“You got it. Once that came into play, the newspapers jumped on the story of the infiltration of the Citidiots and the divided opinions of the locals. But even in those articles, Morano and Everett are discussed as separate entities. Everett was killed. Morano picked up the reins. Period.”
“Do the newspapers get into Everett’s murder at all?” Casey broke in to ask. “Any speculation as to who killed him?”
“A paragraph on the unsolved homicide—but the tone was more dramatic than it was speculative. You know, like was Paul Everett an innocent victim or was he a high roller who got in with the wrong crowd and paid the ultimate price? Clearly that was old news, so it wasn’t the focus of the articles. The building of the hotel was.”
“Remember, no one paid much attention to Paul’s murder,” Marc reminded them. “That’s why Amanda brought
me next to nothing mediawise when she first met with me. Paul wasn’t a celebrity. He was just a shrewd real-estate developer who happened to buy into a good thing. There was no construction under way, so most of the public didn’t even know about his plans for the hotel. Only the locals. And they’d have no reason to connect his murder with a project that hadn’t even gotten off the ground.”
“Clearly,” Patrick concurred. “Or the police would have pursued that angle more thoroughly. They didn’t.” A pause. “Of course, there are people who can pull off that kind of murder without leaving any leading evidence behind.”
“Paul Everett is not dead,” Claire stated. “I can’t explain how I can be so sure, especially since my connections to his energy are so weird and binary, but I am. I just wish I could make a deeper connection. I spent hours on end today holding that suction-cup heart and trying to analyze its energy. It’s like I’m right on the verge of opening a window and peering inside, and then it’s gone. Not just the opening. The whole window. It’s driving me crazy.”
“That tells me what my gut already knows,” Casey replied. “That either Paul Everett or whoever dragged Paul Everett off wants it this way. Which makes Paul either a criminal or a victim. All the more reason to find him. Most importantly, for Justin. Secondarily, for justice—or rescue. Right now, the ‘whys’ don’t matter. All that matters is that we find what right now looks like Justin’s only chance of survival.”
“Then I think we all have our tasks cut out for us,” Ryan said.
“I want to visit Amanda in the hospital,” Claire stated. “I have the perfect opportunity tonight, since both Casey and Marc are away. After them, I’ve spent the most time with her. I want to check on her and the baby. I want to touch something of the baby’s—maybe a sheet or blanket he came in contact with that’s no longer in the ICU with him. And I want to see if I pick up on anything weird on the way to the hospital.”
“What do you mean by weird?” Ryan asked.
“She means that she’s been sensing we’re being followed,” Casey supplied. “Us and Amanda.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Claire said. “But it’s getting pretty sinister.”
“You’re sure?” For once, Ryan didn’t taunt Claire for her gift.
“Positive.”
“You shouldn’t go alone,” Patrick jumped in. “I’ll go with you. I’m a trained investigator. Maybe I’ll spot something you missed. Besides, I’m in a holding pattern, anyway. I can’t just sit on my hands and wait for the waitress to call me. I need to do something.”
“Good.” Casey liked that idea. Patrick had a sharp eye, Claire had a psychic gift and there was also safety in numbers. “So we’re all in sync for this evening’s activities. We’ll report in if there’s something to say. If not, Marc and I will be home by midnight. We can resume our discussion then.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lyle Fenton’s East Hampton estate was the size of a suburban cul-de-sac.
Marc was doing the driving tonight, giving Casey a break after her monster trip out. He turned in to the paving stone driveway and waited for his entranceway summons to be answered. After the video cameras surveyed their van and the intercom exchange confirmed who they were, the iron gates swung open and the van was allowed to pass through.
Using Ryan’s night-vision-enabled camera, Casey shot a few photos of the grounds and the mansion as the van wound its way up the serpentine driveway, past the guesthouse to the megamanor.
“Impressive,” Marc commented drily. “A bit extreme for my tastes.”
A smile curved Casey’s lips. Marc hated extravagance. And pretentiousness. “Yeah, I’d say so. Too much for me, as well. I’d get lost just going downstairs for a bottle of water.” She glanced down at her camera. “You never know when these shots might come in handy. Not that I think Fenton has any incriminating evidence on his front lawn. I’m sure I’ll get a lot more off Patrick’s iPad video. Still, you never know when we’ll need a frame of reference.”
“Agreed.” Marc was a big believer in visuals, not to mention being superthorough. The more data they collected, the better. “Fenton’s probably going to be rough around the edges. But he’ll also be smart. No one builds the kind of empire he has by stepping in shit. Clean or dirty—and we both know which of those applies to Fenton—he’s got brains. We’re going to have to tread very carefully to get what we want.”
A nod. “I know. I’m glad we ran through our planned script. But we both know we’ll be deviating. Fenton will have his own agenda—not just what he wants to know, but what he has no intentions of saying.”
“Then we’ll wing it. But we’ll get the job done.”
Casey shot him a sideways look. “Nothing threatening, Marc. I don’t want to clue Fenton in to what we’re digging for.”
“I promise not to rough the guy up.” It was Marc’s turn to smile—a tight, restrained smile. “That doesn’t mean I won’t want to. Especially if he’s responsible for keeping Paul Everett away from his critically ill son.”
“That’s what we’re here to find out.” Casey looked out the window as the van pulled up to the front of the house. The front door was already opening. “It’s showtime,” she muttered.
* * *
Lyle Fenton looked like a combination of a filthy rich businessman and a retired prizefighter. He was stocky—dense and muscular rather than pudgy. His powerful shoulders strained at the jacket of his two-thousand-dollar suit, and his physical presence totally reminded Casey of a bulldog. His complexion was ruddy, accentuating the tough-guy veneer, and he had thick salt-and-pepper hair. Expensive clothing or not, he lacked the polish and presence he was trying to convey. He’d clearly grown up in the school of hard knocks and had elevated himself to his current position of wealth and authority. If he’d made the transformation honestly, he’d be admirable. But if he was the sleazy guy Casey suspected he was, admiration was the last thing she’d feel.
He showed them into the study himself and shut the door. “Ms. Woods. Mr. Devereaux.” He shook both their hands, studying Marc for one hard moment before looking away. Marc had an intimidating presence when he chose to. And now he clearly chose to. “Amanda’s told me all about your company and your efforts on her behalf. You have my thanks.”
Okay, the guy was putting on a show. Casey sized that up in about a minute. He’d been home for a couple of hours now and hadn’t even loosened his tie, much less changed into some comfortable clothes. He was dressed and ready for them—the business tycoon and the concerned uncle. Too bad his facade was fake, his manners forced. He was the walking epitome of a street rat turned rich, and trying to act as if he’d been born that way. The discomfort was all there, from his überstiff handshake to his tight lips and jaw, to the fact that he wouldn’t look them in the eye. And that last bit of body language, well, that smacked of a lot more than just superficial deception.
Lyle Fenton was playing a role—and not very well.
“That’s ou
r job, Mr. Fenton,” Casey replied, intentionally clasping his hand in a firm handshake and staring directly at him as she spoke. “We were hired to help Amanda. We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice.”
As Casey had hoped, Fenton’s gaze darted quickly to hers, and there was a glint of surprise reflected there. No shocker. Fenton was used to dealing in a man’s world. To meet a strong, assertive woman was a rarity, if not a first. This would definitely work in Casey’s favor. With a modicum of luck, she could keep Fenton slightly off balance, tipping the scales in hers and Marc’s direction.
“Please have a seat.” Fenton gestured at the tufted leather chairs that sat across from his desk. The desk was formidable—large, mahogany, expensive and situated in front of a wall filled with power photos. Photos of Fenton in his company headquarters. Photos of Fenton at a ribbon-cutting ceremony, in front of a Welcome to Bayonne, New Jersey, banner. In that photo, he was holding a bottle of champagne and christening yet another vessel, all with the backdrop of towering cranes and Fenton’s extensive—and expensive—fleet.
And, in the center of all the other wall photos, a marble-framed photo of a sleek and stunning ship, its elegant bow boasting the name Big Money.
The whole package—the desk and the wall—made a perfect boundary between Fenton and his guests.
Sure enough, he walked around to the buttery-soft brown leather executive chair behind the desk. “Can I offer you anything?” he asked before he sat. “A glass of wine? A soft drink?”
“Nothing, thanks.” Marc answered for them both in that tone of his. Hard. Tough. He, too, was setting the stage, showing Fenton the entirety of what he was up against. All kinds of strength, both mental and physical. Neither the successful businessman or the tough street fighter would scare them. So he could forget it. “Nice ship.” Marc pointed at the center photo.
A proud smile curved Fenton’s lips. “My first. All these years and still going strong. Are you a seafaring man, Mr. Devereaux?”
“You could say that. I was in the navy.”
“He was a Navy SEAL,” Casey amended.
“Oh, I see.” Once again, Fenton looked taken aback—and out of his league. He’d been comfortable with the conversation for exactly thirty seconds. Marc had made quick work of that.
Casey almost started to laugh.
“We’d really just like to get started.” Marc forged on while Fenton was still at a disadvantage. “As you well know, we’re racing the clock.”
“Yes, I know.” The grim expression that crossed Fenton’s face was genuine. He settled himself in his chair and folded his hands stiffly in front of him. “How can I help? I’ve offered Amanda a blank check—anything she needs to launch a wide-scale search for a donor. She’s fixated on the idea that the baby’s father is her only answer. I even offered to pay your fee. She’s proud. She won’t accept any more of my financial help.”
“Speaking of the baby’s father, that’s the reason we’re here,” Casey replied, pulling out a writing tablet and pen. “Tell us about Paul Everett. What was your take on him? How well did you know him? What was your reaction to his supposed murder?”
“Supposed?” Fenton’s brows rose. “Are you saying you agree with Amanda in thinking that Everett is alive? Or just that you’re following every possible lead to make sure that he’s not?”
“You mean, pursuing an avenue that involves taking Amanda’s money—or your money—in the process.” Casey spoke Fenton’s thought aloud, and continued without waiting for confirmation. “No, Mr. Fenton, we’re not just humoring your niece. Forensic Instincts is known for our direct approach to our cases and our clients. If we didn’t believe Paul Everett was alive, we’d be laying out that fact for Amanda. And we’d be encouraging her to discontinue our services. Rest assured, our company is on solid financial footing. We don’t need to squeeze money out of our clients. Nor would we. Our company’s growth relies on our reputation. I’m sure you can relate to that.”
“Of course.” Lyle Fenton was definitely off balance. Whatever he’d expected, it hadn’t been this. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m just surprised that you sound so certain about Paul. Do you have proof he’s alive?”
“Nothing concrete,” Marc replied. “But our leads are strong enough to convince us to pursue this aggressively. That’s really all we can say. Client confidentiality. I’m sure you can understand. I’m equally sure that Amanda will answer any questions you have directly.” He leaned forward, gripped his knees. “Paul Everett?” he prompted.
“Yes… Paul.” Fenton relaxed as he mentally recalled whatever speech he’d prepared. “I didn’t know him well. He had a great reputation in his field when he moved into the area. And his idea about converting the marina into a luxury hotel was intriguing. It had the potential to bring in big money, jobs…”
“And tourists,” Casey finished for him.
“Exactly. Which is why I was so ambivalent about signing on with his project. My dredging business would have profited greatly. But I’m not just a businessman, Ms. Woods. I’m also a local, and a member of the Southampton Board of Trustees. I had an obligation to do what was best for my community.”
“Which explains why you never committed to Paul.”
“Not only why I never committed my company resources. Also why I never threw my full support behind him. I had a lot of due diligence facing me. Permits had to be obtained—environmental, engineering, building—and I had no idea if the town would cooperate. It was my job to figure out what my town wanted before I moved forward.”
A regular Boy Scout, Casey thought in disgust.
“We know that your niece was in a committed relationship with Everett,” she said. “Did that ever sway you in the direction of helping him out?”
“No.” Fenton’s answer was quick and adamant. “I never mix business and personal matters. I couldn’t have built the kind of empire I have if I did.”
“Did Everett pressure you?” Marc asked.
A shrug. “He was a businessman. He saw the opportunity to make a killing. Did he keep after me to sign on? Sure. Did he harass me? No. I’m not sure what else you want to know.”
“We want to know if Paul Everett was as upstanding as Amanda thought he was,” Casey supplied. “Did he ever threaten you? Do you have reason to suspect he used illegal means to get what he wanted—blackmail, bribery, hooking up with the wrong crowd?”
“Right,” Marc added. “The kind of crowd who could make things happen—for a price.”
Fenton’s brows rose slightly. “Are you talking about organized crime?”
“I don’t know. Are we?”
Marc’s tone seemed to throw Fenton a bit. Or was it his subtle implication that Fenton could have that kind of knowledge?
“If Everett was working with the mob, I certainly didn’t know about it,” he denied quickly, keeping his tone even. But his gaze was still darting around, never settling directly on them. “I suppose it’s possible. No one dies—or is attacked and disappears—under violent circumstances without a reason. But, as I said, he and I weren’t friends. I have no clue who he associated with or where his cash sources came from.”
“What kind of a man would you say Everett was—personally?” Casey opted to veer in a slightly different, less confrontational, direction.
Fenton pursed his lips as if contemplating the question. “He was a personable enough guy. Our dealings were fine. But I know he had a temper. I heard him on the phone several times reaming out contractors. Then again, that’s not unusual for a real-estate developer. Paul was a perfectionist. His contractors weren’t. That causes friction.”
“So you’d say he was volatile?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
Convenient, Casey thought. Interesting that that was not a trait Amanda had even slightly alluded to in her description of Paul.
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Curious about where Fenton wanted this to go, Casey played out the point. “Would you say Paul’s temper was enough to win him enemies?”
Another shrug. “Probably. Then again, most of the people in my business have tempers and enemies. That doesn’t mean they resort to violence. Or illegal dealings.”
But you’d love for us to think it did with Paul. And to distance yourself from him as much as possible. Well, aren’t you the ultimate Good Samaritan?
Time to catch Fenton off guard.
“What about John Morano?” Casey asked.
A startled expression. “What about him?”
“Are your dealings with him different? We know he’s picked up the reins where Everett left off. Will you be working with him?”
Fenton clearly felt he was in the hot seat. “Until now, I wasn’t sure. I had the same misgivings I had with Paul. But, as of today, Morano and I made a verbal agreement. My company will be doing the dredging work for the hotel marina.”
“Really?” Marc arched a brow. “Why is that? Did you figure out what the Southampton locals want? Or is it just that you’d rather do business with Morano than with Everett?”
“I had nothing against Paul Everett, Mr. Devereaux. I already told you that. Do you think I’d encourage a relationship between him and my niece if I felt otherwise?”
“Of course not.” Picking up on Fenton’s growing agitation, Casey took it down a notch. “We’re just trying to get at anything that might give us a clue as to the way Paul Everett’s mind worked. You’re a shrewd businessman with shrewd instincts. We value anything you can tell us—even if it’s something you hadn’t considered before, when you assumed that Paul Everett was dead.”
That did the trick. Fenton calmed down. “I understand. No, to answer your question, my change of heart had nothing to do with Paul. I’ve just had more time to talk to my peers and to my fellow community members. The general consensus is that the influx of jobs and capital outweighs the inconvenience of the additional traffic. So I’d like to hope I made the right decision for the town.”