch a good five hours before he was needed.
That idea was blown to hell at 8:30 a.m. when the Star Wars theme music began blaring through his room in triplicate—from his BlackBerry, his iPhone and his Droid.
He bolted up in bed, simultaneously groping for the closest phone, his BlackBerry, which was sitting on his nightstand. The screen was furiously flashing Yoda. That meant he’d find the same name on all three screens. Clearly, it was an emergency.
“Yeah, Yoda, it’s me,” he said, waiting a split second for the voice recognition to register.
“Ryan,” Yoda replied. “We have a comm server overload. I repeat, a comm server overload.”
Ryan blinked away the final cobwebs of sleep, although he was totally confused. Why the hell would they have a comm server overload?
He got out of bed and crossed over to his laptop, quickly logging onto the Forensic Instincts server. “What the fuck…?” He stared at the huge volume of phone calls that were pouring in. “I’m coming in, Yoda.”
* * *
Twenty minutes and one subway ride later, Ryan was in his lair, punching computer keys and monitoring what he soon realized was a big-time screwup on their client’s part and a major communications crisis at FI.
He watched the video on YouTube, redirected to voice mail the incoming calls responding to Amanda’s plea, and then called Casey on speed dial.
“What’s up?” she asked, briskly towel-drying her hair.
“I’ll tell you what’s up. Amanda went public—and I mean public—last night. Our server can’t handle all the calls coming in as a result. You’d better get a bank of receptionists in here, now, or we’re in trouble. Screw that, we’re already in trouble.”
“Ryan, slow down.” Casey tossed the towel aside. “Where are you? And what did Amanda do?”
“I’m downstairs. Come on down and take a look. And then call a temp agency, or whoever you call in situations like this, and get some people in here to answer the damned phones.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Casey was already dressed. She grabbed her BlackBerry and raced down the four flights of stairs to the basement. Ryan was standing up at his desk, visibly freaking out at the number of red lights that were flashing throughout his lair.
“Yoda called me,” he explained briefly. “The phones are blowing off the hook. Wanna see why?” He gestured for Casey to come over.
She complied, staring at his computer screen as he got on the YouTube site and called up what he was looking for.
The video was very clear. It was Amanda, standing in the corridor of Sloane Kettering’s Pediatric ICU. She was just outside the window where Justin’s crib was situated, and the curtains were pulled open. The viewer could see inside and clearly make out the infant, along with his medical apparatus, through the glass. In a voice that was shaky and filled with tears, Amanda explained Justin’s condition and why it was imperative that they find a donor match immediately. She held up a photo of Paul, announcing that he was the baby’s father and the prime option, but that he’d been away and had no knowledge of Justin’s health crisis. She begged everyone to call immediately if they knew anything about Paul Everett or his whereabouts. She concluded by saying it was literally a matter of life or death, pleading with the world to save her child.
Throughout the three-minute video, Forensic Instincts’ name and phone number were posted prominently at the bottom of the screen, to be contacted on any and all potential leads.
“Dammit.” Casey dragged a hand through her tousled hair. “I can’t believe she did this.”
“Me, either. Now what are we going to do?”
Casey was already going through the contact list on her BlackBerry. “I’m going to call the first person on my NYU phone chain.”
Comprehension flashed in Ryan’s eyes. The whole team knew that Casey taught a biweekly human behavior seminar to a class of psychology students at NYU. “Phone chains are for class cancelations,” he reminded h
er.
“True.” Casey found the number she was looking for and pressed dial home. “But the kids have out-of-class hours they need to put in before Christmas—a fact I’m sure they’ve procrastinated away. Here’s their chance to fulfill those hours and get a great experience in human behavior.” A grin. “Even if they did finish partying and/or cramming for exams at dawn.” A brief pause. “Hi, Marcy. It’s Casey Woods. I need a favor.”
A minute later, she hung up. “Marcy’s calling the next person on the list. There are ten people in that class. We’ll get at least three-quarters of them, trust me. Our server won’t explode. I, on the other hand, might.” Casey’s features tightened. “I understand that Amanda is desperate. But she should have come to us first. Not just because it’s our phone number she’s listing. But because any hope we had of keeping this under the radar is now shot to hell.”
Ryan scowled. “Even if we got her to pull the video, it’s had thousands of hits already. The damage is done.”
“It sure is.” Casey sighed. “Well, now we know what vibes Claire was picking up on last night.”
A grudging nod. “Yeah, even I’ve got to admit that Claire-voyant knew what she was talking about. And if you repeat that, I’ll deny having said it.”
“Your rivalry with Claire is low on my priority list right now.” Casey’s mind was racing again. “I’m not the right one to handle Amanda. Not now. I’m too pissed. And I want to get my interns settled at the phones before I take off for Southampton. I need to quickly throw together an interview script. Train them to use it. Something simple, easy to follow, but designed to flag any useful leads.” She pressed Marc’s number on speed dial. “I’ll get Marc to go over to Sloane Kettering. He’s the best man for the job. He’ll stay cool. And he has a soothing effect on Amanda.”
“He has a soothing effect on everyone—except those he beats the shit out of,” Ryan muttered.
“True.” Casey turned her attention to the phone, which Marc picked up on the second ring, sounding alert and ready to hit the road. Bless the man. Once a Navy SEAL, always a Navy SEAL. He’d probably done a hundred push-ups before dawn. The man never slept. “Hey,” she began. “We’ve got a situation.”
