“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.”