by Andrea Kane
Marc went straight for the control panel and quickly zeroed in on what he was looking for.
He pressed the power button on the rack-mounted Sailor Broadband unit and waited for the system to acquire a satellite. Once that was accomplished, he extended the retractable ethernet cable, plugging one end into his netbook, the other into the wall jack adjacent to the mahogany tabletop that served as Fenton’s maritime office. When the Power, Terminal, and Antenna status lights on the Sailor 250 were solid green, Marc powered up his netbook. Opening up Firefox, he entered http://192.168.0.1 to gain access to the main menu.
Done.
Marc clicked on the Messages navigation button to look at all of Fenton’s recent calls and text messages. He downloaded the call log to his netbook, saving the details for Ryan to decipher later.
Abruptly, while examining the phone book, something caught Marc’s eye. It was an entry for Big Money.
Interesting.
He went into the software’s edit mode, then copied the mobile number—870 area code. Didn’t recognize it.
Clicking the Messages navigation button, and selecting the Write Message option, he pasted Big Money’s phone number into the Recipient field and then composed a cryptic, one-word text message:
Status?
He changed Delivery Confirmation to Yes, clicked the send button and waited.
A brief interval passed. Then Marc got a confirmation. Shortly thereafter, his response arrived:
Why are you on your boat? Thought it was in storage for winter.
Marc considered what Fenton’s reaction would be to having his whereabouts questioned. Then he responded:
My business, not yours. WHAT IS YOUR STATUS?
Sure enough, came the reply:
Sorry. All containers retrieved. Heading 4 Bayonne.
Marc did a double take. Then he typed his final message:
Good. Signing off.
Containers retrieved? In Marc’s experience that meant one of a couple of things—either of which would put Fenton behind bars for a long, long time.
* * *
Ryan was sitting in the back of the van, thoroughly studying his computer screen, when Marc yanked open the back door and instructed Hero to jump in.
“Hey.” Ryan’s head snapped up. “How did it go?”
“It went.” Marc gestured for him to return to the driver’s seat. “I’ve got a call log for you to decipher. And we’ve got three other stops to make. Let’s start with Westhampton Beach. We’re picking up Claire.”
“And the second stop—you’re going to see Fenton.”
“Yup. And third stop, Mercer. It’s time to blow the lid off this case.”
* * *
Thirty minutes after Marc left the marina, the captain of Big Money was crossing under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge when the incoming-message indicator on his communications display terminal flashed again. Pressing the icon on the touch screen, he read:
Fenton (mobile).
The captain was puzzled about why Fenton would text him again, this time from his cell phone. While aboard Lady Luck, he’d made it clear he was signing off, the implication being Don’t bother me.
Quickly, the captain opened the text message. He panicked when he saw Fenton’s request:
Status?
He didn’t wait. “Goddfrey,” he shouted to his first mate. “Call Fenton on his cell phone. It’s an emergency.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Fenton was waiting for Marc when the van arrived at the iron gates of his estate.
He eased aside his living-room drapes to watch the approaching headlights illuminate his lawn. This time he was worried. Very worried. He had no idea how much damaging information Marc Devereaux had come away with, but what Fenton had been briefed on was bad enough. This wasn’t going to be a harmless fishing expedition like last time. It was going to be an ugly confrontation.
He would have called his lawyer and asked him to be present. But that would make him look as guilty as he really was.
He sucked in his breath and readied himself for what was to come.
Outside, the guard posted at the property entrance complied with Fenton’s earlier instructions. He opened the iron gates and let the FI van pass through.
“Do you want me to come in with you two?” Ryan asked Marc, as he maneuvered down the labyrinth driveway.
“Nope.” Marc shook his head. “I want you to continue your research and share some trail mix with Hero. He must be starved after his long night. As for Fenton, this visit will be most effective if I just walk in and surprise him with the team psychic. That’ll freak him out.”
“It freaks everyone out, right, Claire-voyant?” Ryan teased.
Claire’s brows rose. It was the first normal comment Ryan had made to her since…well, since then. “Not everyone,” she replied. “Mostly you.”
Ryan met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Freaked out is not the term I’d use. More like intrigued and frustrated.”
Claire swallowed. “That’s an improvement over dismissive.”
“Yeah, well, people change. Although I still don’t buy the communing with inanimate objects.”
“Then how do you explain Gecko?”
“He’s very animate. He just speaks a different language than we do.”
“So do victims’ personal items.”
“Save it, you two,” Marc interrupted. “Let’s get the truth out of Fenton. And Mercer. Then you can go back to your game of one-upmanship.”
“Good idea,” Claire said. She averted her gaze and readied herself as the van approached the manor. “This should be interesting.”
“Don’t flip out if I go after the guy—I mean really go after him,” Marc cautioned her.
“You mean beat him up?” She shrugged. “If it will help us save Justin, feel free. I’m a lot tougher than the bunch of you think.”
Ryan coughed, but he said nothing. He just pulled the van around to the front of the house. “Good luck,” he told them. “Shoot some video if you kick the guy’s ass.”
“Sure,” Marc replied good-naturedly. “Claire, you have your cell, right?”
* * *
The butler ushered Claire and Marc directly to the study where Fenton sat at his desk. He did a double take when he saw Claire.
“We met at the hospital,” he remembered aloud, scrutinizing her.
“We certainly did. Claire Hedgleigh,” Claire reminded him.
“Right.” Try though he did to keep up appearances, Fenton was definitely thrown. He knew who and what Claire was.
Shuffling some papers around on his desk, he snapped off commands to his butler. “Go. And shut the door behind you. I don’t want to be disturbed—not for any reason.”
“Yes, sir.” The thin, uneasy-looking man disappeared.
“Why did you bring Ms. Hedgleigh with you?” Fenton demanded right away. “She wasn’t there when you broke in and trespassed on my boat with your trained bloodhound.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Marc’s expression was nondescript. He glanced around the room. “I hope you’re not stupid enough to have this room bugged. Your admissions, or lack thereof, are a lot more incriminating than mine.”
“The room’s not bugged. I’m an average man, Devereaux, not a spy.”
“An average man?” This time, Marc raised a brow. “I wouldn’t use that term to describe you. As for Claire, she’s my colleague, and a trusted judge of character. I asked her to be here.”
“She’s a psychic.”
“Yes, I am,” Claire confirmed. “I pick up on all kinds of energy, good and bad.”
“Bad energy isn’t admissible in court,” Fenton mocked her.
“I wasn’t plannin
g on testifying. Why? Should I be?”
Marc bit back a smile. He’d never seen this side of Claire. She was damned good.
“Stop dancing around the issue.” Fenton planted his palms flat on his desk. “I know what happened tonight. My guard at the marina regained consciousness. Nice of you to pull the gag out of his mouth so he didn’t choke, and loosen the ropes so he could free himself. The minute he did, he took off after you. Of course, you were already gone. But he called me on the spot. And he described you and your dog to a tee.”
“Yet you didn’t call the police.” Marc looked thoughtful. “Interesting. If my property had been broken into, I’d be on the phone with the cops. Then again, I’m not a criminal scumbag like you.”
Without so much as a pause, Marc tapped Claire’s shoulder and pointed to the marble-framed photograph on the wall. “That’s the ship I was telling you about,” he said conversationally. “Big Money. Impressive, isn’t it? It travels to Fenton’s dock in Bayonne on a regular basis, retrieving containers as it goes. And it lives up to its name. It rakes in huge money—doesn’t it, Fenton?”
Fenton wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “My entire company is successful.”
“I’m sure it is. Transporting illegal cargo really rakes in the cash.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ah, but I do. It’s a sweet deal. Your fleet is out there dredging anyway. Why not help out the mob and reap some extra profits at the same time?” Marc took a few menacing steps forward, his sarcastic tone turning cold as steel. “Did you plan on doing the same thing with your ferry service to the new hotel? Is that the deal you made with the mob? To take along their stash of guns or drugs while you transported tourists to the luxury resort? Is that why it took you so long to sign those contracts with Morano—because you were working out the specifics with the mob while they blackmailed him in the meantime?”
Fenton had gone sheet-white.
“It backfired, didn’t it? When Morano couldn’t afford his blackmailers anymore, they burned down his office. People could have been killed. I bet you didn’t plan on adding murder to your list of crimes, now, did you?”
“I’m not listening to another word,” Fenton barked. “You don’t have a shred of proof to back up any of these outrageous charges.”
“Fortunately, I don’t need any.” Marc’s tone was now low, threatening. “My job is not to bring you to justice, much as I’d love to. I work for Forensic Instincts, not law enforcement. My job is to find Paul Everett. As it turns out, he was on your private yacht, Lady Luck, right before he disappeared. And that I do have proof of. Solid, admissible proof.” Marc stretched the truth—and it worked.
“So you were on my yacht,” Fenton burst out. “You
admit it.”
“Why? Because I know her name? Public record, Fenton.” Marc leaned over the desk, his eyes ablaze, his stance ominous. “Are you denying that Everett was there?”
Fenton shrank back. Marc was more than a little scary when he looked like this. “No, I’m not denying it. We had a business meeting there.”
“One you never mentioned?”
“Why would I mention it? You asked if Everett and I were business colleagues. We were. We had several meetings. One of them was on my yacht. Last I checked, that wasn’t a crime.”
“Did Everett figure out what you were up to? Is that why he conveniently disappeared? Was it your call or was it the mob’s?”
Fenton’s pupils dilated, and his jaw literally dropped. “You think I killed Paul Everett?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe you just made sure he was somewhere else, out of the way.”
Fenton was starting to sweat profusely. “My niece’s child—my great-nephew—is dying. His father is the only real hope he has. Do you honestly think I’d take away his best chance to live?”
“Justin wasn’t born when Paul Everett vanished,” Claire reminded him. “So it might have been too late when you realized how vitally important Paul Everett was to his son’s life.” She pursed her lips. “Very dark energy, Mr. Fenton. Very dark, and very ugly. You’re a despicable man.”
Fenton raked both hands through his hair. “This is insane. I didn’t kill anyone. And I didn’t stash Paul Everett away. I don’t know what happened to him or who’s responsible. But it wasn’t me.”
That spurred Marc into action.
He grabbed Fenton by the lapels, dragged him forward. “What did Everett find when he was on your boat? Did he overhear a conversation? Did he put together the pieces? Or did he find something concrete—like the containers themselves? Tell me, you son of a bitch, or I’ll make you wish you were never born.”
Fenton struggled to free himself. But Marc’s grip was unbreakable.
“Let go of me,” Fenton commanded.
“I’m just getting started. Now it’s only your designer suit that’s in danger of being torn apart. In a few minutes, it’ll be a whole lot more. Now talk.” Marc shook him hard. “What happened when Everett was on your boat?”
“Nothing.” Fenton was starting to get scared. The expression on Marc’s face was lethal. “We talked about the hotel. We talked about Amanda.”
“How touching. I’m sure he confided his innermost feelings to you.” Marc’s grip tightened again, and he yanked Fenton forward until he was halfway across the desk. “That’s a bunch of bullshit. You didn’t discuss Everett’s social life. He spent the time trying to convince you to sign onto his hotel project. And you kept him at arm’s length—for the same reason you were doing it with Morano. How much in kickbacks did you get from the twenty grand they each paid the mob every six weeks?”
“Nothing. I didn’t know…”
Marc was around the desk in a microsecond. He pinned Fenton to the wall, digging his elbow into his throat, keeping the threat real. “Yes, you did. You knew everything. Just like you profited from everything. Now, am I going to do some serious damage to your body, or are you going to answer me?”
Fenton gazed past Marc, giving Claire a frightened look. “Are you going to just stand there and let this barbarian physically assault me?”
“Hmm.” Claire pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Yes,” she replied. “I am.”
“I’m not admitting to anything,” Fenton gasped as the pressure of Marc’s elbow intensified. “Nothing except the business meeting on my yacht. But I swear I didn’t have anything to do with Paul Everett’s disappearance.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know. You don’t ask certain people those kinds of questions.”
“I’ll bet you don’t.” Marc lifted Fenton by the throat and threw him down to the floor, discarding him like a piece of trash. “I’d love to kick the crap out of you. But it doesn’t suit my purposes—not right now. Right now, all I care about is finding Paul Everett. And you don’t know shit about his whereabouts. But you’re going to find out. You’re going to dig as deep as you have to, ask the scariest people you know. And, if you’re lucky, they’ll have my answers.”
Fenton stared up at Marc, his forehead drenched in sweat. He made no move to stand up. “Do you know what they’ll do to me if I accuse them, or even press them for answers?”
“Do you know what I’ll do to you if you don’t?” Marc loomed over Fenton, eyes blazing like fire. “Uncle Sam trained me well. I can kill you anytime I want to—no matter where you are or who’s protecting you. Do you know what a SEAL is capable of? Bin Laden never stood a chance. Which means you sure as hell don’t. Get me information. Tonight. Then I might show you some mercy by only breaking body parts you never knew you had. And afterward, just for laughs, I’ll make an anonymous call to the cops and get you thrown into jail for smuggling—plus a whole list of other crimes you don’t even know I’m aware of. I may not be law enforcement now, but I was once FBI. One phone call f
rom me, and they’ll take care of the rest.”
With that, Marc turned and headed for the door, gesturing for Claire to join him. “I’ll be in touch in the morning, Fenton. Make sure you have answers.”
* * *
“Okay, you’re officially terrifying,” Claire commented as they headed toward the van.
“And you are a whole lot tougher than I realized.” Marc snapped off a salute. “I’m impressed.”
“That man is scum,” Claire replied. “Every time you accused him of something, I got a flash of violence and dirty money. The only thing I got nothing on was each time you asked about Paul Everett’s whereabouts. I kept coming up blank—well, almost blank. I’m pretty certain that Paul disappeared because of Fenton, but not by his hand.”
“I agree.” Marc nodded, opening the van door so Claire could climb in. “I’m not even sure he knows who to go to for answers. But he’ll torture himself trying. He’s going to have one miserable, sleepless night—and put himself in a shitload of danger. Plus, we’ll get leads from the calls he makes, since Ryan’s monitoring his phone records. That’s good enough for me right now.”
“He didn’t know where Everett is?” Ryan surmised from the tail end of the conversation.
“Nope. But he’ll be busting his ass to find out.”
“You played your trump card.”
“I sure did. Laid it all out for him. Along with some proper incentive, if you get my drift.”
“How much blood was there to clean up?” Ryan inquired.
“None.” Claire grinned. “Marc’s a very neat worker.”
