The Line Between Here and Gone (23 page)

Another scowl. “I doubt that Everett’s in the Witness Protection Program. If he were, he’d still have internet access. Which means he’d have seen the YouTube video and reacted. If he’s a fugitive, however…” A thoughtful pause. “Then we’re probably screwed. But, rather than speculate, I’ll make the phone call and ask the question. I’ll do it right after our meeting breaks up.”

“Thank you.” Casey turned back to the screen. “That leaves us with two options to discuss and pursue. Criminal Offender and Confidential Informant. Let’s throw out the pros and cons. We’ll take our assignments from there.”

They discussed and debated those two possibilities until they’d slimmed down the options Everett could have taken within each, and decided on the best ways to proceed.

Marc and Ryan were going back to the Hamptons that night and installing Gecko in Morano’s trailer. Ryan was simultaneously going to fine-tune, intensify and finish his in-depth study of Morano’s and Everett’s histories, going as far back as necessary to find a connection between the men or an inconsistency in Everett’s background.

Casey was going straight to Detective Jones. In person. No more cat-and-mouse telephone games. She would get into the troop barracks to see the guy, and to eyeball him face-to-face as she fired questions at him. In addition to that, she’d call in every favor and pull out every stop with the NYPD, since she’d consulted for them before forming Forensic Instincts. They’d hopefully have a handle on the CI angle, especially given mob involvement. Maybe she could even get them to tap into one of their own who was working on an FBI task force and could—and would—get her answers on whether or not Everett was a federal informant.

Claire was driving out to the Hamptons with Marc and Ryan, then going her own way. She was determined to revisit Paul’s cottage and Amanda’s apartment—alone—and immerse herself in their energies until she finished what she’d started when she went out there the first time. Being alone, without distractions, she felt she’d have a stronger chance of keying into something. Plus, she’d been involved in this case longer now, giving her a better shot at connecting with the people and their circumstances than she’d had a few days ago.

Hero was going, too. But not for Claire.

This was the hard part, the part that Patrick winced at when the discussion turned to Marc.

After breaking into Morano’s trailer, Ryan and Marc had another stop to make. This one was Marc’s to do solo. Actually, not solo. With Hero.

Ryan was driving them out to the Shinnecock Bay marina where Lyle Fenton docked his private yacht. Ryan had dug up not only that piece of information, but the fact that, during the winter months, Fenton’s yacht was housed in a vacant building he’d purchased adjacent to the marina, where it was safe from the elements and readied for the next boating season.

Marc was going to break in. After that, he had three goals in mind. One, to thoroughly search the yacht for anything even remotely incriminating. Two, to take a few of Fenton’s personal items—things he’d never miss—from which to make scent pads for Hero for future use. And three, to bring along previously made scent pads of Paul Everett, so that Hero could tell Marc if Everett had ever been on Fenton’s yacht.

Breaking into that building and boarding that yacht required a stealthy approach or a search warrant.

Marc was an expert on the former. The latter was not something he gave a damn about. Yes, the risks were higher than they would be when he and Ryan broke into Morano’s trailer. Fenton might even have a security guard there. And Marc wasn’t going alone, which would have made invisibility a snap for a former Navy SEAL. He had Hero with him. A bloodhound couldn’t be concealed. So he and Marc would have to be casually but openly visible. That task didn’t faze Marc in the least. He was a creative guy. He’d get himself and Hero in that building and on board that yacht.

The whole team was aware that, if Marc managed to get anything on Fenton, he’d be paying him another visit at his East Hampton home. And this time, the meeting wasn’t going to be quite as civil as the last time.

This was the part where Patrick gritted his teeth. He understood what was coming, and it went against everything he stood for. But he’d known what he was signing up for when he’d joined Forensic Instincts. He wouldn’t stop the team from breaking the laws he’d spent his entire career enforcing—not because his gut reaction wasn’t to do exactly that, but because he’d learned to keep his eye on the prize. FI didn’t jump into sketchy operations hastily. But they did what had to be done. And what had to be done now was to find Paul Everett so he could save his son’s life.

Patrick forced himself to think about Amanda, and about little Justin who was struggling for his life. Then he steeled himself and kept his mouth shut.

Picking up on Patrick’s tension, Casey turned to give him a questioning look. “Are you okay with all this?”

“I can live with it,” he replied tersely.

“Good. Because I have one more assignment for you.”

Patrick arched a brow. “Does it involve killing anyone?”

A hint of a smile. “Nothing like that. But it is a delicate task, one I don’t envy you for having to do. Still, it’s time for it to be done. And you’re the right person for the job.”

There was no need to ask what job Casey was referring to.

“You want me to tell Amanda about her uncle.”

A nod. “She’s our client. She’s got to be brought up to speed—somewhat.”

“How much do you want me to tell her?”

“I’m not sure.” Casey raked her fingers through her hair. “Suggestions, team?”

“Stick to the basics,” Marc responded. “Tell her that Fenton is a person of interest. Say that his business dealings are in question, and that he might have associates who aren’t on the up-and-up. Say that any one of those associates might have knowledge of what happened to Paul. Explain to her that we need to obtain the facts, and that we’re in the process of doing just that. And emphasize to her that she can’t, under any circumstances, alert Fenton to our suspicions—not yet.”

“I agree, but make it more personal,” Claire amended. “Patrick, tie everything you say to Justin. Tell Amanda that she’s holding her tongue to protect Justin. That her uncle might be shady, but that he has no idea where Paul is. That, if he did, he’d produce him because, no matter what, Justin’s well-being is what’s most important to him. Trust me, Patrick. Take that approach when you break the news to her. It’s the only way Amanda will be able to rationally accept what you’re saying. Otherwise, emotion will take over and she’ll run off to confront her uncle and to demand answers—which is the last thing we want.”

“I agree,” Casey said. “Marc’s procedure, Claire’s technique. Combine the two and you’ve got your strategy.” A sigh. “I’m sorry to dump this on you, Patrick. But you’re with Amanda the most, and she’s come to respect and rely upon you for her safety.”

“I’ll do it,” Patrick agreed. “But don’t you think it would be easier coming from Marc? He’s kind of her knight in shining armor.”

“No.” Casey gave an adamant shake of her head. “Marc is definitely Amanda’s rock. But you’re her father figure. You’ve got a gentler touch and children of your own. Those are the qualifications that Amanda needs right now.”

“Casey’s right.” Marc spoke with total objectivity. “My connection is with that poor baby. And, yeah, I know Amanda counts on me. But soothing and comforting aren’t my strengths, nor is walking the emotional line Claire just described. You’ll handle that a lot better than I would.” A corner of Marc’s mouth lifted. “And I’ll handle the illegal missions a lot better than you would.”

“No arguments there,” Patrick said drily. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll head back to Sloane Kettering and relieve Roger right after I contact my buddy at the U.S. Marshals office.”

“Excellent.” Casey glanced around the table. “Questions?”

Silence, accompanied by four shakes of the head.

“Good. Then let’s move.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

It was late when the FI van arrived in the Hamptons.

Ryan was driving. He dropped Claire off at Amanda’s apartment. Then, he and Marc continued on. Hero was stretched out on the backseat of the van.

It was going to be a busy night on Shinnecock Bay.

First, they hit the Hampton Bays side of the bay, where Morano’s trailer was stationed. Both Marc and Ryan were dressed in black to blend in with the night. They left the van a short distance away. Hero stayed inside, his acute bloodhound instincts telling him this was a time to be quiet and still. Ryan took Gecko. Marc took his waist pack of tools. They headed for the trailer.

“Wait.” Like last time, Marc extended his arm to block Ryan’s progress. “Get down.” He took his own advice, squatting low to the ground.

“What now?” Ryan demanded, following suit. “Is someone torching the trailer?”

“Nope. Watching it.”

Ryan’s eyes widened. “Where?”

“There.” Marc jerked his thumb toward a spot across the way.

It took Ryan a few minutes to make out the black SUV tucked away in the sandy alcove. The damned thing was nearly invisible.

“How the hell did you see that?” he asked Marc. “Never mind.”

It was a stupid question. Marc had the instincts of a predatory cat.

“Is it the same arsonists about to do a repeat performance?” he asked instead.

“Uh-uh.” Marc shook his head. “I’d say it’s either the cops or private security. My guess? Private security. The cops would be patrolling, not sitting in the bushes, doing surveillance. And they can’t afford SUVs. Morano’s probably scared shitless. He must have hired someone to watch his new makeshift office.” A frown. “We need a distraction.”

He whipped out his cell phone and pressed Casey’s number on speed dial.

“It’s me,” he said without preamble. “We have company out here. A black SUV, parked diagonally across from Morano’s trailer on the Hampton Bays side of the marina.” He gave Casey the exact location. “I need you to call 9-1-1 and report it as a suspicious vehicle. When the cops show up to check it out, and while they’re busy interrogating the driver, Ryan and I will get inside the trailer. We’ll be out and gone by the time they leave.”

“We will?” Ryan asked incredulously as Marc punched off his phone.

“Yeah. We will.” Marc stayed crouched down, indicating to Ryan that he should do the same. “Follow my lead. When the cops show up, we go. Fast. I’ll get us in. You get Gecko installed. We’ll be gone in three minutes tops.”

“Shit. You’re tougher than my MIT professors.”

Marc gave a hard grin. “Get used to it. Real life is tougher than any Ivy League school. Now stay put.”

It didn’t take five minutes before a patrol car came speeding down the street and stopped behind the SUV.

Marc waited until the cop had gotten out of his vehicle and approached the SUV, his back turned toward them.

“That’s our cue,” he told Ryan. “Let’s go.”

They sprinted over to the trailer. Marc had the lock picked in thirty seconds. Then they were inside.

“I’ll keep watch,” Marc said. “You do what you have to.” He went to the trailer window and stared out.

Ryan quickly scanned the space, focusing on the area of the ceiling where Gecko would have the widest visibility. Perfect. A gap in the ceiling tile that would allow Gecko’s tiny video camera to see the whole room. He climbed onto Morano’s desk, used his palm to push the tile up and to a side, and placed Gecko in position. Then he lowered the tile back into place.

“Done,” he announced.

Marc was standing like a statue at the window, not moving or making a sound, just continuing his lookout. The cop and his partner were still talking to the driver of the SUV, probably checking out his credentials.

“Good.” He spoke to Ryan without turning. “Let’s get out of here.”

They crept to the door and slipped out, making sure to lock the trailer door behind them.

There was one more tricky feat to accomplish before they took off.

Ryan stopped at the van long enough to extract the all-important small black box and to pull on his boots with the ankle gaffs and his leather gloves. Next came the body belt and safety strap. Once all his gear was in place, he climbed noiselessly up an adjacent telephone pole—away from the view of the cops—where he mounted the black box. That baby would receive Gecko’s audio and video signal, encrypt them and transmit them over the internet via a secure tunnel opened between the black box and their firewall.

And Forensic Instincts would be able to watch and hear everything Morano did or said.

* * *

They drove away quietly, headlights off until they reached the main road. Then, Ryan flipped on the headlights, accelerated to a normal speed and steered the van around to the Southampton side of Shinnecock Bay where the marina and Fenton’s yacht were located.

While Ryan was finding a hidden spot to park the van, Marc shrugged into a down parka. The hunter-green jacket was bland enough to be less than memorable, but contrasting enough so he didn’t look like a cat burglar. For this second of his two break-ins, he wanted to seem like a regular guy taking a stroll with his dog.

Ryan parked the van in a desolate area a few hundred yards from the marina. He unbuckled his seat belt and snapped off a salute to Marc.

“Have fun, you two,” he said, indicating Hero. “I’ll be in the back of the van with my computer doing the
real
work.”

“Good to know I’m getting off easy,” Marc retorted, zipping up his parka. “I’ll try not to worry about you.”

Ryan grinned. Marc didn’t waste his time worrying. He just planned, executed and succeeded.

“I’m going back another decade on Everett and Morano,” Ryan told him. “Hell, I’ll go back to nursery school if I have to. There’s got to be some kind of connection. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Neither do I.” Marc had jumped out of the van, and was now leashing up Hero and collecting the backpack of items he needed for his excursion.

“I mapped out the location of the security cameras for you,” Ryan reminded him.

“Got it.” Marc pulled out the printed diagram Ryan had given him. “I’ll make sure that Hero and I avoid them.”

“The place is fenced in and gated, and there’s a friggin’ guard sitting in that booth in front.” Ryan cast a troubled look at the marina. “The commercial building that Fenton’s made into his personal boat garage is way in the back. You can’t scale the fence, not with Hero in tow. And who knows what kind of private security Fenton has in place? This isn’t going to be as easy as breaking into Morano’s trailer.”

“Never thought it would be.” Marc shrugged, urging Hero to stand beside him. “I’ll handle whatever’s thrown at me. You just figure out what link there is between Morano and Everett.” He slung the backpack over his shoulder. “See you in a while.”

“Yup. See you.”

* * *

First things first.

Marc ambled along the pavement as if taking Hero for an evening stroll, but using that opportunity to pass by and assess the guard in his booth. The guy looked half-asleep, his feet up on the desk, his chin on his chest. No obstacle there.

Turning around, Marc strolled back to the gate. He assessed the lock and pulled out his tools. No challenge here, either.

Once he’d taken care of the lock, he opened the gate a crack—just enough so that he and Hero could slide through. He shut it behind them, leaving the lock hanging in place so the guard wouldn’t notice anything. It was too dark for him to see that the lock was open—not that he was looking anyway.

Marc and Hero were inside.

Referring to Ryan’s diagram, Marc walked Hero through the docks in a zigzag pattern that avoided the security cameras. Hero was intently sniffing, taking in every new and interesting scent around.

They reached the commercial building without incident.

Sure enough, there was a burly-looking security guard sitting outside the building. He jerked into a standing position the instant he saw Marc and Hero approach, then come to a halt beside him.

“Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

“I’m a mechanic,” Marc replied, using his peripheral vision to ensure that no one else was around. “Mr. Fenton asked me to check out something on his yacht.”

“He didn’t say a word to me.” The guard fumbled for his cell. “You’ll have to wait.” He glanced down at his phone. “I’ve got to verify…”

The guard never finished his sentence.

Marc’s arm was around his throat, his thumb pressing down on the carotid artery. With his other hand he pressed the guard’s neck sideways in the same direction, and waited the few seconds it took for him to lose consciousness. Marc released his grip as the guard sank to the ground, and caught him as he did. He dragged the guy to the side of the building, where he’d be out of sight. He then tied his wrists and ankles with the thick cord he’d brought with him and stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth—just in case he regained consciousness before Marc’s exit.

Hopefully, this wouldn’t take long.

The lock on the building was almost as easy to pick as the one on the front gate had been.

He and Hero were inside in three minutes, the door shut behind them.

The building was dark, illuminated only by the faint moonlight that filtered in through the large skylight in the ceiling. It was enough to reveal the outline of a ship. Marc reached into his backpack and pulled out a flashlight. He clicked it on, shining it directly on the yacht. It was an exquisite vessel—streamlined, white, ninety feet long, and with the name
Lady Luck
printed in bold letters on the bow. An apt name for Fenton’s private treasure.

Marc didn’t waste a second. He gathered Hero up, balancing his ninety pounds of weight against his chest, and climbed up the ladder and over the side, placing the bloodhound onto the main deck of the yacht.

They explored the berth deck, concentrating on the stateroom and the bath. It didn’t take long to find a few of Fenton’s personal items—an old razor and a pair of swim trunks. Marc let Hero sniff them, then he shoved them into his backpack.

He pulled out the scent pads he’d made with Paul’s smell on them, and gave one to Hero to sniff. Hero sniffed at it long and hard. Then, he picked up his head and bounded across to the galley kitchen. There, he sat down and pawed the ground. He refused to move, no matter what.

Bingo. Marc had his answer. Paul Everett had been on this yacht. And Fenton had never mentioned it. Casual business associates? Yeah, right.

With that important knowledge stored away, Marc gave Hero a coveted treat and then led him along the main deck and up the ladder to the bridge. All the controls—including the electronic radio controls—were located there.

Marc went straight for the control panel and quickly zeroed in on what he was looking for.

He pressed the power button on the rack-mounted Sailor Broadband unit and waited for the system to acquire a satellite. Once that was accomplished, he extended the retractable ethernet cable, plugging one end into his netbook, the other into the wall jack adjacent to the mahogany tabletop that served as Fenton’s maritime office. When the Power, Terminal, and Antenna status lights on the Sailor 250 were solid green, Marc powered up his netbook. Opening up Firefox, he entered http://192.168.0.1 to gain access to the main menu.

Done.

Marc clicked on the Messages navigation button to look at all of Fenton’s recent calls and text messages. He downloaded the call log to his netbook, saving the details for Ryan to decipher later.

Abruptly, while examining the phone book, something caught Marc’s eye. It was an entry for
Big Money.

Interesting.

He went into the software’s edit mode, then copied the mobile number—870 area code. Didn’t recognize it.

Clicking the Messages navigation button, and selecting the Write Message option, he pasted
Big Money’
s phone number into the Recipient field and then composed a cryptic, one-word text message:

Status?

He changed Delivery Confirmation to Yes, clicked the send button and waited.

A brief interval passed. Then Marc got a confirmation. Shortly thereafter, his response arrived:

Why are you on your boat? Thought it was in storage for winter.

Marc considered what Fenton’s reaction would be to having his whereabouts questioned. Then he responded:

My business, not yours. WHAT IS YOUR STATUS?

Sure enough, came the reply:

Sorry. All containers retrieved. Heading 4 Bayonne.

Marc did a double take. Then he typed his final message:

Good. Signing off.

Containers retrieved? In Marc’s experience that meant one of a couple of things—either of which would put Fenton behind bars for a long, long time.

* * *

Ryan was sitting in the back of the van, thoroughly studying his computer screen, when Marc yanked open the back door and instructed Hero to jump in.

“Hey.” Ryan’s head snapped up. “How did it go?”

“It went.” Marc gestured for him to return to the driver’s seat. “I’ve got a call log for you to decipher. And we’ve got three other stops to make. Let’s start with Westhampton Beach. We’re picking up Claire.”

“And the second stop—you’re going to see Fenton.”

“Yup. And third stop, Mercer. It’s time to blow the lid off this case.”

* * *

Thirty minutes after Marc left the marina, the captain of
Big Money
was crossing under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge when the incoming-message indicator on his communications display terminal flashed again. Pressing the icon on the touch screen, he read:

Fenton (mobile).

The captain was puzzled about why Fenton would text him again, this time from his cell phone. While aboard
Lady Luck,
he’d made it clear he was signing off, the implication being
Don’t bother me.

Quickly, the captain opened the text message. He panicked when he saw Fenton’s request:

Status?

He didn’t wait. “Goddfrey,” he shouted to his first mate. “Call Fenton on his cell phone. It’s an emergency.”