The Line Between Here and Gone (Forensic Instincts)

by Andrea Kane

  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 from 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. Ma
ke 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.”

  “But you accomplished what you set out to do.”

  Marc nodded. “And once we find Paul Everett and save our client’s baby, I’ll make sure the details of Fenton’s crimes fall into the right hands.”

  Ryan got it. “Do you still want to go to Mercer’s?”

  “Definitely. He’s back home during the Congressional winter break. It’s time we had a little chat and tied up some loose ends. You’re welcome to join Claire and me for this one—unless you’re in midresearch. No need to spring Claire on Mercer as the omniscient psychic. I’ve got a different agenda in mind for him.”

  “I can join you, no problem. I made my own headway while you were roughing up Fenton,” Ryan replied as he drove away from Fenton’s mansion.

  “The call log?” Marc asked.

  “Nope. That’s next on my list. But I finally found a link between Paul Everett and John Morano. Weird that I missed it until now. It seems the two guys have the same real-estate attorney.”

  “Interesting.” Marc processed that piece of data. “So this attorney is the one who worked with each of them on the hotel project.”

  “Yup. I saw the real-estate documents themselves, pulled them up on the computer. The lawyer’s name is Frederick Wilkenson. He’s got a stellar reputation, a spotless record and an office right in Southampton. I think we should spend the night at Amanda’s place so I can pay him a visit tomorrow morning—just to size him up. He’s not going to say anything. He’ll cite attorney-client privilege.”

  “I agree. But it’s worth you feeling him out. It’s interesting—and somewhat unusual—that he represents both Morano and Everett. And it’s suspicious that you didn’t uncover this until now, not given the in-depth search you’ve been doing. It makes this whole situation smell even worse. And while you’re visiting Wilkenson, I’ll make my repeat performance at Fenton’s and see what I scared up.”

  “Works for me.”

  “Let’s just make sure we’re not needed at home,” Marc said. “We’ll check in with Casey after our chat with Mercer. If she agrees, we’ll make our morning social calls.”

  * * *

  Casey was frustrated as hell.

  She was batting zero, having gotten nothing out of the cops and nothing out of Detective Jones. Oh, he knew something. Casey picked that up from his body language. But he’d obviously been told to keep quiet, whether by his supervisor or by someone higher up, she wasn’t sure. But, short of getting herself tossed in jail, Casey had tried everything, to no avail.

  Then there was Patrick’s phone call to his buddy with the U.S. Marshals. Another stone wall. His friend hadn’t come out and denied that Paul Everett was in the Witness Protection Program, but he hadn’t admitted it, either. Again, whatever was going on with Paul Everett, the U.S. Marshals had also been told to keep a lid on it.

  After that unproductive attempt, Patrick had had the unpleasant task of talking to Amanda, telling her about her uncle.

  She didn’t take it well. In fact, it had taken all of Patrick’s abilities of persuasion to keep her from calling Fenton up and demanding answers. Thanks to Claire’s advice, which Patrick had employed, Amanda had settled down enough to concentrate on Justin and let FI handle her uncle.

  Justin hadn’t gotten worse. Then again, he hadn’t gotten better, either. He was still on the ventilator, his breathing labored as he continued battling the pneumonia.

  Things on Casey’s end just plain sucked.

  Things weren’t going too well with Hutch, either. The tension between them was so thick, it was stifling.

  When Casey went upstairs to grab a quick nap before Marc called in, she found Hutch sitting at the edge of the bed, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His half-packed bag was sitting on the floor beside him.

  Casey paused in the bedroom doorway. “You’re leaving?”

  He turned, his jaw tight. “I’m due back the day after tomorrow. I was just trying to decide whether or not it paid to stay till then. I’m trying to help you, but I’m afraid we’ll kill each other if I hang around.”

  Sighing, Casey shut the door behind her. “I know you’re angry at me and worried about me. I also know you understand where I’m coming from. You’re torn. I get it. But we’ve had this discussion a dozen times. I’m not trying to impede an FBI investigation. I’m just trying to save my client’s child. And if those two things conflict, then I have no choice but to piss off the Bureau.” She paused. “If you’d tell me more, perhaps I could avoid messing up their investigation.”

  “You know I can’t do that. Not that I’m a fountain of knowledge. You already figured out that I was shut down. I just know that the Bureau is not open to discussion on this one. Which tells me you’re dealing with dangerous people. So, yeah, I’m worried. And I’m pissed. You’re so fucking stubborn. There’s got to be another way to help your client.”

  “Come up with it, and I’ll listen.”

  Hutch frowned. “Maybe we can come up with it together.”

  “We can do a lot of things together, Hutch. This isn’t one of them. I already screwed up by telling you too much. You took it all back to the Bureau. I want to punch you for that. And I want to punch myself for letting it happen.”

  “I understand.” Hutch blew out a long, frustrated breath. “And I’m not sure there’s a way around your impasse. Any step you take is going to be the wrong one. It’s driving me crazy to watch. It’ll be worse if I see something I shouldn’t—and I have to report it. Which is why I think I should head back to Quantico.”

  Casey gave a resigned nod. “I hear you. I don’t like it. But I hear you.”

  Hutch rose and walked over to her, gently caressing her shoulders. “We really have one hell of a complicated relationship, don’t we?”

  “That’s the understatement of the year.” Casey sighed. “Hope I’m worth it.”

  “Oh, yeah, you’re worth it. I always did like complicated.”

  Casey smiled, raising her gaze to meet his. “I’ve got some downtime right now. I was going to take a nap. But I could be persuaded to change my plans—if you’re willing to leave a little later for Virginia.”

  A sexy grin curved his lips. “Virginia? Where’s that?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Unlike Fenton, Mercer was definitely not expecting the FI team.

  He looked puzzled and upset when they rang his doorbell.

  “Is there some emergency?” he asked. He was dressed comfortably in a pair of sweatpants and a fleece top—the expected attire of a man lounging at home at midnight. “I was just about to turn in.
”

  “We’re sorry to bother you, Congressman.” It was Claire who spoke up, softening the late-night intrusion. “But, yes, it is urgent that we speak to you right away. Otherwise, we never would have come by this late.”

  “Okay.” Mercer opened the door and gestured for them to enter.

  “Cliff? Is everything all right?” Mary Jane Mercer hurried down the stairs, wearing a lounging robe and the frightened look of a mother whose mind had immediately gone to the well-being of her children. She stopped halfway when she saw who was there. “What’s happened?” she demanded.

  Marc kept his gaze fixed on the congressman. “An urgent matter. We need to talk to your husband immediately.”

  “Your children are fine,” Claire clarified at once. “This has nothing to do with them.”

  Mrs. Mercer visibly relaxed. “It can’t wait till morning?”

  “Afraid not,” Marc said.

  “It’s okay, honey.” Mercer indicated that his wife should go back upstairs. “This won’t take long. And if it concerns Amanda Gleason’s sick baby, I want to help.”

  “Of course.” She turned around and retraced her steps.

  “Why don’t we go into my office?” Mercer suggested. “It’s comfortable and private.”

  Nodding, the three of them followed the congressman and assembled in his spacious home office.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Cliff Mercer said to Ryan.

  “We haven’t.” Ryan extended his hand. “Ryan McKay. I work for Forensic Instincts, as well.”

  A nod. “Well, have a seat and tell me what this is all about. Is the baby all right?”

  “He’s holding his own,” Ryan said carefully. “But it’s touch-and-go. Which means that every second counts. And that his best chance of survival is still his father.”

  “Have you had any luck locating Paul Everett?”

  “We’re hoping for a breakthrough—soon,” Marc said, taking over. As planned, he was going to run the conversation.

  “How can I help?”

  “By telling us about Lyle Fenton.”

  Cliff stiffened, visibly taken aback by the topic. “Lyle? What is it you want to know?”