The Line Between Here and Gone (Forensic Instincts)

by Andrea Kane

  Fenton came to his feet, visibly unsettled by the abrupt closure to a conversation that had steered way off course. “I’m not sure I helped.”

  “You gave us some insight into Paul Everett. That’s all we expected. The rest of it—the heavy lifting—is our job.” Casey handed him a business card. “If you think of anything else, please give us a call, any time of the day or night. We’re working 24/7 to find Justin’s father.”

  “With very little time to do it in,” Fenton amended, that genuine distress crossing his face again.

  “We’re narrowing things down.” Marc sounded more threatening than he did reassuring. Some of it was the role he was playing, and some of it was pure Marc. “I told Amanda we’d find Everett, and we will—through whatever means necessary.”

  Fenton met Marc’s hard stare, then wet his lips and glanced away. “I hope so. Amanda swears by you. And I’m aware of your reputation. This is one time I hope you earn it.”

  * * *

  Five minutes later, Casey and Marc were back in the van, heading up the serpentine drive toward the gates.

  “What a scumbag,” Marc stated flatly. “He’s dirty in more ways than we can count.”

  “No argument.” Casey waited for the gates to open, then steered onto the main road. “The only thing about him that’s genuine is his feeling for Justin. He’s worried. Enough so that if he were directly involved in Paul Everett’s disappearance, he wouldn’t leave it that way.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” Marc muttered. “Fenton’s drive for self-preservation trumps everything. Even the baby’s life.”

  “That’s exactly why he’d save the baby’s life,” Casey refuted. “Justin represents his legacy, which is the only thing he gives a damn about.”

  “So you think he wants us to find Everett?”

  “I didn’t say that. I think he wants to find Everett. I think he believed he was dead. I wouldn’t be surprised if he played a part in whatever happened. And if he is guilty of something, he’s probably frantic to find Paul before we do. That way, he can clean up whatever Paul has on him, and then make him disappear again, this time for good. Whether that means killing him or paying him off, I don’t know. There’s a menacing quality about that guy that tells me he’s capable of both.”

  “Yeah. I think you should have let me beat the crap out of him. It would have made me feel a whole lot better.”

  Casey understood Marc’s frustration. He rarely made comments like those—comments he would never act on. He was way too disciplined to opt for physical violence unless it made sense. In this case, it would only have resulted in FI getting fired and Marc getting arrested—all of which would have brought them no closer to finding Paul Everett.

  “He flipped out when we got onto the topic of Mercer,” she commented.

  “Ya think?” Marc frowned. “There’s definitely a connection there, and not just a political one. Although I’m sure having Fenton’s money in his coffers sweetened the deal for Mercer. But I’m glad Ryan’s running that facial recognition software. It should be interesting to see if we’re barking up the right tree.”

  “You know we are, and so do I. There’s a blood connection here. How close a blood connection, and why it’s being kept a secret, are the questions we need answers to.”

  “Okay, so we know Fenton’s freaked out about Mercer.” Marc’s eyebrows knit. “He’s also freaked out about Morano. Why him more than Everett—especially if he’s involved in Everett’s disappearance?”

  “Maybe because he had rehearsed his entire speech about Everett and he wasn’t expecting us to get into Morano.” Casey continued driving toward Westhampton Beach, where they’d collect Marc’s stuff and head back to the city. “Fenton was like an actor on the stage, and not a particularly good one. First, he tried to intimidate us with his wealth and his demeanor—right down to the custom-tailored suit he opted not to change out of before our visit.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that. Pretty transparent. Nobody stays in a monkey suit a minute longer than necessary. You’d think that a couple of hours after getting home, he’d be in casual clothes.”

  “You would indeed. Now let’s get to Paul. Fenton ran through his litany about Paul like a memorized script. He didn’t lose footing until we touched on the mob. That struck a nerve. So did our curiosity over what Morano did to tip the scales in his favor. Fenton was definitely thrown by that. Why? Are he and Morano proverbially in bed together?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” Marc replied. “On the other hand, who’s Morano paying off? Who was Paul paying off? Fenton would be my first guess.”

  “In which case, they’re both in this, but on opposite sides.”

  “Yup. I told you how staged Morano was during our interview today. Maybe afterward he clued Fenton in on the interview—and the fact that ‘Robert Curtis’ had asked about Everett. Maybe he was nervous that Crain’s business magazine might decide to take the article a step further and talk to others involved in the project.”

  “Which would explain why Fenton was so scripted about Paul Everett.”

  Marc chuckled. “It would also explain Fenton’s reaction when he first saw me. If Morano described me to him, then Fenton must have recognized me—and not as Robert Curtis.” An exaggerated grimace. “And here I thought my mere presence had scared the shit out of him.”

  “It probably did. Doubly so, if he put the pieces together.” Casey sighed. “If you’re right, it means they’re onto us. I knew that would eventually be unavoidable. I just wish we could have avoided tipping our hand a little longer. Now, both Morano and Fenton will be on their guard. So will Mercer, if he’s in on this. And Fenton will make sure to mention something to Amanda that’ll either upset her or make her wary of us.” A quick sideways glance. “She trusts you, Marc. I think you should do some damage control ASAP.”

  “How much do you want me to say?”

  “That we were thorough and direct with her uncle. That he seemed uncomfortable with some of our questions. That we had no intentions of offending him, but that it was our job to cover every base—including some that dealt with Paul’s possible criminal involvement. And that we’re sure he understands, since he’s as eager to find Justin’s father as we are.”

  “Got it. The truth, only sprayed with perfume.”

  “Right. Then, no matter what Fenton says to her, Amanda’s reaction will be tempered. After all, there were no accusations made. If Fenton has a guilty conscience, that’s his problem.” Casey shrugged. “I have a feeling that the deeper we dig, the more we’re going to find on Fenton. Eventually, Amanda’s going to have to be told. For now, she has enough on her plate. Her focus is on Justin, as it should be. Her uncle’s peace of mind is low on her priority list. And if it turns out that Fenton had something to do with her losing Paul… Let’s just say that I doubt she’ll be too concerned about hurting his feelings.”

  Marc glanced at his watch. “Let’s get my stuff and get back to the office. I want to hear what Ryan’s figured out so far.”

  “And what Claire and Patrick got from visiting Amanda at the hospital. No one’s called or texted. Which means everything’s still in the works. We’ll have more to discuss when we’re all together.”

  As if on cue, Casey’s cell phone rang. Caller Unknown registered on the dashboard screen. It could be anyone, threatening or otherwise. That never stopped Casey; it only made her cautious.

  She pressed the button on her steering wheel and picked up the call. “Casey Woods.”

  “Kyle Hutchinson,” a deep, masculine voice replied.

  “Hutch.” Relief surged through her. Hutch’s voice was the last one Casey expected to hear. She was mentally wrapped up in the investigation, and this call was unexpected. The sound of Hutch’s voice was a welcome balm, and brought with it the usual surge of pleasure. More so than usual, since they hadn’t spoken in weeks, which was a rarity. “Are you back in Quantico?”

  “Just finished up my assignment. I’m at a stopover in
London. I’ll be flying back to the States tomorrow.”

  Hutch didn’t elaborate and Casey didn’t ask. Despite how involved they were, she knew better than to pry. Hutch worked for the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, and most of his assignments were on a “need to know” basis. He’d just transferred from the BAU-3—crimes against children—to the BAU-2—crimes against adults. He was much happier. The former had started to get to him. Kids being hurt, killed or worse. He’d had enough.

  He and Casey had been committed to their long-distance relationship for months now, and they’d managed to make it work. Their professional lives had crossed just once—on the kidnapping case Forensic Instincts had worked in October. The two of them had butted heads—it hadn’t been pretty.

  “Hey, Hutch,” Marc chimed in. “I’m here, too, before you say anything that’ll make me blush.”

  A chuckle. “Thanks for the warning.” Hutch knew Marc from his BAU days. They were friends. In fact, Marc had been the one to introduce him to Casey.

  “Are you working?” Hutch asked.

  “Round the clock.” Casey blew out a breath. “It’s a rough case.”

  “You’ll tell me about it tomorrow. I’ll be landing at JFK a little before six o’clock—early enough to take you to dinner.”

  Casey blinked. “You’re coming to New York?”

  “Yup. I’ve been working nonstop for weeks. I’ve got a few days of R & R. I chose to spend them in the Big Apple.”

  “That’s great.” Casey hated feeling torn. “But Hutch, the case I’m working on…”

  “Not to worry. I’ll claim whatever snatches of time you have. Otherwise, I’ll be eating three squares and sleeping in. I’m hungry and I’m beat.”

  “Okay.” Casey felt another surge of relief. There was something very steadying about Hutch. He was intense, but he knew where to draw the line. He had to. He’d been a cop, now he was FBI. He had nerves of steel. She had the nerves, but she had problems drawing the line. Despite her best efforts, her cases got inside her. Hutch helped her find balance.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said. “And tell Hero he’ll be sharing the bed.”

  Casey smiled as she disconnected the call.

  “You know,” Marc mused aloud. “Maybe we could clear it with Amanda, and ask Hutch for his help. We’ll tell her he’s an FBI consultant. He might give us a fresh take on Paul Everett.”

  Casey’s brows rose. “Hutch and me working together? The death toll could be high.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It had taken a half hour of pleading and persuasion on Amanda’s part to get the ICU staff to agree to her request. But when she explained what she was desperate to accomplish, they’d finally agreed.

  A professional videographer and his assistant showed up just before 7:00 p.m. Amanda thanked her friends profusely for the huge favor. Her instructions were brief—record a five-minute video right outside the PICU window where Justin was sleeping in his crib. They’d have to work overnight to have everything ready and posted on YouTube by morning.

  It wouldn’t be easy. But it could be done. And they’d do it.

  The video went smoothly. The entire event—from arrival to departure—took seventeen minutes.

  Its repercussions would last far longer.

  * * *

  Bleary-eyed and weary, the Forensic Instincts team trudged into the main conference room and reconvened around the expansive mahogany table just after midnight.

  As they entered, the wall of floor-to-ceiling video screens began to glow. A long green line slid across each panel, pulsating from left to right as it appeared.

  “Hello, team,” Yoda welcomed them. The green line bent into the contour of his voice pattern. “Room temperature is currently at sixty-eight point three degrees. Due to the body heat generated by five humans and one canine, the room temperature will rise to exactly seventy degrees in eight minutes and thirteen seconds. Shall I maintain seventy degrees?” Yoda paused, awaiting further instructions.

  “That’s fine, Yoda,” Casey replied. “We’re just fine.”

  “Fine?” Ryan muttered reflexively. “How much sleep have you had in the past few days?”

  “If you’re addressing me, I don’t sleep, Ryan,” Yoda responded. “You programmed me not to require it. Lumen, Equitas and Intueri were designed to ensure my uninterrupted service.”

  Yoda was referring to the three servers that made up the server farm in FI’s secure data center, located downstairs in Ryan’s lair. Ryan himself had named his custom-built servers, giving them the Latin names for light, justice, and intuition.

  “I am available twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year,” Yoda continued. “And three hundred sixty-six days every four years, plus or minus an occasional leap second as needed—except, of course, for the century year twenty-one hundred, per the leap year algorithm.”

  “Gee, Ryan, and here you claimed you were Superman.” Claire’s tone was dry, but her lips were twitching. “Yoda is clearly superior, needs no sleep and is a lot easier to get along with.”

  “Thank you, Claire,” Yoda said politely.

  “Oh, shut up, both of you.” Ryan looked as if he’d like to short-circuit his creation. “Yoda, chill. We’ll let you know if we need you.”

  “Very well, Ryan.” Yoda fell silent, and the glowing line receded.

  “Now that you’ve finished having it out with Yoda, can we discuss our respective evenings?” Casey inquired. “And that doesn’t include your lack of sleep, Ryan. Suck it up.”

  Ryan knew that tone of voice. Casey wasn’t in the mood for bullshit.

  He nodded. “Sorry. Although I want to go on record as saying that everything Yoda knows, I taught him.” Being Ryan, he couldn’t resist adding that, along with darting Claire a sideways look. “In any case, do you want me to report my findings first?”

  “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-opene
rs 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.”