The Line Between Here and Gone

by Andrea Kane

  Just as Casey was about to call her findings in to Ryan, Morano’s cell phone rang. Not the one on his desk, but another one, which he yanked out of his pants pocket.

  “Yeah,” he answered. He went rigid. “What do you mean, he’s on his way home? How the hell did he get out of there so fast? And how did he put the pieces together?” A pause. “Shit. He’ll be flying straight to JFK. That’s just thirteen hours in the air. Which gives me one fucking day. How do you suggest I pull this off?” He stood up and began pacing, so agitated that he looked as if he might kill someone. “Okay, good. Just have him stopped. I need a little more time. I know, I know. Just buy me a couple of days.”

  He punched off the phone. “Shit!” he shouted at the empty room. “Shit, shit, shit!” He picked up a mug and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into fragments. Then, he sank down at his desk, dragging an arm across his sweating forehead. Whatever he had to accomplish, it was big. And it was in the process of being compromised.

  A myriad of thoughts flooded Casey’s mind.

  The person Morano was referring to had to be Paul Everett. And Morano himself was in this as deep as Fenton. Maybe more so, if he were part of the mob.

  Without further speculation, Casey punched Ryan’s number on speed dial. “Are you behind the wheel?” she demanded.

  “Nope, a passenger,” he replied. “I just switched off with Claire, since I’ve been driving since last night. I needed to take a break.”

  “Well, don’t. Tell Claire to pull over to the side of the road. All three of you get in the back of the van. Rewind the transmission from Gecko about three minutes. Then, watch.”

  “Done.” Ryan didn’t ask any questions. He just acted.

  While Casey stayed on the phone, she could heard a mingle of voices and a rush of activity. Then some slamming car doors and shuffling around.

  “We’re all back here,” Ryan said. “I’m putting you on speaker, and putting down the phone so I can rewind the video feed.”

  Casey waited impatiently while Ryan reversed the feed and backed it up about three minutes. Then, he shifted back into play mode.

  “Yup, that’s Morano,” Marc identified. “Sitting at his desk.”

  “Keep watching,” Casey instructed. She listened as her other team members watched and heard what she had.

  “Holy shit.” Ryan reacted first. “I thought Morano was a victim. That must have been a setup. He’s one of them.”

  “One of whoever’s keeping Paul Everett away,” Marc clarified. “It could be the mob. It could be law enforcement. We just don’t know.”

  “We do know that it’s Paul Everett on a flight,” Claire inserted. “His energy has been in transition since I got to Amanda’s. I kept walking around her apartment, going from room to room, trying to understand what I was sensing. But this is it. He’s on his way home.”

  “Which means he’s flying into JFK from somewhere,” Casey said. “We don’t know where and we don’t know when. All we know is that it’s a thirteen-hour flight, that it’s landing at JFK sometime today, and that whoever they are, they intend to stop him from getting to Amanda and Justin.”

  “We might not know any of the details,” Marc said in a hard tone. “But Morano does. We could confront him. But that would only backfire. He’d shut down and refuse to tell us a damned thing. We’re better off sticking close by and monitoring him. Eventually, he’ll be having a follow-up chat.”

  “I agree,” Casey said. “You three stay out there and keep a close eye on Morano. Call me ASAP if you see or hear anything before I do. I’m contacting Patrick and getting him to call in security relief. I want him at JFK’s International Terminal. Thirteen hours means the flight is originating overseas. Marc, you’ve done the most international traveling. Come up with a list of potential origins. In the meantime, Ryan, you search for flights about thirteen hours in length that are landing at JFK. The two of you compare notes to find the most likely time and terminal.”

  “Done,” Marc said.

  “In the meantime, Patrick can pick me up and we’ll go to JFK together. Two sets of eyes are better than one. Until we get your text, we’ll check out the arrival schedule and figure out some possibilities on our own. And, if either one of us spots Paul Everett, or anyone tries to detain him, we can act.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The large fifth-floor conference room at FBI Headquarters was filled to capacity.

  Patricia had met with the team from the New York Field Office, together with the Assistant U.S. Attorney, before Richard called the CUORC meeting to order.

  CUORC consisted of Richard, the Committee Chairman, plus a dozen FBI Section Chiefs and an equal number of Unit Chiefs spanning every division of the FBI, in addition to a Department Of Justice Director and a dozen DOJ division chiefs. It was up to CUORC to assess the benefits and the risks of the Undercover operation and the sensitive circumstances that existed.

  Waiting in the wings to answer any questions their respective Section and Unit Chiefs might have during the meeting were SSA Robinson of the Public Corruption squad and SSA Camden of the Vizzini family Organized Crime Squad, along with the Assistant U.S. Attorney who was working with the New York Field Office.

  Frank Rodriguez, Section Chief of Integrity in Government, spoke first.

  “This investigation was initially ours. It began over a year ago. The Long Island Resident Agency got a tip from the original owner of beachfront real estate on Shinnecock Bay. He wanted to build a hotel to capitalize on the business opportunity created by the construction of the nearby Shinnecock Indian Casino. He sought all the appropriate permits from the Town of Southampton. Evidently, Lyle Fenton, using his position on the Town Board, was extorting him by withholding permits, zoning variances, road improvements, environmental approvals—you name it—unless he was guaranteed a portion of the hotel profits. Fenton was already on our radar, and we had reason to believe the corruption extended beyond Southampton to Washington, D.C.”

  “Are you speaking of Congressman Mercer?” Richard inquired.

  “Yes,” Rodriguez replied. “The problem was, there was no hard evidence against Fenton or Mercer. So when the case was referred to the New York Field Office, I approved the Public Corruption Squad’s request to aggressively pursue the case. We made arrangements for the landowner to sell his property to an FBI shell company with the understanding that, once our sting was over, we’d sell the property back to him at the same price.”

  “And the new owner of the property became Paul Everett,” Richard stated, repeating the facts for the benefit of the CUORC members. “Or rather, Special Agent Paul Evans of the Philadelphia Field Office. Everett was his UC name.”

  “Exactly. Paul was the ideal candidate for the job.”

  “Not so ideal,” Richard said drily. “Getting romantically involved with Amanda Gleason was a colossal mistake—one we’re all paying for now.”

  “Agreed.” Douglas Sawyer, Unit Chief of Undercover and Sensitive Operations, nodded, taking full responsibility for the case-altering snag. “But none of us, Paul included, anticipated that complication. Paul was the right choice for the assignment. He’d done UC work before, and he had a background in real-estate development, so creating his legend was easy. What happened afterward, his involvement with Ms. Gleason—that was a lapse in judgment we tried to correct. Paul refused.”

  “Let’s stay on point,” Richard said. “What was your plan?”

  “Our plan was for Paul to make himself very visible and to play ball with Fenton. Only Fenton got smart. He wanted to size Everett up before he showed his full hand. So he softened his tactics by simply delaying the permits and waffling about Fenton Dredging taking part in the construction project. No extortion, not for the time being.”

  Sawyer paused to drink some water.

  Rodriguez co
ntinued. “Where Fenton left off, the Vizzini family took over. Their leverage was the unions. So now we had two targets—Fenton and the Vizzini crime family.” He gestured toward James Kirkpatrick, Section Chief of Criminal Enterprises for the Americas. “We brought in CE. Together, we arranged for Everett to make his payments to the mob and to strike up a working relationship with Fenton. We hoped to bring them all down, including those in Washington, D.C., who were involved.”

  Rodriguez went on to explain that their investigation had revealed that Congressman Mercer was Lyle Fenton’s son, that he was in his pocket, and that they intended to find out how deeply.

  “The problem was budget constraints,” Kirkpatrick said, taking over from Rodriguez with the Criminal Enterprise point of view. “We had limited funding. And the PC unit had already overextended itself with the land purchase. Paul was frustrated, and right on the brink of nailing Fenton. He took a weekend off and went to Boston, where he ran in a law enforcement charity 10K marathon. Evidently, he did this every year. Should have been no problem. Except that he ran into a buddy of his, Ron Pembrooke, his former roommate as a New Agent Trainee in Quantico. Pembrooke’s now a backup media specialist at the Boston Field Office. Even that would have been okay, if Pembrooke hadn’t placed in the damned race, if Paul hadn’t gone over to slap him on the back, and if a local photographer hadn’t snapped a shot of them together right in front of the Law Enforcement Officer’s charity banner—a photo that later appeared in American Police Beat magazine.”

  Everyone in the room nodded, as the sequence of events became clear. Paul had compromised the investigation—not only by getting involved with Amanda Gleason, but by failing to maintain anonymity.

  “We had to pull Paul out,” Sawyer said. “We were planning on scrubbing the entire UC op. If Kirkpatrick’s people hadn’t come up with their proposal, and if the ADIC and CE hadn’t approved the funding to support it, we’d have been dead in the water.”

  “Which is how you made it look like Paul Everett was,” Richard commented.

  “Yes,” Kirkpatrick confirmed. “We faked Everett’s death and made it look like a mob hit. We got the cooperation of the local State Troopers, who closed the murder investigation ASAP. CE bought the shell company from the Political Corruption unit. CE took over the entire operation and supplied one of our own UC agents—John Macari, now John Morano. We’re about to bring this case to fruition. We just need a few key pieces of evidence. And with so much invested by the Bureau, we can’t afford to back off or to compromise the investigation—certainly not for the personal needs of one agent.”

  “We’re not discussing an agent,” Richard corrected. “We’re discussing a dying infant. And you wouldn’t be compromising the investigation. We could have Paul Evans escorted to Sloane Kettering and kept in hiding until you complete your operation.” A heartbeat of a pause, after which he played Patricia’s trump card—the one she had briefed him on just before the CUORC meeting. “Plus, as you yourself just said, you don’t have certain pieces of key evidence. We could change that.”

  Kirkpatrick frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means we can obtain the evidence we need while simultaneously ensuring that Paul Evans will not be seen or identified at the hospital.”

  “With all due respect, Rich, can you truly make assurances like that? Amanda Gleason is Lyle Fenton’s niece. What’s to stop him from visiting the hospital at the exact time that Evans is being donor tested? What’s to stop anyone in the New York area who knew Evans as Everett from recognizing him? And what’s to stop these Forensic Instincts people from inserting themselves yet again and screwing things up? Can you guarantee that none of that will happen?”

  “Yes.” Richard didn’t miss a beat. “I can.” He carefully described Patricia’s entire plan, just as she’d instructed him to.

  The room was filled with a deadly silence, as all the attendees contemplated the proposal, glancing at one another to gauge how others might vote.

  Minutes later, Richard walked into his boss’s office to deliver the verdict.

  * * *

  Hutch was showered and dressed when Casey came upstairs to her apartment and walked into the bedroom.

  “Good morning.” She smiled, went over to him and kissed him hello.

  “Sort of.” Hutch wrapped his arms around her. “I would have preferred a proper good morning to a cold bed and a belated kiss.”

  “Sorry. Duty called.” Casey kissed him again, then stepped away. “It’s been a crazy morning. It’s about to get crazier. Patrick’s picking me up. I have to race off again. I wish I could share the details with you.” A sigh. “Maybe when it’s over and we’ve saved little Justin.”

  “You’ll save him, Casey. I have faith in you.” That was something Hutch could say with complete candor.

  “Thank you. I hope you’re right. And, for the record, I hope we can do it without jeopardizing an FBI investigation.”

  Before Hutch could reply, his cell phone rang.

  He picked it up off the nightstand and answered it. “Hutchinson.”

  “Hello, Hutch,” was the reply. “It’s Patricia Carey. I know you’re in New York, taking a few days off. Are you free to talk?”

  Hutch couldn’t mask his surprise. He’d known Executive Assistant Director Carey for a dozen years, and they’d even worked together on several violent crimes investigations earlier in her career. They’d always shared a mutual respect, and even an occasional beer. But now that she was an Executive Assistant Director, they didn’t exactly travel in the same circles. And they definitely didn’t exchange social calls.

  “Uh, yes.” He glanced up at Casey, about to request some privacy. “Just give me a minute.”

  “If that minute involves asking Casey Woods to leave the room, don’t. I want her there. Or am I being too presumptuous?”

  Hutch sat down on the edge of the bed with a stunned expression on his face. “You’re not being presumptuous. I just don’t understand why you’d…”

  “Why I’d know you were involved with Ms. Woods? Or why I’d want her participation in this telephone conversation?” A hint of humor. “The former is common knowledge. As for the latter—please ask her to stay.”

  “All right.” Hutch held up a detaining palm.

  Casey halted in her tracks, a puzzled expression on her face.

  “One last thing before we have Ms. Woods join in,” Patricia said. “You and I have worked together in the past. I’ve since followed your career. Your reputation is stellar. Plus, I trust you. So here’s my question—I’m aware of the fact that Forensic Instincts is trying to locate Paul Everett—and uncovering a wealth of information in the process. Please put your personal feelings about Ms. Woods aside. Are she and her team trustworthy?”

  Trustworthy meant different things to different people.

  “In what regard?” Hutch asked, trying to discern whether Patricia meant honorable or lawful.

  Patricia read his mind and chuckled. “I don’t mean, do they follow the rules. I’m more than cognizant of the fact that they both bend and break those. What I mean is, if I were to strike a deal with them—one that would benefit their client—would they honor it?”

  “Absolutely.” That one was a no-brainer. “I can vouch for their integrity, beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

  “I assumed you’d say that. And I’m relieved. Now, would you please put us on speaker?”

  Still totally at sea, Hutch did as she asked, beckoning Casey over as he did. “You’re on speaker, ma’am,” he said. “Casey, you’re talking to Executive Assistant Director Patricia Carey.”

  Casey’s brows arched. Patricia Carey was the FBI’s highest ranking female, reporting to the Director himself.

  “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Carey,” she said.

  “The feeling is mutual,” Patricia replied
. “Forensic Instincts has earned itself quite a reputation in a few short years—along with a few bent noses here at the FBI. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” Casey paused, dying of curiosity as to the reason for the call.

  “I’ll cut to the chase,” Patricia said. “You want to find Paul Everett. I want to successfully complete an investigation that might require a little creative energy—all within legal bounds, of course. Please understand that the FBI is unyielding about the interpretation of legal. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good. Bearing that in mind, I believe that you and I are in a position to help each other. Are you interested?”

  Casey inhaled sharply. “Are you telling me you know where Paul Everett is and you’re willing to turn him over to us?”

  “I might be. If you comply with certain stipulations in order to protect him and our investigation. And if, in return, you supply me with what we need to bring this case to a successful close.”

  Her wheels turning, Casey considered the confidentiality agreement that FI had with Amanda, and weighed it against the results being promised to her. She knew very well what Amanda would want her to do.

  “I’ll give you everything I have,” Casey assured Patricia.

  “Excellent. Then we have a deal.”

  Casey glanced at Hutch. He knew that look. She was about to test the waters. “Is Paul Everett on a plane en route to JFK?” she asked.

  Another brief chuckle. “I’m impressed. I had no idea you’d come so far. The answer is, yes, Paul is due back in New York at 4:00 p.m. on Flight 117 from Kuwait City. Now, let me lay out my stipulations. The first one is that I want SSA Hutchinson to be part of the operation I’m about to initiate. You and I both trust him, so it’s a win-win situation. Agreed?”

  Casey shot Hutch a quick smile. “Agreed.”

  “Good. Now here’s the rest—after which, I’ll need every shred of information you have on Lyle Fenton.”