The Line Between Here and Gone
Page 20
The curtains outside Justin’s section of the unit had been drawn shut. A nurse was exiting the glass doors to get some medical equipment. She saw Amanda and stopped her in her tracks. “You can’t go in there right now.”
“Is it Justin?” she demanded. “What’s happening?”
“Dr. Braeburn will be out to talk to you as soon as he can. I’ve got to go back in now to assist him.”
“Just tell me what that alarm means.”
The nurse was already in motion, heading back toward the room. “It’s the ventilator alarm,” she supplied. “I’m not sure why it went off. Please, Ms. Gleason, let us do our job.”
She disappeared back inside.
“Oh, God.” Amanda was trembling from head to toe. “He can’t breathe. Justin can’t breathe.”
Casey and Patrick both hurried to her side.
“Don’t anticipate the worst,” Casey cautioned, taking Amanda’s hands in hers. “These things go off for all kinds of reasons. Not all of those are serious. Let’s just wait to hear what the doctor says.”
“Casey’s right,” Patrick concurred. “I’ve even seen monitors malfunction. So don’t let your mind go crazy.” He gently patted her shoulder. “I’m sure the doctor will come out as soon as he can.”
“It’s not a malfunction,” Amanda said. “They’ve been in there too long. Why? What’s happening to my baby?”
The door swung open and Dr. Braeburn strode out.
“I can only stay a minute,” he told Amanda. “Justin’s being prepped for a procedure.”
“A procedure.” Amanda was as white as a sheet. “What kind of procedure?”
“Justin developed a pneumothorax—a collapsed lung,” he explained in simpler terms. “The ventilator can’t compensate for that. We have to insert a chest tube to suck the air leakage out of the chest cavity. Once the lung heals, we can remove the tube.”
“What if it doesn’t…” Amanda began.
“Don’t speculate. A pneumothorax isn’t uncommon in newborns on ventilators. We caught it right away. And we’re doing the procedure immediately.” Dr. Braeburn turned to go back inside. “Wait here with your friends. I’ll give you an update as soon as the procedure is over. It should take about fifteen minutes.”
“Can’t I be with him?” Amanda pleaded.
The doctor paused. “Unfortunately, no. This is a sterile medical procedure.”
A hard swallow. “Will he be in pain?”
“No. We’ll be administering pain medication. Now I really have to get back in there.” This time, Dr. Braeburn didn’t look back. He walked straight into the PICU.
The door shut behind him.
“Oh, God,” Amanda whispered again. She turned away, her hands pressed to her cheeks, her head bowed in unspeakable pain. “My poor baby.” She was talking more to herself than to Casey and Patrick. “He’s so tiny. So tiny. How can he live through this? More tubes. More procedures. More apparatuses. He’s doesn’t even weigh ten pounds. How is it possible for him to win this fight?”
Casey didn’t care that the questions weren’t aimed at her. She answered them anyway.
“He will win this fight, Amanda,” she said, walking around so she could face her client. “The tube will work with the ventilator. Between the two, he’ll be breathing normally. The lung will heal. The tube will come out. And once the antibiotics do their job, he won’t need the ventilator anymore.”
Casey’s own lashes were damp, but she refused to show anything but calmness and certainty. Because that was what Amanda needed at that moment.
“Amanda, you’re so strong,” she continued. “So is Justin. He’s his mother’s son. He wants to live. The doctors are going to make sure that he does.”
“As are we,” Patrick inserted with a fervor that startled Casey. “We’ll find Paul Everett. We won’t give up until we do. All you have to do is hold on. I’m a newer member of Forensic Instincts. But I’ve seen what this team can do. I’ve helped them do it. Don’t lose faith.”
Amanda lowered her arms and pivoted slowly to gaze at Patrick. “You have children,” she stated with certainty.
“Three. Two daughters and a son. And I’d give my life for any one of them. I understand what you’re feeling. Helplessness is one of the hardest emotions to deal with as a parent. But you will deal with it. Because all that matters is Justin and the fact that he needs you.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” Amanda was trying to bolster herself with Patrick’s words. “Thank you. I’ll pull myself together. I have to.”
“I can stay here and wait with you,” Casey offered.
“No.” Amanda shook her head. “You go talk to your FBI friend. Find Paul. That’s the best thing you can do for me, and for Justin.”
“Go ahead, Casey,” Patrick said. “I’m here. And I think Amanda mentioned that her friend Melissa was coming by.”
“Yes, she is,” Amanda confirmed. “She’s stopping by right after she puts her kids on the bus. So she should be here soon. Between her and Patrick, I’ll have all the support I need.”
“Okay.” Casey squeezed her hands again. “I’m just a phone call away. And Patrick’s right. We’re going to find Paul.”
* * *
Behind the closed doors of his office, Lyle Fenton grabbed his cell phone as soon as he got word about the fire at Morano’s place. He didn’t have to wait for an investigation to know it was arson.
“Are you fucking crazy?” he demanded the instant his call was answered. “Don’t we have enough of a spotlight shining on us with the reopening of Paul Everett’s disappearance? Now you’re torching his successor’s office? Do you think the cops are idiots? They’re bound to tie the two together. Why the hell did you do this?”
“The son of a bitch wasn’t going to pay us anymore,” Franco Paccara snapped. Paccara was a union business manager—and a key member of the Vizzini family. “You’re worried about your ass. I’m worried about mine.”
“Well, you can stop worrying,” Fenton told him. “I pushed the permit applications through. You’ll be starting work on that massive construction job two months sooner than expected. So you and your crew will be making a hell of a lot more than the pocket change you’ve been extracting—and you’ll be doing it from outside a jail cell. Enough. Leave Morano alone.”
“He spit in our faces.”
“And you burned down his shack, his files, his computer, and everything else he had in there. He better have all his building files backed up on a flash drive or you screwed yourselves. Look, you probably scared the shit out of him. Fine. Threaten him throughout the entire project, for all I care. Just don’t do anything. I don’t want another Paul Everett on our hands.”
Silence.
Fenton went for the brass ring. “There’s a bonus in this if you agree to go along with me.”
That woke Paccara up. “How much?”
“How does a hundred thousand sound to you? Half now, half when construction is finished. Share some with your guys. Keep the rest for yourself.”
“Yeah, okay, fine. We’ll leave Morano alone—as long as he cooperates and doesn’t try to screw us over.”
“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. Count on it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hutch was sitting at the counter in Casey’s kitchen, wearing only a pair of jeans, nursing a cup of coffee and working on his laptop, when Casey walked in.
“Hey.” He took one look at her, then got up and poured her a cup of coffee. “Here,” he said gently, pressing the cup into her hands. “You look like you need this.”
“More than you know.” She took a deep swallow, then placed the mug on the counter. “Thank you… I…”
In an uncharacteristic emotional meltdown, Casey walked straight into Hutch�
�s arms, pressing her face against his bare chest and winding her arms around his waist. “Watching this…seeing it firsthand…I don’t think I could go through what Amanda is,” Casey admitted in a watery voice. “Between this—and our last case—I doubt I’ll be having kids, ever.”
Hutch put down his own cup and wrapped his arms around her. “These cases are the toughest.” He pressed his lips into her hair. “I know. That’s why I transferred.”
She nodded against his skin. “I know you do. And I know you managed to compartmentalize it. I usually do, too.”
“I didn’t compartmentalize…I internalized,” Hutch corrected. “And it never got easier.”
Casey drew a deep, shaky breath. “I’m sorry I’m acting so weak and infantile. It’s completely unlike me. I’m just…”
“Human?” Hutch finished for her. “Sweetheart, you don’t always have to be the formidable president of Forensic Instincts. Sometimes you can just be Casey—at least with me.” His palms slid up and down her spine in a soothing gesture. “I think we’ve come at least that far, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Casey conceded.
Their relationship was complicated—intense, passionate, meaningful, but long-distance. Two strong-willed, independent people with equally consuming careers. They never talked about a future, never even put a label on what they had. It was better that way.
Still, there was no denying how close they’d grown.
“Tell me what happened at the hospital,” Hutch urged. “Is the baby worse?”
“Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure.”
Casey stepped out of Hutch’s embrace, blinked away her tears and picked up her cup of coffee. “The monitors in the PICU went off while I was there. It seems that Justin has a collapsed lung. The medical team was performing an emergency procedure to fix it when I left. Amanda will call me. She’s on the verge of a complete emotional breakdown. And who blames her? Every time she feels a shred of hope, something else happens to beat her down. We’ve got to find Paul Everett, Hutch. It doesn’t matter how.”
Hutch evaded that last sentence. He and Casey had different restrictions when it came to operating within the boundaries of the law. So they avoided that topic like the plague.
“Did you ask Amanda if you could unofficially consult with me?”
“Yes. She was thrilled. So here’s where we are.”
Casey proceeded to bring Hutch up to speed, filling him in on everything—including some things that even Amanda didn’t know. But, in order to do his job, Hutch had to be apprised of the FI team’s suspicions about Lyle Fenton and his involvement in whatever prompted Paul Everett’s disappearance. Casey hesitated when it came to the part about Fenton’s relationship to Congressman Mercer. Was it imperative that Hutch know that? Yes. Not only was it a major facet of the bigger picture, but it elevated the entire situation to a bigger, more federal level.
By the time Casey was finished, Hutch was one hundred percent up to speed.
He sipped at his coffee, brows knit, as he digested everything Casey had just told him.
“This is a lot bigger and more complex than I realized,” he finally said.
“Exactly,” Casey replied. “It might involve a crime family as well as a national politician. We don’t know. We will know, because we wouldn’t have it any other way. But an infant’s life is on the line. We don’t have the luxury of time. And you have the ability and the resources to accelerate the process. So anything you could find out would be crucial to our search for Paul Everett.” A pause. “After that, the case is all yours. Turn it over to the Bureau. Bring down everyone involved. All signs point to Fenton being a scumbag, so I’d be thrilled. But, for our purposes, all we need is Justin’s father.”
“Fair enough.” Hutch’s mind was already racing, considering the best sources for him to approach. “Let me make a few phone calls and send out some emails. I’ll see what I can dig up.”
* * *
Casey’s cell phone rang ten minutes later. She’d been sitting on the floor, scratching Hero’s belly in the hopes of unwinding. Now, she saw the caller ID and snatched up the phone. It was Patrick.
“What’s happening?” she demanded.
“The procedure was successful,” Patrick informed her. “Justin’s out of crisis mode—for now. Amanda’s in the PICU with him. She asked me to call you.”
“Thank God.” Casey felt a wave of relief. “Whatever time this bought us, I’m using. I filled Hutch in on everything. He’s closeted in one of the downstairs offices, reaching out for his contacts, as we speak.”
“Good. Meanwhile, there have been no more phone calls at this end. That doesn’t mean a thing. Someone’s keeping a sharp eye on Amanda and on us. My guess is he’s in restraint mode while he gets a read on me. But he’ll be back. He’s not going anywhere as long as we’re continuing this manhunt.”
“Which we are—full force,” Casey stressed.
“Any word back from Ryan on the phone records? Not that I think he’ll find anything.”
“No, and I agree. The guy probably used a burner phone. He’s not an amateur. He’s not going to get caught through phone records.”
“And what’s going on with Morano’s office? Have the cops officially declared it as arson yet?”
“Nope. They’re playing it very close to the vest. But I plan on calling our friend Detective Jones in a few hours. He’s been busy checking us out. It’s time I did a little information pumping of my own.”
* * *
The captain of Big Money eyed the sonar display as he carefully scanned the sea floor for the specially modified container.
Several hours behind schedule and fifteen nautical miles from New York Harbor, he was anxious to recover the last “catch” of the night. The container had been jettisoned two weeks ago in great haste, narrowly avoiding interception by the U.S. Coast Guard, which had stepped up drug interdiction efforts. Fashioned from an old shipping container with large cutouts on all sides, the steel box would have rapidly filled with water and sunk like a massive boat anchor. Steel mesh, welded over the manhole-size holes, would be keeping larger fish out of the container, where they might try to feed off the hermetically sealed bricks of cocaine.
The container and its contents were safe on the ocean floor, but their location, close to the center of the Hudson Shelf Valley, could be problematic.
Extending southeast from the Verrazano-Narrows at a forty-five-degree angle, the Hudson Shelf Valley bisected the New York Bight region of the continental shelf. Depths could reach over two hundred feet, which would make it impossible for the ship and its team of divers to retrieve the valuable cache of cocaine.
But luck was with them today.
The outline of the shipping container appeared on the LCD display—at a depth of 120 feet. Swiftly, the captain motioned to his first mate to dispatch the two divers. In a matter of minutes, the expert underwater team had deployed into the icy waters, attached a grappling hook to the loops of heavy steel cable welded onto the container and begun to haul it to the surface.
Two hours later, Big Money and its precious and highly illegal cargo pulled into the Fenton Marine dock in Bayonne, New Jersey.
* * *
The fire in Hampton Bays was ruled as arson.
The announcement was made, not by the police, but by the media. As was often the case, they beat the police to the punch—perhaps not with the conclusive findings, but with the revelation.
Within three hours, they’d made enough intrusional headway at the crime scene to put together the pieces and shout them out to the tristate area.
The facts were clear. A shack thoroughly doused with gasoline. The office of a real-estate developer about to embark on a multimillion-dollar project. The successor of a developer who was the victim of a bloody, no-body homicide eight months ago.
Casey heard the breaking news on her headphones while jogging with Hero back home from the park. It explained why Detective Jones hadn’t returned her call. She’d thought he’d just been hiding from her—which no doubt he had been. But he’d also been directing all his resources to shutting down the media.
Unfortunately, not only would that be an impossible task, it would also be like closing the barn door after the horse was out.
Hurrying inside, Casey unleashed Hero, who bounded up the stairs behind her as she made her way to FI’s main conference room with its gigantic, multiscreened video wall.
“Hello, Casey. Hello, Hero,” Yoda greeted them.
“Yoda, I need to see all local TV news,” Casey instructed him.
“Are you looking for breaking news?” Yoda inquired. “Otherwise, you’ll find it problematic. It’s eleven forty-five—none of the local stations carry news programs at this time.”
Casey contemplated that truth.
“Would you prefer local news radio?” Yoda asked. “That would be on the air now.”
“I’ve already heard the radio announcement. I’d like visuals to go along with it.”
“I see. Then how shall I proceed?”
“What about midday news?” Casey asked. “A few of the local stations broadcast that.”
“Correct. Both CBS and ABC have news at noon. Shall I pull up both stations and we’ll await the midday hour?”
“Yes, Yoda, please.”
“Certainly.” The screens came to life. “I’m showing CBS on your left and ABC on your right. News will begin in precisely thirteen minutes, twelve seconds. Please advise me if you’d like one of the two stations expanded to full screen.”
“Thanks, Yoda. I will. One more thing. While we’re waiting, can you please search the internet for any stories about the fire at John Morano’s office?”
“Beginning search,” Yoda replied. Seconds later, he announced, “Nothing found.”
“Okay then, please check out the live internet feed from the local TV station in the Hamptons. The rest of Long Island, as well. Then, add those to the video display.”