Czytaj książkę: «The Line Between Here and Gone»

AUTHOR NOTE

The Shinnecock Indian Reservation is located on the east side of Shinnecock Bay in the town of Southampton. While the Shinneock Indian Nation’s gaming authority is planning for a long-awaited casino, that casino does not yet exist. When it does, it will not be built on their reservation, which is their ancestral home, but elsewhere on Long Island. Therefore, the casino in The Line Between Here and Gone is a fictitious place, the product of this writer’s fertile imagination.

The Line
Between
Here
and
Gone
Andrea Kane

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Myrna and Bob,

who helped me bring the Hamptons to life,

who acted as consultants extraordinaire for the year it took me

to create this novel, and whose love

and support mean the world to me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A host of people contributed to my writing this book, and I want to express my appreciation to each and every one of them for their time, their expertise, and their tolerance of a novelist who’s a relentless perfectionist.

My thanks go out to:

Angela Bell, Public Affairs Specialist, FBI Office of Public Affairs—and the real-life equivalent of a fairy godmother!

Former SSA John Mandrafina, FBI Undercover Coordinator/Sensitive Operations Program

SSA James McNamara, FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit 2

Dr. Morton Cowan, Chief, Allergy Immunology and Blood and Marrow Transplant Division, UCSF Children’s Hospital SA Laura Robinson, Senior Team Leader, Evidence Response Team, FBI Newark Field Office

SSA Rex Stockham, Program Manager for FBI Laboratory’s Forensic Canine Program

SA James Margolin, FBI Office of Public Affairs, New York Field Office

SSA Gavin Shea, FBI White Collar Squad, Long Island Resident Agency

Sharon L. Dunn, Department of Pediatrics, Hematology/Oncology, University of Chicago

Detective Mike Oliver, retired NYPD

Simon Jorna, owner of Simon’s Beach Bakery Café, Westhampton Beach, Long Island, New York

Michael Greene, Simon’s Beach Bakery Café and tour guide of “Amanda’s” apartment

And to a very special core of people:

Adam Wilson, the best (and most deeply missed) editorial partner any author could ask for

Valerie Gray, who stepped in at the crisis hour and finished the process with grace, enthusiasm and commitment

Andrea Cirillo and Christina Hogrebe, my incredible agents and diehard advocates

Peggy Gordijn, the quiet force of nature who stays in the background and moves mountains

And most of all my family, who, every day and in every way, give me the love, the incentive and the creative input to make each book the very best it can be.

Thank you all. You’re the very best of the best.

CHAPTER ONE

December

Manhattan

Amanda Gleason gently rocked her infant son in her arms.

A new baby was truly the reaffirmation of life. If she didn’t know that before this moment, she knew it now. He was her child, her miracle.

Her responsibility.

She hadn’t planned on facing motherhood alone. In fact, when Paul had disappeared from the picture, she hadn’t even known she was pregnant. Maybe if she had, maybe if she could have told him, things would have turned out differently.

But they hadn’t.

And now the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Decisions had to be made. Pressure she’d never even imagined. And a bittersweet pain that came every time she held Justin in her arms.

She touched his downy head with one finger, stroked the peach fuzz of his hair. As she whispered softly to him, his eyes opened wide and he stared at her intently, visibly fascinated by the sound of her voice. She gazed into those eyes—Paul’s eyes—and her chest tightened. They were a lighter brown than Paul’s, probably because they had yet to mature to their true color. But the shape, the lids, even the thick fringe of lashes—those were all Paul’s. As was his nose, a tiny version of Paul’s bold, straight nose with the slender nostrils. He even had the dimple in his cheek that was Paul’s. Other than his golden-brown hair color and small, pursed mouth—both of which he’d inherited from her—he was very much Paul’s son. And even at three weeks old, he was developing a personality—easygoing like Paul, inquisitive like her. He spent hours staring at his fingers, opening and closing them with a fascinated expression. And he was always looking around, seemingly transfixed by the world.

Thank God he didn’t know how much of a battlefield his world really was.

“Ms. Gleason?” A young nurse touched her gently on the shoulder. “Why don’t you get something to eat? Maybe take a walk? You haven’t done either all day.” She reached for the baby. “Justin will be in good hands. You’ve got to take care of yourself or you won’t be able to take care of him.”

Numbly, Amanda nodded. She held Justin for one more brief, desperate moment, then kissed his soft cheek and handed him over to the nurse.

How many times had she done that in the past few days? How many more times would she have to do it?

Tears dampening her lashes, she rose, retracing her steps through the reverse isolation unit and out of Sloane Kettering’s Pediatric Bone Marrow Transplant Unit. She stripped off her mask, gloves and gown, and tossed them into the discard bin, knowing she’d have to repeat the same sterilization process when she returned. She stood there for a moment, head bent, taking deep, calming breaths to bring herself under control. The nurse was right. She’d be of no use to Justin if she fell to pieces. And she’d done enough of that already.

Walking down the corridor, stepping into the elevator, and descending to the main level, Amanda felt the physical pain tearing inside her that always accompanied a separation from Justin. She hated leaving him. She dreaded coming back.

Outside the hospital, the world looked surreally normal. It was dark. She hadn’t checked her watch in hours, but it had to be after eight o’clock. Still, traffic sped up and down the New York City streets. Pedestrians strolled the sidewalks. Horns honked. Christmas lights blinked from green and red to a rainbow of colors, then back again.

How could everything seem so normal when her entire world was crumbling to pieces? When everything she cared about was upstairs struggling to survive?

Still operating on autopilot, Amanda reached for her BlackBerry and turned it on. She didn’t really care if she had any messages. But she had to check—even if it was just to seek out some pie-in-the-sky miracle that would answer her prayers.

No miracle. Just the usual crap from the usual sources— store sales, promotions, photojournalist magazine sites. Nothing personal. Everyone knew better than to bother her with anything short of a dire emergency.

Correction. There was one personal message. An email from a fellow photojournalist, a friend of hers who’d been traveling internationally for months and wouldn’t be aware that Justin had already been born or that his condition had turned Amanda’s life upside down.

She opened the email.

I’m in DC. I had to send this to you right away. Caught it on my cell phone yesterday. 2nd Street at C Street NE. Best quality I could get. But I swear it was Paul. Take a look. I know the baby’s due this month, but thought you’d want to see this.

Amanda read the words, and, for an instant, she froze. Then she clicked on the attachment, staring at the cell phone screen and waiting for the picture to load.

The moment it did, she gasped aloud, her hand flying to her mouth. The image was a little grainy and was probably taken from twenty yards away. But clear enough if you were intimately familiar with the person photographed. And she was.

It looked just like Paul.

She zoomed in as close as she could, taking in every detail of the man who now filled her entire screen. Dear God, it was Paul.

A tsunami of conflicting emotions engulfed her. But she battled her way through them. Because one thought eclipsed all the rest.

What could this mean for Justin?

It was a mere ray of hope, a complex long shot. But, to Amanda, it was a lifeline.

She fumbled in her tote bag for the scrap of paper she’d been carrying around since last April. It was well past business hours but she didn’t care. She knew they worked around the clock when necessary. She wouldn’t call; she wouldn’t give them a chance to turn her away.

As she unfolded the crumpled paper, she yanked out the file folder she carried with her at all times—just in case she ever followed through on her idea. Everything was in there. And it wasn’t just an idea anymore.

She pressed a speed dial number on her phone—a call to her oldest and dearest friend, Melissa, who lived in Manhattan and who would never let her down.

“Lyssa,” she said when she heard her friend’s voice. “I need you to come over and relieve me. It’s not Justin. He’s okay. But can you come now?” She sagged with relief at the reply. “Thanks. It’s an emergency.”

CHAPTER TWO

Cold air. Bare trees. Christmas lights twinkling up and down the Tribeca street.

At 9:15 p.m. in this residential section of Manhattan, the four-story brownstone that housed the offices of Forensic Instincts was a secluded haven, isolated from the jungle of the city. Two sweeping willow trees marked either side of the brownstone, and a sense of peace made it seem more like a home than a workplace for Forensic Instincts.

Tonight was even quieter than usual. Casey Woods, the company president, was out holiday shopping with some friends. Most of the specialized team had taken the night off. They were all still recovering from the whirlwind of cases they’d tackled over the past month and a half—all of which had been dominated by an intense kidnapping investigation.

Marc Devereaux was the only FI team member who was on-site. And he wasn’t working. He was in one of the empty meeting rooms, doing a hundred push-ups, feeling the sweat soak through his workout clothes and hoping the intense exercise would help wipe away the mental ghosts that had come back, full force, these past few months.

They’d stayed quiet for a while. But since the kidnapping of that little girl…

He dropped to the floor, forehead pressed to the carpet, breathing heavily. Memories cut deep. Even for a former Navy SEAL. Especially for a former Navy SEAL. Everyone thought they were impervious to emotional scars. They weren’t. What he’d seen during those years might have made him a better FBI agent, and now a valuable member of Forensic Instincts, but they’d taken away something that could never be restored.

And left something dark and destructive in its place.

Marc’s head came up abruptly as he heard the front doorbell ring. It couldn’t be one of the team. They all had keys and knew the alarm code for the Hirsch pad. Instinctively, Marc reached for the pistol he’d placed on the table beside him. Rising, he walked over and eyed the small window on the computer screen displaying a view of the front door from the video surveillance camera.

A woman stood on the doorstep.

Marc pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

A brief silence.

“Is this the office of Forensic Instincts?” the woman’s voice asked.

“Yes.” Marc could have pointed out the ridiculous hour. But he’d worked for the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit for five years. He could read people and tones of voice. And this voice sounded dazed and shaken. Panicky. He wasn’t about to ignore it.

“I… I didn’t think anyone would be in. I just prayed you were.” Her words confirmed Marc’s assessment. “I was afraid if I called you wouldn’t answer. Please… may I come in? It’s urgent. More than urgent. It’s life or death.”

Marc had made his decision long before the end of her dire plea. He put away his pistol. “I’m on my way down.”

He draped a towel around his neck and headed for the stairs. Professional dress decorum wasn’t high on his list right now.

He reached the entranceway, punched in the alarm code and unlocked the door.

The woman standing there with a file folder under her arm was brunette and in her mid-thirties, although the strain on her face made her look older, as did the dark circles under her eyes. She was wearing a winter coat that enveloped her body, so it was hard to make out her build. Not to mention that she was clutching the coat around her as if it were a protective shield.

She stared at Marc, taking in his imposing build, the high cheekbones, dark coloring and aristocratic nose he’d inherited from his extensive French lineage, and the brooding, slightly slanted eyes that reflected his maternal grandparents’ Asian background.

His formidable appearance made the woman nervous, and she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “You’re not Casey Woods,” she said, stating the obvious. She was not only uneasy, she was in a visible state of shock.

“I’m Marc Devereaux, Casey’s associate,” Marc replied in a voice that was intentionally calming. “And you are…?”

“Amanda Gleason.” She summoned up her composure. “I’m sorry to come by so late. But I couldn’t leave the hospital until now. I don’t have much time. Please, can we talk? I want to hire you.”

“Hospital? Are you ill?”

“No. Yes. Please… I need to explain.”

Marc pulled the door open and gestured for her to come in. “Sorry for the casual attire. I wasn’t expecting a client.” As he spoke, a series of deep, warning barks sounded from above. The echo of padded paws announced the arrival of a sleek red bloodhound as he lumbered to the front door. He stood beside Marc and woofed at the stranger.

“It’s okay, Hero,” Marc said. “Quiet down.”

Instantly, the dog obeyed.

“Hero is a human scent evidence dog and part of our team,” Marc explained. “But if you’re afraid of dogs, I can put him upstairs.”

Amanda shook her head. “That’s not necessary. I like dogs.”

“Then we’ll head to a meeting room.” He indicated the second door to the left and escorted her inside.

“Hello, Marc,” an invisible voice greeted him, along with a series of wall lights that blinked in conjunction with the voice tones. “You have a guest. The interview room temperature is sixty-five degrees. Shall I raise it?”

“Yeah, Yoda,” Marc replied. “Raise it to seventy.”

“Temperature will reach seventy degrees in approximately seven minutes.”

“Great. Thanks.” Marc gave a faint smile at the startled look on Amanda’s face. She was peering around, trying to determine the source of the voice.

“That’s Yoda,” he informed her. “He’s the inexplicable creation of Ryan McKay, the techno genius of Forensic Instincts. He’s omniscient… and harmless.” Marc pulled out a chair. “Have a seat. You’ll probably want to keep your coat on until it gets a little warmer in here.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind.” Amanda sank down into the chair, continuing to clutch her coat and her file folder. She looked like a terrified bird being chased by a predator.

“Now, tell me what Forensic Instincts can do for you.”

Amanda drew an unsteady breath. “You can find someone for me. If he’s alive.”

Marc sank back in his chair, intentionally trying to put Amanda at ease, even though his brain was on high alert. “Who is it you want us to find and why aren’t you sure he’s alive?”

“My boyfriend. He was declared a no-body homicide. The police found his car, with blood splattered all over the driver’s seat and windshield, out at Lake Montauk. There were signs that he was dragged to another car. The theory was that he was killed, and his body dumped in the ocean. The Coast Guard searched for days, using every form of sophisticated equipment they had. Nothing turned up. The case was closed.”

“When did this happen?”

“In April.”

“And you’re first coming to us now, eight months later. Why? Do you have some new evidence that suggests he’s alive?”

“New evidence and a new reason to find him immediately.” Amanda rushed on to dispel the obvious. “I know you’re thinking that, if he’s alive, maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Even if that’s true, which I don’t believe it is, he has no choice. Not now.”

Marc leaned across the table and pulled over a legal-size pad. He preferred to take his notes in longhand, then transfer them into the computer. Typing into a laptop was very off-putting to clients who needed a personal connection.

“What’s this man’s name?”

“Paul Everett.”

“And why is finding him so urgent?”

Amanda swallowed, her hands twisting in her lap. “We have a son. He was born three weeks ago. He was just diagnosed with SCID—Severe Combined Immunodeficiency. His body is incapable of fighting infection. He needs a stem cell transplant from a matched donor or he’ll die.”

Marc put down his pen. “I assume you’re not a match?”

She shook her head. “The testing said I’m not even a candidate. I was in a car accident as a child. Thanks to the blood transfusions I received, I have hepatitis C. So I’m out of the picture. And so far, so is the National Marrow Donor Program Registry. They have no match for us. The best, maybe the only hope is Justin’s father.” Two tears slid down Amanda’s cheeks. Fiercely, she wiped them away. “I could give you a full scientific explanation, Mr. Devereaux. It’s consumed my life these past weeks, and I seem to know far more about how a human body can fail than I ever thought possible. But we don’t have time. Thanks to me, Justin already has an infection and is showing symptoms of pneumonia.”

“Thanks to you?”

“I was nursing him. Evidently, I’m carrying a dormant virus called CMV—Cytomegalovirus. I passed it along to Justin. He’s started to cough and he has a fever—both of which are indicators that he’s developing CMV pneumonia. Plus, he picked up parainfluenza during the two weeks he was home. His breathing’s uneven, his nose is running…. I didn’t know he had a compromised immune system, or I’d never have let him have visitors. It’s too late to change that. He’s on antibiotics and gamma globulin. But even those can only suppress the CMV virus, not cure it. They can also be toxic to a child. As for the parainfluenza, there’s literally nothing they can give him. Justin is less than a month old. His tiny body can’t sustain itself for long. This is a life-or-death situation.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Then help me.”

Amanda unbanded her file and opened it, pulling out a USB drive, a DVD and two newspaper clippings. She slid them across the table to Marc. “Here are the obituary and a small write-up of Paul’s death from the Southampton Press, the local newspaper out there. Pretty sparse. Paul was a real-estate developer with no family. The only exciting aspect to report was the alleged homicide.” She pointed at the disk. “A local cable TV station gave a brief broadcast when it happened. That was it for media coverage.”

Marc glanced at both the write-up and the obit, making a mental note to contact both the newspaper and TV station. He slid his laptop over and popped in the USB drive. Two images appeared on his monitor, side by side. The first was of Amanda and a man—presumably Paul Everett—posing on a windswept beach in their ski jackets, arms wrapped around each other. The expressions on their faces, their intimate stance, said they were very much in love. The second image was of the two of them at some sort of formal gathering. They were smiling, looking directly into the camera as they posed for a photograph.

“Now look at this.” Amanda pulled out her cell phone and placed it on the table for Marc to see.

There was a photo on the screen, and Marc shifted his attention to study it. Being a cell phone shot, it was a lot grainier than the other two photos. But it was obviously the image of a man standing on a busy street corner, impatiently waiting for a light to change. He was staring at the don’t walk sign, which gave the photographer a chance to catch him face-first.

Marc could see that from the facial features, the expression and the stance, it was the same man as the one in the other two shots.

“When was this second photo taken?” he asked. “And where?”

“Yesterday. In Washington, D.C.”

“By whom?”

“A friend of mine, a fellow photojournalist. In this case, my friend saw the resemblance to Paul. She didn’t wait to get her camera ready. She just used the closest thing—her cell phone. She emailed me the photo a couple of hours ago. I had just walked out of the hospital to take a break.”

“So she knew you and Paul as a couple.”

“Yes. She also knew I’d never had a chance to tell Paul I was pregnant. She was hoping to give me that chance, along with the incredible news that Paul was alive.”

Paul Everett had never known about the pregnancy, Marc thought. That eliminated one basic reason why he’d choose to vanish. Still, Marc would want to talk to Amanda’s friend.

Amanda mistook his silence for skepticism. “I have no idea why Paul would vanish without saying a word or why he’d start a new life elsewhere. Once I got this cell phone shot and realized he might be alive, I was relieved, but I was also furious. I felt—I feel—betrayed. When they told me Paul was dead, I was ready to raise my child alone. But now that there’s a chance he could be alive, a chance that he could save Justin’s life… my pride is a non-issue. I have to try to track Paul down.”

Marc was still staring intently from the screen to the cell phone, looking for additional characteristics that would confirm the images as the same man. “Did you call the police about this new photo?” he asked.

“Yes, in the taxi on my way to your office. Two guesses whether or not they gave me any points for credibility.” Amanda’s lips trembled and tears began sliding down her cheeks. “That’s why I’m here. I’ve been toying with the idea of calling you since last April when Paul disappeared, hoping you could uncover a miracle. But this photo clinched it. You have a reputation for solving cases that no one else can. Please. For the sake of my baby… Will you help me? I’ll scrape together any amount of money to pay your fee. I’ll give up my apartment, if need be. I don’t care. I just want Justin to be all right.” She broke down, dropping her face into her hands and openly sobbing.

“This isn’t about money,” Marc assured her, although she’d had him the minute she described her situation with her infant. “Our policy is to adjust our fees based upon our client’s monetary circumstances.” Thankfully, they could do that. Between the astronomical bonuses they received from their more affluent clients, and the trust fund Casey’s grandfather had left her, Forensic Instincts was on solid financial footing.

“Then what is it?” Amanda asked as Marc fell silent.

Marc didn’t answer immediately. The problem was, he was in the hot seat. Forensic Instincts had an unbroken rule: they never took on a case without first having a full-team discussion and a unanimous decision.

Well, these were dire circumstances. And given that no one else from the team was around and that it would take time to reach them all and get them over here—hell, there was a first time for everything.

“It’s nothing I can’t work out,” he stated flatly. “We’ll find Paul Everett, Ms. Gleason. If he’s alive, we’ll find him. And we’ll do whatever’s necessary to ensure his cooperation.”

Amanda’s head shot up, her tear-streaked face displaying a glimmer of hope. “Oh, thank you. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”

“Thank me when we’ve done the job.” Marc’s mind was on overdrive. “What hospital is your son in?”

“Sloane Kettering. He was referred there by the staff at Mount Sinai who made the original diagnosis.”

“So you’re staying there with him?”

“I haven’t left until just now.”

“Fine.” Marc nodded. “I’ll need you to email that cell phone picture to me. I’ll also need some basic information from you—including the name and contact info of your photojournalist friend. Then go back to your baby. Give me a chance to assemble the team and lay all this out for them. We’ll have a plan by morning.”

Part of that plan, he knew, was going to include having his ass kicked.

CHAPTER THREE

“Marc, you’re the one person I rely on to keep a consistent level head. You, of all people, know what it means to be a team member. What made you jump the gun like this?”

Casey Woods, the founder and president of Forensic Instincts, stood at the head of the sweeping oval table in the main conference room, her palms pressed flat on the surface, her spine ramrod straight. For a petite, strikingly attractive redhead in her early thirties, she had the commanding presence of an army general and the leadership skills to match. She was also a trained behavioral and investigative profiler with unerring gut instincts that enhanced her skills.

Right now, it didn’t take a profiler to know she was pissed.

And not because it was close to midnight, and the entire FI team was gathered around the table, bleary-eyed, having been summoned for an emergency meeting. Business as usual at Forensic Instincts. But not for this reason.

Marc leaned back in his chair and met Casey’s gaze head-on. “Amanda Gleason had to get back to the hospital to her gravely ill infant. An on-the-spot decision had to be made. I know you, Casey. I know the whole team. We would have agreed to take this case. So I bent the rules. Under the circumstances, I’m sure you can understand my rationale.”

Glancing back down at Marc’s notes, Casey blew out her breath. The fact was, she could see the merit behind Marc’s argument. But it had still been a major breach of their team credo.

“I want to help this poor woman as much as you do,” she said, calming down enough to lower herself into a chair and begin stroking Hero’s glossy head. He was sitting up and looking around, visibly aware of the tension in the room. “But you know you could have gotten the whole team together, either in person or by conference call, in a matter of minutes. All you had to do was explain that to Ms. Gleason.”

“You’re right,” Marc acknowledged. “I should have waited. But after the child kidnapping case we just wrapped up…” A brief pause. “Look. Stuff like this is my hot button. That’s not news to any of you. Circumstances just made it easier to push it.”

“I understand where Marc is coming from.” Claire Hedgleigh spoke up. She was one of the team’s newest members, and also its least hard-edged. Her abilities could be described as psychic; she preferred the term intuitive. Either way, her intangible connections to people and things were astonishing. They also made her more sensitive to Marc’s plight.

“This is a newborn baby we’re talking about,” she continued. “Every moment counts.”

“So do agreed-upon rules.” Retired FBI Special Agent Patrick Lynch—also a new team member—spoke up. “If we don’t have some kind of protocol here, we’ll be tripping over each other, each taking on different, and maybe conflicting, cases.” He arched a brow at Casey. “Actually, I think this is the first time we’ve ever agreed about rule breaking.”

“We’re coming from different places, Patrick,” Casey replied. “So don’t get too excited.”

“Come on, Casey, take it down a couple of notches. Cut Marc some slack.” Ryan McKay, Forensic Instincts’ strategic whiz and techno-genius, made a disgusted sound. “He called us the minute Amanda Gleason walked out the door. I’m the one who should be complaining. I was in stage four sleep when Marc’s phone call came. You know how I feel about my sleep.”

Everyone knew how Ryan felt about his sleep. And no one wanted to be around him when he didn’t get it.

On the other hand, with those drop-dead Black Irish looks, Ryan looked better with red eyes and bed head than most men did at a formal affair.

“I guess we were lucky you were alone,” Claire commented drily. “Or you might have blown us off.”

Ryan shot her a look. “Never happen.” He angled his head toward Casey. “Well? What’s the verdict?”

Casey stared at Marc’s notes for another second, then raised her head and glanced at the team members, one by one. “I say we take it,” she stated.

“Take it,” Ryan echoed.

“Absolutely,” Claire chimed in.

Patrick’s nod was firm. “We could save a child’s life. Take it.”

“I’m still ticked off at you,” Casey informed Marc. “But let’s get on this case—now. Bring us up to speed.”

John Morano’s office was a dump, a ramshackle wooden building that smelled of damp wood, fish and salt water.

The location, however, was prime. His wharf and marina’s dock service business for local fishermen was located right on the Shinnecock Bay in Long Island’s affluent town of Southampton. He made good money because he was smart. But he was also a well-heeled real-estate developer with not only a big reputation, but equally big plans for the future. He was sitting on a gold mine and he knew it. He’d gotten in early. Now, as he’d expected, real-estate prices were skyrocketing, thanks to the construction of the nearby Shinnecock Indian Casino. It was the perfect time to act.

Morano could visualize the transformation that was about to occur. His dilapidated office would soon disappear; in its place a multimillion-dollar luxury hotel that would attract vacationers everywhere. The cash flow from his dock services would still be incoming. But there’d be a lot more than fishing boats making their way to his pier. Chartered yachts would soon conveniently travel between Manhattan and here, bringing affluent tourists to gamble in the casino and be pampered in his five-star hotel.

The pieces were falling into place. He just had to play his cards right.

The rickety office door swung open and a gruff workman walked in, carrying an empty toolbox.

It looked for all the world as if he was here to do carpentry or make repairs—and the place could sure use it.

But a short time later, the man left, his empty toolbox now filled with twenty thousand dollars in cash.

Just outside the office, he pulled out his burner phone and punched in the requisite number. “Today’s repairs are done,” he reported.

“Good,” was the reply.

The workman headed to the gravel area where he’d parked. He walked past his truck and across the dock, stopping to hurl his phone into the bay. Then he reversed his steps, got into his vehicle and drove away.

Amanda hurried back to Sloane Kettering and the Pediatric Bone Marrow Transplant unit. She knew Melissa would never leave Justin’s side during her absence. And she’d checked her cell phone twelve times since she’d called in an hour ago. But, despite Melissa’s reassurances, her heart was still racing, her prayers still echoing inside her head as she rushed to see Justin, to make sure he was still alive and fighting.

She was startled to see the stocky man with the ruddy complexion and salt-and-pepper hair standing outside the BMT Unit, hands clasped behind his back as he stared inside.

“Uncle Lyle?” Amanda broke into a run. “What are you doing here at this hour? Has something happened?”

“No, nothing like that.” Lyle Fenton patted his niece’s shoulder. He wasn’t an affectionate man. Never had been. He’d grown up poor, made himself rich, but had never included a family as part of the picture. But when his sister and her husband had been killed in a car accident, he’d felt some sense of responsibility for their only child. Amanda had been in photojournalism school at the time, and Lyle had already made a decent amount of money. So paying for her education and kick-starting her career had been his way of reaching out. It was easy enough, given she loved the Hamptons and had moved within ten miles of his estate.

Still, they rarely saw each other. Until now.

“I was in Manhattan on business,” he told his niece now. “The meeting ran right through dinner and well past ten. So I stopped in to see how the baby—how Justin—was doing. I was surprised not to find you here.”

Amanda released her breath. Thank God. Her uncle was just passing through on his way back to the Hamptons. Nothing had gone wrong with her precious baby.

“I only left for a few hours,” she replied. “It was important. And, as you can see, I left my friend Melissa with Justin. She treats him like her own.” With those words, Amanda glanced inside the unit, relieved to see Melissa sitting by Justin’s side, talking softly to him in his crib.

“What was so important?” Lyle asked curiously.

“I hired an investigative firm to find Paul.”

That came as a major surprise, and Lyle started. “Paul? He’s dead.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

A heartbeat of silence. “I had no idea your thoughts were heading in this direction. Do you have something to go on?”

“Nothing solid. But tell me, Uncle Lyle, how else should my thoughts be headed?” Amanda spread her hands wide. “I’m desperate. I’m not a potential donor. You’re not a potential donor. I have no other family. And so far the registry has come up empty. I don’t know if Paul’s alive. I don’t know if he’d be a viable match. But I’ve got to try.”

Lyle nodded, although the expression on his face was dubious. “I understand. Who did you hire? I could have given you some recommendations.”

“I didn’t need them. I hired Forensic Instincts. After the way they handled the kidnapping of that little girl, there was no doubt in my mind that they were the right company to track down Paul—if he’s alive.”

“They took the case?”

Amanda nodded. “They’re meeting about it as we speak.”

“Do you need money? An independent investigative team like Forensic Instincts doesn’t come cheap.”

“I’m fine for now. Plus, you’re already paying for all of Justin’s hospital expenses. I’m very grateful. But enough is enough.”

“That’s absurd, Amanda. I have the means. I’ll offer a huge reward for the right stem cell donor, if that’s what it takes. Don’t hesitate to call on me.”

“Thank you, Uncle Lyle. I’ll do that. But right now I think Forensic Instincts is my ray of hope.” Once again, she glanced into the unit. “I want to get back inside and relieve Melissa.”

“The nurses said there’d been no change,” Lyle informed her. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what good means anymore.” Amanda was already rolling up her sleeves, getting ready to scrub up. “I thank God he isn’t worse. But I keep praying he’ll improve, that by some miracle he’ll get better.” She shut her eyes for a brief second. “That’s a pipe dream, I know. But hope is all I can cling to. And I won’t give up on my son.”

“No, no, of course not.” Lyle gestured for her to get back inside. “Go and be with your child. I’ll be in touch.” He started to leave.

“Uncle Lyle?” Amanda stopped him with a gentle hand on his forearm. “Thank you. Not just for dropping by or for offering to help pay Forensic Instincts, but for having yourself tested. I know this isn’t your thing. But it means the world to me that you’d try.”

Briefly, he smiled. “It was hardly a sacrifice. I have more than enough blood—and money—to spare.” Another awkward pat on her hand. “I’ll be in touch.”

Once her uncle had gone, Amanda went through the ritual of sterilizing her hands and donning the necessary gloves, hospital gown and mask. Then, she reentered the reverse isolation unit where her infant was fighting for his life.

“Go on home to your family,” she said softly to Melissa. “And thanks so much.”

Melissa rose and squeezed her friend’s gloved hands with her own. “Call whenever you need me.”

“I will.”

Amanda approached the crib, relieved to be back, happy to be alone with her son.

She could never get over how small he was. Or maybe he just looked that way in his crib with a central line IV in his three-week-old chest and a blow-by of oxygen perched on his crib to enrich the oxygen content of the air around him. He’d been born full-term, a respectable seven pounds one ounce. Maybe that’s what made it even harder. The preemies down in the neonatal ICU looked so much more fragile, so much more like they had the fight of their lives ahead of them. And yet, none of them was as sick as Justin, who faced a grim prognosis.

The middle-aged nurse who’d most recently checked Justin’s vitals walked in behind Amanda.

“Ms. Gleason,” she greeted her. “I’m glad you got out for a little while.”

“Thank you.” Amanda gestured at the medical apparatus, then at her baby, who had started waving a tiny fist and whining. “How is Justin? Is there any change?”

“No. The little guy is a fighter, though. And he obviously knows his mommy’s voice. He was quiet until you walked in. Would you like to hold him for a while?”

It was a routine question—one that, in this case, the nurse already knew the answer to. Amanda held her baby every chance she could. It was one of the few things she could offer him at this point—the warmth of her body, the soft lullabies that soothed him, plus her constant prayers and love. Holding him was a bittersweet experience. The joy of cradling him close, having his tiny fingers curl around hers—the feeling was indescribable. But the guilt of knowing why she couldn’t nurse him, why he couldn’t even be bottle-fed, but instead had to get his nourishment from an IV catheter, why his breathing was raspy, and why he had an infection—an infection she’d given to him—ate at her like the vilest of poisons.

Now she gathered him close, being careful to avoid his IV, and rocked him as she began singing him the lullabies he seemed to love. He stopped fussing, his tiny body relaxing as he experienced the security of his mother’s embrace and the melodic sounds of her voice. At that moment, all was right with his world—and Amanda’s.

If Paul really were alive, he couldn’t help but fall in love with this little miracle.

Tears welled up in Amanda’s eyes, slid down her cheeks beneath the mask. Between the pain, the worry and the hormones, she cried at the drop of a hat. She’d even wept in front of Marc Devereaux, although he’d seemed to understand. He’d taken her case. He’d been confident. He’d reassured her. And she believed in him.

But would they find Paul? Was Paul alive to be found? Or was that just wishful thinking on her part?

She’d mourned him for so long. More so after she found out she was carrying his baby. They’d never talked about having children, nor about settling down together. It was too soon. They’d only been together for five months. But they were five intense months, filled with a love and a passion Amanda had never before experienced. Justin was the culmination of that. And Paul would never be able to share in the miracle that was his son.

Finding out that Paul might truly be alive had been a devastating blow to her gut. Disbelief, hope, confusion, betrayal, and most of all, anger had rushed through her, one sharp emotion at a time. But, with Justin’s diagnosis, all that emotion channeled into desperation to find Paul. The fact that he might have been lying to her since day one and that he’d done a dump-and-run was insignificant. All that mattered was Justin. She had to save her baby. Even if it meant pleading at the feet of a man who’d made a fool of her.

Justin gave a little cough, then screwed up his face and kicked his legs. Amanda didn’t like the sound of that cough. And she didn’t like the way his nose was running. He looked paler than before. And he seemed fussier. Was that normal baby behavior or was it the pneumonia getting worse? She’d have to find Dr. Braeburn and ask him.

She stopped singing and kissed the top of Justin’s silky head. Please, God, she prayed. Please let Forensic Instincts find Paul. And please let him be a healthy match for Justin. Please.

But Amanda was a realist. And she knew that prayers alone wouldn’t be enough.

Ryan McKay’s lair, as the team called it, took up the entire basement of Forensic Instincts. Usually, he was down there by his lonesome, with only his servers, his gadgets and his workout equipment to keep him company. But, at the moment, things were different. Even though it was after two in the morning, Marc was pacing around Ryan’s space like a hungry lion.

Finally, Ryan swiveled around in his computer chair and faced Marc, hands folded behind his head.

“Nothing jumps out at me,” he pronounced. “Our client is just who she says she is. A thirty-four-year-old photojournalist who lives in an apartment over a café in Westhampton Beach. Her only family is an uncle, Lyle Fenton, who’s a rich business tycoon serving on the Southampton Board of Trustees. He put her through school after her parents died and used his influence to get her some high-profile jobs. Doesn’t look like he’s subsidizing her, though. She’s on her own financially.”

Marc nodded. No surprises there. Not about the information itself nor the scope of it. He didn’t ask how Ryan had accessed Amanda’s finances. Ryan could access anything.

“I also checked out Amanda’s photojournalist friend,” Ryan continued. “She’s as legit as Amanda.”

“Yeah, she’s also cooperative,” Marc added. “She didn’t hang up on me when I woke her up in the middle of the night. She confirmed that she’d taken the photo, and when and where it was taken.”

“Okay, so that takes care of those preliminaries.”

“What about Paul Everett?” Marc demanded.

“Again, he seems clean enough on the surface. A real-estate developer, like Amanda said. Had some decent-size prospects, most of which are underwater, thanks to the economy. I can check around in the morning, see what I can find out from the people he worked with—assuming I can find them. Apparently, he owned a wharf and marina out in the Hamptons where local fisherman docked their boats. Looks like he had plans to grow it into something bigger. He was trying to get all kinds of building permits. Once again, I can’t dig deeper until business hours start. No one’s in the township office at 2:00 a.m. So we’ve got a seven-hour wait. What I can do until then is use my facial recognition software to compare the older photos of Paul Everett with the new one. It’ll take time to enhance the cell phone shot. But I’ll do it. And we’ll have stronger confirmation that the two guys in the pictures are one and the same.”

“At least we’ll be using the time instead of wasting it,” Marc concurred. “What about D.C.? Did Everett have any ties there?” Marc asked. “Any reason he’d be in Washington?”

“None that I can see. That doesn’t mean he didn’t start a new life after he took off—if he took off. Remember, we still have to consider the possibility that Paul Everett is dead and decomposing at the bottom of the ocean, or that he was dinner for a bunch of hungry sharks.”

“Uplifting thoughts.” Marc blew out his breath. “So no signs of dirty dealings? No business contacts who would want him out of the way, or who he’d run from?”

“Not yet. This was a cursory search, Marc. It was meant to give us some starting points. I only scratched the surface. I’ll go deeper. I’ll dig up Everett’s friends, business associates, partners, history—anything sketchy from his past. Whether he ran or was killed, he was into something over his head. It’s up to me to give the team something to run with. I’ll figure out if Everett was a victim or a slimeball. He can’t hide from me.” A smug grin. “No one can.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Casey faced Amanda across a table in Sloane Kettering’s institutional cafeteria.

Amanda shifted in her chair, staring into her coffee cup and stirring furiously. She was waiting for a reaction from the head of Forensic Instincts. Just because Marc was fully invested didn’t mean the rest of the team would follow suit. And having Casey Woods fully on board was essential to the urgency with which they approached the case.

Casey alleviated her worries with just a few words.

“Marc made a compelling case,” she stated simply. “The whole team feels as strongly about your situation as he does. We started working on the investigation just after midnight.”

Amanda’s head shot up. “Then you’ll find Paul.” It was a statement, not a question, one that was rife with faith that Forensic Instincts would succeed.

“We’re going to determine if he’s alive,” Casey amended. “And if he is, my team will find him.”

“Thank you,” Amanda said gratefully.

She was an attractive woman, Casey noted. But she looked much older than her mid-thirties. She also looked dazed and battered, as if she’d been struck with a sledgehammer. The hell she was going through was unimaginable. Casey didn’t have children of her own, but that didn’t mean she was immune to Amanda’s pain. Having your newborn son’s life on the line, being helpless to keep him alive—Casey couldn’t fathom anything more excruciating for a new mother.

“I have to ask you a few questions,” she told Amanda gently. “I know your heart and mind are with your son. But the more help you can give us, the faster and more effectively we can do our job.”

Amanda nodded. “Ask me anything you want.”

“Tell me about you and Paul. Where and when you met. How the relationship progressed. Where things stood between you when he vanished. Anything the police said when they wrapped up the investigation into his possible death. How much you knew about his work, his friends, his business acquaintances. Any enemies he might have had. Any personal details that could explain his disappearing off the grid. Any reason you can think of that he’d be in Washington, D.C. Where he lived in the Hamptons and anything you can remember about his place—mementos, photos, anything that might reveal something more about him.”

“Wow.” Amanda blew out her breath, blinking at the deluge of questions Casey had just fired at her. “I assume Marc filled you in on what I told him and showed him?”

“He did. And some of what you tell me will be redundant. I realize that. But I want to hear it from you.”

“Okay. Paul and I met at a political fundraiser. There was chemistry from the start. We got involved pretty quickly, and we were together for five months. He was a real-estate developer. I never met any of his colleagues. I met a few of his friends, mostly neighbors near the house he rented and a couple of his poker buddies. Paul and I were pretty wrapped up in each other. Most of the time we spent together was alone.”

“So things were good right up until he vanished?”

A nod. “We hadn’t talked in a few days, which was unusual. I assumed it was because he was busy. We were supposed to have dinner that night. He never showed. I called his cell phone all night. Then I went to his house.”

“Which was where?”

“In Hampton Bays. It’s a small cottage, close to Tiana Bay. He rented it year-round. It was about twenty minutes from Westhampton Beach, where I live. He was working on some big real-estate development project in Southampton. We didn’t get into the details. But enemies? I can’t imagine anyone hating Paul. He was easygoing and charismatic. And I also can’t imagine why he’d disappear. Things were so good between us. And I never even got a chance to tell him about Justin.” Amanda’s voice quavered. “When I think that way, I’m sure he must be dead. Nothing else makes sense. But, on the other hand, where is his body? Why didn’t the Coast Guard ever turn up anything? It makes no sense.”

“The police dismissed the case,” Casey continued. “Did they leave any doors open?”

“They said they had nothing to go on. No suspects, no motives and no body.” Amanda took a quick gulp of her coffee. “As for D.C., your guess is as good as mine. Paul never mentioned any friends or relatives there. Could he have gotten a project there? Of course. But I have no way of knowing.”

“Okay, let’s get to Paul’s cottage. Do you know if it’s been rented out?”

“I don’t know,” Amanda replied, looking puzzled. “But what difference does that make? All his things are gone. I donated everything to charity except items that had sentimental value to me.”

“I’ll need to see those items. Also, I’ll need the name of Paul’s landlord.” Casey gave the simpler explanation first. “As for the house, I’d like to get permission to go inside. I don’t know whether or not you’re a believer, but Claire Hedgleigh, one of my team members, is a brilliant intuitive. She might pick up on something just from being in Paul’s surroundings—especially if no one’s lived there for the past eight months. And she’ll definitely have a shot at sensing something from the personal items you’re talking about.”

“You’re talking about a psychic.”

Casey’s lips curved. “Claire hates that term, but yes. A psychic. She was crucial to solving our last big case, and before she joined Forensic Instincts, she was tremendously successful working with law enforcement.”

“If she can help tell us if Paul’s alive and where he is, I’m all for it.”

“Good. Then you won’t balk at my next request. Last night when you spoke to Marc at the office, you met Hero. He’s another unconventional member of our team—a human scent evidence dog. Between sniffing out Paul’s place and sniffing the scent pads we’ll make from Paul’s personal things, he’ll be able to zero in on Paul’s presence within miles—if and when we get to that point. So, can you give me the information on Paul’s landlord? I’ll make a few phone calls and check the status of the cottage. Also, would you make a mental note of whatever mementos you have? We’ll drive out to the Hamptons together either later today or tomorrow, depending on when you can make arrangements to leave your son.”

Amanda shut her eyes for an instant. “Thank you for understanding,” she said simply. “My friend Melissa has offered to stay with him whenever I need to leave. And it’s not as if the hospital staff isn’t in constant contact with me. I just feel better when I’m close by. It’s not logical. It’s just being Justin’s mother.”

“I don’t blame you.” Casey pushed back her chair and rose. “You go to your son. I’ll call you as soon as we’re good to go.”

Ryan was leaning over his computer, deep in concentration, when Claire walked in.

“Where is everybody?” she asked.

“Ever hear of knocking?” Ryan’s gaze never left his monitor.

“Why? Is this a private sanctuary?”

“Actually, yeah, it is.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Then put a lock on the door. Or at least keep it shut.” She walked over to Hero, who’d jumped up from his nap the minute she walked in. He gazed at her hopefully, and with good reason. Claire was definitely the soft touch of the team, not only in her handling of the cases, but in her handling of Hero. Her sensitivity went right along with her pale blond hair, light gray eyes and willowy figure—not to mention the ethereal quality that emanated from her.

She didn’t have many buttons that set her off. But Ryan McKay was one of them.

Now Claire’s lips curved as she scratched Hero’s ears. The bloodhound’s gaze was locked on her.

“In my pocket,” she told him, reaching in and pulling out a piece of cheese. She offered it to him. He slurped it up and swallowed it in one bite.

“You’re a doormat,” Ryan noted. “And you’re going to put five pounds on him in less than a year.”

“It’s low-fat cheese. No harm, no foul.” Claire scanned the room, taking in the workout equipment, the vast array of computers, servers and network wires, and the centerpiece of the room: a long line of semicompleted robots—all surrounded by a pile of metal and plastic parts that were just waiting to be used.

“I wouldn’t worry about my touching anything in your precious basement,” she retorted. “I’d trip and kill myself if I tried. Plus, I don’t know what half this stuff is anyway. Especially your toy section. Robots were never my thing.”

“No, you’re more of a tarot card girl.”

Despite her vow to remain impervious to Ryan’s barbs, Claire grimaced. “You’re so narrow-minded, it’s sickening. And FYI, I don’t do tarot cards. Or Ouija boards.”

“Séances?”

“Nope.”

“You’re a boring psychic.”

“And you’re a pain in the ass.”

Ryan spun his chair around, leaned back and folded his arms behind his head. He looked disgustingly amused. “Nice comeback. Cold, too. I’m getting to you.”

Claire shot him a look. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Then why’d you drop by? No one uses the basement but me. The conference room is two flights up.” He pointed at the ceiling.

“I know where it is.” Claire folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here because I got a call from Casey. She said we’re having a full team meeting. I went straight to the conference room. When no one was up there, I chose the obvious—you. You live in this cave. So, I came down to check and see if you knew anything.”

“Yup. A full team meeting it is. Casey called me, too.” Ryan glanced at his watch. “She’s on her way. So’s Patrick. And Marc’s in the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee and probably eating my trail mix.”

“Fine. Then I’ll go up and wait.” Claire hesitated. “Did you find anything?”

Ignoring Claire’s question, Ryan leaned forward and pressed the print button on his computer. A handful of pages glided out. He strolled over and picked them up, perusing them as he did. “You’ll know when everyone else does,” he said at last.

Claire didn’t answer. Trying to reason with a preschooler was pointless. She just left the room and shut the door behind her with a firm click.

Ryan glanced up at the closed door, his lips curving into a lazy smile.

All humor was off ten minutes later as the team gathered around the conference room table.

“I met with Amanda Gleason,” Casey began, hands folded in front of her. “Marc was dead-on in his assessment. The woman is desperate. The situation is heartbreaking. Time is of the essence. And we’re going to save this baby at all costs.” She turned to Ryan. “What do you have for us?”

“Let’s start with my facial recognition software. I did a comparison of the guy in Amanda’s photos with the enhanced image of the guy in the cell phone picture. Using elastic bunch graph matching techniques and a cutting-edge sparse representation algorithm, I was able to determine…” Ryan glanced around at the table of blank faces. “Never mind the details. I’m ninety percent sure it’s the same guy.”