The Line Between Here and Gone (Forensic Instincts)

by Andrea Kane

  “We have a photo of a man that our facial recognition software tells us is Everett—a photo that was taken within the past few weeks. We have at least one person who believes she’s seen Everett regularly and recently. And we have strong professional gut instincts that convince us he’s alive.”

  “Gut instincts?” Jones’s brows went up. “That hardly constitutes evidence. What are you basing these instincts on?”

  “Experience—and me.” Claire spoke up for the first time. “I don’t know how much research you’ve done into the FI team, Detective Jones. But I suspect it was thorough. In which case, you know that I’m an intuitive. And there’s not a doubt in my mind that Paul Everett is alive.”

  There was that typical look of skepticism that Claire had learned to expect—and to ignore.

  “We’re a private investigative firm, Detective Jones,” Casey reminded him. “You require hard evidence. We don’t. We’re not going to court. We’re trying to find a dying infant’s father.” She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table and folding her hands under her chin in an aggressive stance. “But let me turn the tables. What solid evidence do you have that Paul Everett is dead?”

  Jones’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you called and made some police inquiries already. So you have your answers.”

  “I do. And everything I heard was speculative, suggesting, but not proving, a no-body homicide. Without a corpse, all you can do is draw a logical conclusion. But not a concrete one.”

  That one made Jones visibly uncomfortable. “Is your theory that the man’s been walking around with amnesia for the past eight months? Or that he’s in hiding?”

  “Amnesia isn’t really on the table,” Marc replied with the same note of sarcasm in his tone as Jones had. “Other than that, anything is possible. I’m sure you checked out Everett’s background, his business dealings, his potential enemies and his friends and colleagues. There could be dozens of reasons for his disappearance. But, frankly, that’s your problem. Ours is just finding him.”

  Jones’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Withholding evidence is a crime, Mr. Devereaux.”

  “And discussing our case is unethical, Detective Jones. Casey just told you the only solid evidence we have. If we had more, we’d be sharing it with you. I was an FBI agent. I know the law.”

  Casey had to bite back a smile on that one. Marc knew the law, all right. He also knew how to break it.

  “We’re the least of your concerns, Detective,” Casey said aloud. “We have no plans of hiding any evidence from you that we stumble upon. But we will keep hunting down Paul Everett. And I believe we’ll find him. In the meantime, you have more pressing problems to contend with. A few hours ago, Congressman Mercer met with the media and made a personal appeal to find blood donors for our client’s infant son—an appeal that will make the evening news cycle. Once that happens, and once people start putting together the YouTube video and the congressman’s plea, your phone will be ringing off the hook. So I hope you have all your ducks in a row—and a good media person. You’re going to need it.”

  Jones’s lips tightened. “Thank you for the advice, Ms. Woods.”

  “Anytime.” Casey rose, placing her business card on the table. “Call us if you have any further questions. And we’ll do the same with you.”

  * * *

  Jones watched Casey, Marc and Claire leave. He waited until they’d walked their bloodhound, then climbed into their van and driven away.

  He entered a number on his cell phone and pressed Send.

  “It’s Jones,” he said when the call was answered. “Consider this a heads-up. This Forensic Instincts team has skills and smarts. They’re not giving up. And they’re putting the pieces together. I’m doing my part. I’ll beef up my file and run as much interference as you want me to. But I’m telling you now, you don’t have much time.” He paused. “And neither do I.”

  * * *

  “We’re making a lot of people nervous,” Casey stated as she accelerated onto the highway and headed for home. “Fenton. Mercer. The cops.”

  “Do you think Jones’s division is just worrying about covering their asses, or do you think there’s more here?” Marc asked. “Jones could be dirty.”

  “Everybody’s beginning to feel dirty,” Claire said in exasperation. “I haven’t had a positive feeling all day—except when the Mercers gave blood.”

  “You think Cliff Mercer is a match?”

  Claire shugged. “I have no idea. That’s not what I meant. I just meant I had a sense that he was glad to help, even if he wasn’t too happy about the reasons why.”

  “What else did you pick up on?”

  “A slew of conflicting emotions. When I shook his hand, my palm was actually burning. He was nervous, worried, resigned, caring in an ambiguous way and trapped in a tangled web, partially of his making.” Claire chewed her lip thoughtfully. “There’s no doubt that he’s in Fenton’s pocket, or that he has a personal tie to Fenton. A strong personal tie, which would go along with Ryan’s determination that he’s Fenton’s son. But the real ugliness I picked up on was from Fenton. He’s one cold, single-minded man.”

  “Capable of murder?” Marc asked.

  Claire blew out a breath. “I can’t answer that. Everyone’s capable of murder. But has he committed one? I don’t know. All I can sense is how guilty he feels, which is not at all. If he committed a crime but feels no regret, there’s less explicit energy for me to pick up on. But negative energy? That’s there in abundance. And, for the record, Hero didn’t like him much, either. He barely glanced at Fenton when he walked over to Mercer in the parking lot. On the other hand, he sniffed Mercer out thoroughly. No negative reaction there. Just a good memorization.”

  “I’d have to agree with Claire’s assessment,” Marc said. “Mercer’s smooth. But I don’t see an evil guy. I’m sure he’s way deep into Daddy’s pocket. But that’s not our problem. Paul Everett is our problem. And I just don’t see Mercer having anything to do with his disappearance—at least not directly.”

  “Nor do I.” Casey frowned. “But we’re missing something here. I just don’t know what. And without figuring out what that something is, we’re not going to find Paul Everett.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Ryan came upstairs the minute he heard the team’s voices in the front hallway.

  “Anything?” he asked, squatting down to roughhouse with Hero.

  “Yes and no.” Casey filled him in on what happened at the hospital and on the surprise phone call and meeting with Detective Jones.

  “We’re worrying the cops.” Ryan rose, a speculative expression on his face. “That’s interesting. Especially since I can’t find a damned thing on Everett that doesn’t make him sound like a Boy Scout—other than those periodic bank withdrawals. Same thing with Morano. But, clearly something exists. So I say we use the little critter to check out Morano’s office. It’s time to figure out what’s going on—who he meets with, what his relationships are with his contractors, and who might be extorting twenty grand from him every six weeks.”

  “Ah, Gecko.” Casey grinned. “I was wondering when you might use him.”

  “The little critter” as Ryan affectionately dubbed him—or “Gecko” to the rest of the team—was one of Ryan’s most prized robotic creations. It looked a little odd, but what it lacked in appearance, it made up for in versatility and talent.

  Gecko had suction-cup-like attachments on his feet and was small enough—not quite the size of a paperback book—and technologically sophisticated enough to walk up walls and inside ductwork. It sported miniature video cameras and microphones, and Ryan could manipulate it in any one of a dozen ways, including around corners.

  All he had to do was get access to Morano’s office and plant Gecko in an air duct or drop ceiling, then watch and listen from his laptop.

  Breaking into an old, one-story wooden dump would be a piece of cake for Marc. He and Ryan would drive to Morano’s place at night, Ryan w
ould park the van a safe distance away, and Marc would do his thing. After that, they’d have front row seats to Morano, any visitors he might entertain and any phone calls he decided to make.

  It was the perfect idea.

  “We’ll go late tonight,” Marc said as if reading Ryan’s mind. “Another road trip. I feel like I’m on autopilot to the Hamptons.”

  “I’ll drive,” Ryan said. “And we’ll stay over at Amanda’s. That way, we can make one more trip to Morano’s office in the morning. We’ll slap a GPS tracking device under his car. Then we’ll know where he is at all times. The guy’s entire life will be an open book.” Ryan glanced at Casey. “That okay, boss? You’re going to be busy anyway.”

  Casey shot him a look. “And you know this how?”

  Ryan jerked his thumb upward. “You’ve got a guest crashing on your bed. He got in early and tired. But he promised to be refreshed by dinner. So my guess is you’ll be occupied all night. It’s been how long since the two of you saw each other?”

  “Careful, Ryan.” Casey’s tone was firm, but her lips twitched. “Keep heading in this direction and I’ll start spewing what I know about your love life. And it’s a lot more interesting than mine. Not to mention the secret crush you have…”

  “Okay, okay,” Ryan interrupted. “My mouth is shut.”

  “Now that’s a first,” Claire commented, looking and sounding a bit thrown by Casey’s comment. It had clearly never occurred to her that the team was aware of the whatever-it-was that hovered beneath the sharp banter between her and Ryan. She wasn’t even ready to analyze it herself. “I’ve never seen you at a loss for words.”

  “I never am.” Ryan shot her a lazy grin. “I just know when it’s time to talk and when it’s not.”

  Claire flushed, quickly changing the subject. “What’s happening at Patrick’s end?”

  “He called in a while ago,” Ryan replied, visibly enjoying watching Claire squirm. “He’s seeing what he can do about figuring out who’s following us. Then he’s going home to spend some time with his wife. He’s barely seen her since we took on this case.”

  “I think we can all use a few hours off,” Claire said with a meaningful look at Ryan and Marc. “Let’s grab something to eat. Then you two can catch some rest before you head back to the Hamptons, and I can go home and do some yoga. Some of my best insights come to me during that time.”

  “We could order in, if you want,” Ryan suggested. “Hero can’t go into restaurants.”

  “No. We can’t order in.” Claire’s tone and look were so pointed this time that Ryan would have had to be dead not to notice them. “Hero’s exhausted from his day. See? He’s already sleeping on his favorite blanket. I doubt he’ll even venture upstairs.”

  “Oh. Gotcha.” A quick glance at Casey. “We’ll catch you later.”

  Casey was trying hard not to laugh. “For a team of very discreet investigators, you were about as subtle as the Keystone Cops. But thanks. I appreciate the privacy.”

  * * *

  Hutch had a towel wrapped around his waist and was briskly drying his hair with another when Casey walked into her bedroom.

  “Wow,” she said, leaning against the wall. “Is this an early Christmas present?”

  He looked up, tossing the towel he was holding aside and giving her that lazy, crooked smile that got to her every time. “It’s just the gift wrap. Wanna see what’s inside?”

  “Sure.” She crossed over to him, unknotting the towel from around his waist and letting it drop to the floor. “Very nice,” she murmured, gliding her hands up his chest to wrap her arms around his neck. “You have excellent taste in gifts. How did you know what I wanted?”

  “I guessed.” Hutch stopped talking. He lifted Casey up and pressed her flush against him. His mouth crushed down on hers and she wrapped her legs around his waist, kissing him back with the same heated intensity.

  They toppled onto the bed, and he had her naked and under him in record time.

  It was always the same. The first time was frantic, filled with the built-up sexual tension of being apart for weeks, sometimes months. Long, drawn-out lovemaking would come later, but right now, it was a wild rush for completion.

  Casey tried to delay her climax, but she couldn’t. It boiled up inside her the minute Hutch penetrated her body, and by his second thrust, she was crying out, arching to take him deep inside her as her spasms pulsed around him. Hutch didn’t even try to fight the inevitable. He just let go, his fists making deep impressions on the pillow as he poured himself into her, throwing back his head and giving a guttural shout.

  The silence in the room was punctuated by their shallow, ragged breaths as Hutch blanketed Casey’s body with his. A semblance of sanity returned—slowly, in increments—not that either of them cared.

  “I hope I’m not crushing you, because I don’t think I can move,” Hutch murmured into her hair.

  “You’re not.” Casey wrapped her arms around his back, her legs too shaky to follow suit. She turned her face into his neck and kissed him. “By the way, I missed you.”

  “Yeah, I could tell. As for me, I’ve been taking cold showers for the past two weeks. A month and a half is just too damned long.”

  “I agree.” Casey gave a sated sigh. “Fair warning. I doubt I’m going to let you rest for any length of time.”

  “I doubt I’ll need to.” Hutch propped himself on his elbows, scrutinizing her face. “You look gorgeous all flushed and naked.”

  Casey smiled. “You’re pretty hot yourself.” She reached up, brushing his damp hair off his forehead. “I think I undid the positive effects of your shower.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll take another one, this time with company.” Hutch kissed her, and what began as a slow, tender kiss soon turned into something more. He rolled onto his back, taking Casey with him, still buried inside her.

  Casey pushed herself into a kneeling position, leaning back and deepening their joining, already feeling the familiar tingling of pleasure.

  “Did you really want to go out for dinner?” she managed.

  “No.” Hutch had clutched her hips and was moving her up and down in a motion that took their breath away. “Dinner is highly overrated.”

  * * *

  Casey was dead asleep when her cell phone rang.

  She reached across Hutch and groped at her nightstand, until her hand made contact with her BlackBerry.

  “Casey Woods,” she mumbled into the phone.

  “Casey?” It was Amanda’s voice. And it sounded high and shaky.

  Casey was instantly awake. Her first and only thought was Justin. “Amanda? What’s wrong?”

  “I got a phone call,” Amanda said, on the verge of hysteria. “It was a man. His voice was…weird.”

  “Weird like he was using a voice scrambler? Like he wanted to disguise his identity?”

  “I guess. It was as if he were in an echo chamber. But he knew me, Casey. He said my name. He told me what time I’d come outside the hospital for some air. He told me what I was wearing. And he told me to stop looking for Paul—to tell you to stop looking for Paul.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “Not in so many words. But he made it clear that he would be watching us to make sure. He didn’t say ‘or else.’ But his tone of voice did. And, Casey…” Amanda’s voice broke. “Right before he hung up, he said that he certainly hopes my son, Justin, gets well. Then he broke the connection. What does that mean? Does he plan on doing something to my baby?”

  “It means he was going for your emotional Achilles’ heel.” Casey’s mind was racing. “The more personal he makes this, the more terrified you’ll be, and the more apt to listen to his demands. He’s trying to scare you, Amanda, but he’s the one who’s scared. We’re getting close. If anything, that’s good news, not bad.” She paused. “How long ago did he call?”

  “Two minutes ago. I called you the instant he hung up. And there was no caller ID. It said Unavailable.”

/>   “Check your phone again—but not for a caller ID. Do you have any missed calls? Messages?”

  “I checked as soon as I got to the general waiting area where I was allowed to turn on my cell phone.” Amanda was holding herself together by a hair. “There were no missed calls. A few messages from friends and a couple of pushy ones from the press. No hang-ups. Why?”

  “Did this man call you right then—as soon as you turned on your phone?”

  “As I was checking my last message.”

  “Then I’m guessing that either he or someone who’s working with him is inside the hospital. It’s the only way he’d know exactly when you were reachable.”

  “Oh, my God.” Amanda lost it again. “That means he’s close to Justin.”

  “Sloane Kettering is a big hospital.” Casey battled Amanda’s understandable panic. “He could be in any one of dozens of places and still keep you in his sight.” Casey dragged a hand through her tangled mane of hair. “But we won’t take any chances. I’ll call Patrick and have him stand guard outside the PICU.”

  “Why Patrick? Why not Marc?”

  “Because Patrick is the right person for this job. Before he joined Forensic Instincts, he was a security consultant for law enforcement and private companies—big ones. He’s consulted for the NYPD, the FBI and a long list of other entities. And, before that, he was an FBI agent for over thirty years. No one will get by him.”

  “I’m sorry…” Amanda inhaled sharply. “It’s just that…”

  “I know you trust Marc. But trust all of us. Trust me. When I say Patrick’s the one you want, he is.”

  “You’re right. And I do trust you. I’m just a wreck.” Another attempt at a calming breath. “When can Patrick get here?”

  “I’ll call him right now.” Casey remembered Claire saying that Patrick had gone home to spend time with his wife. And home for Patrick was in Hoboken, New Jersey, a short ride through the Holland Tunnel and into Manhattan. “He’ll be there within the hour. And I’m going to see what Ryan can get off your cell records. My guess is nothing, if this guy is a pro. But it can’t hurt to try. And, Amanda, remember, no one’s interested in hurting you or Justin. They just want to protect whatever secret it is they have—and that secret involves Paul. So keep a low profile. No more videos. No public statements. Let us take the lead and the risk.”