“Beats the hell out of me.”
Clare swallowed, turned her head away as the reality she’d held at bay came crashing down like a boulder. This was Ryan. Ryan. What in the name of hell had she been thinking? Why had she made herself vulnerable to him? Talk about exposing one’s soft underbelly. She’d all but put the pitchfork in his hand.
“We should get up,” she said woodenly.
“Yeah, we should.” Ryan rolled away, rising to collect his hastily discarded clothes and to pull them on. He turned, studying Claire from beneath hooded lids.
Damn the guy. Even sweaty and disheveled, he was sexy as hell, with enough charm to melt an iceberg. Meanwhile, she was lying there naked, with nothing but a sheet to cover her. Between that and his looming over her, she felt even more raw and exposed, at a total disadvantage.
“This was a mistake,” she pronounced. Wow, she’d managed to sound somewhat normal, and to speak in a relatively strong tone.
“I agree. Probably a big one.” Ryan was visibly and totally out of sorts—Claire’s only consolation at the moment. He leaned his head back, and blew out a long, uneven breath. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Let’s not say anything. The less we talk about it, the less significance we’ll be assigning it.” Claire sat up, holding the sheet against her, trying to display the same nonchalance that Ryan’s God-knew-how-many-other bed partners displayed. “We acted on impulse. It was dumb. Now it’s over. Let’s just move on, okay?”
Ryan nodded. “Okay.” He finished getting dressed, ran his hands through his rumpled black hair. “I’ll head back to my place, shower and change. Then I’ll go to the brownstone, where I’ll start checking out the activities of our coworkers, and hope you’re wrong.”
“I hope so, too. But I’m not.”
Ryan nodded again. He crossed over to the door, then paused, glancing back at her. “Listen, Claire…”
“See you at the office,” she interrupted. Whatever he’d been about to say, she didn’t want to hear it.
He took the hint. “Yup. See you.”
He walked out, closing the door behind him.
* * *
The handwriting was on the wall, and what it said was beginning to be unmistakable.
Still, Hutch wasn’t ready to give up.
He’d taken steps in a dozen different directions, tapped into more avenues than he could count. There was a pattern forming, one that was making him distinctly uneasy. Curiosity and determination warred with reason.
He pounded the proverbial pavement a few hours longer, being as thorough and creative as he knew how. Ultimately, he went to the highest ranking contact he had in the Criminal Enterprise division.
The answer was the same. Scripted. Terse. Immovable.
Creating an impenetrable wall.
He’d never expected this outcome. But he had to live with it.
And so would Casey.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ryan set aside his sleuthing into Paul Everett’s and John Morano’s pasts long enough to do what he’d promised Claire. He felt like a shit doing it. There was no “nice” way to justify prying into the lives of his team. He trusted them all with his life.
Still, Claire hadn’t accused them of deception, not of the malicious kind. She was concerned that one of them was employing an iffy tactic while trying to protect the others. Was that possible? Sure.
He did a little poking around in the FI phone records, found nothing, and then gave it up for a while. He was too preoccupied to bury himself in work. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t just forget about what had happened between him and Claire.
Talk about an inferno. They’d practically set the sheets on fire. How the hell was he supposed to forget about that, much less make sense of it?
“Well, I came down here for nothing,” Marc commented, poised in the doorway of Ryan’s lair, studying him intently. “I was going to ask you what Claire wanted to see you about. But judging from the expression on your face, you didn’t do much talking.”
Ryan shot Marc a look. “Casey’s the expert with tells. You’re out of your league.”
“Maybe. But I’m right.”
“Drop it.”
“That off-the-charts, huh? I’m not surprised. Now what? Where are you going from here?”
“Back to work.” Ryan leaned over his computer, deliberately shielding the screen from Marc’s view.
“Where’s Claire?”
“No idea.”
“You’re even pissier than you were before. She really got to you that bad, huh?”
Ryan shrank the window he’d been working in on his computer, spun his chair around and faced Marc with a hard expression. “You’re not going to leave this alone, are you? You, who are so private no one knows your shoe size?”
“Fair enough.” Marc shrugged, unfazed by the verbal attack. “You just look pretty strung out. I thought you might want to talk about it.”
“I don’t even know what it is. And I definitely don’t want to talk about it.”
“No problem. But, for the record—and because I have ten years on you—don’t overanalyze it. Just let it be whatever it is. You’re a smart guy, Ryan. You knew damn well it wasn’t going to be a quick lay. You two are way too combustible for that.”
Ryan’s jaw was working. “I hear you. Can we let it go now?”
“It’s gone.”
“And not a word to anyone.”
“That’s not my style, and you know it. But I wouldn’t expect it to get by Casey.”
“If she figures it out on her own and says something, I’ll shut her down, too.”
Marc nodded. “Since Claire’s not the type to ask for a booty call, my original question remains. Why did she need to see you so urgently?”
This, Ryan had been prepared for. “She had some weird vibes about the investigation.” Stick to the truth. There’s less to remember. “All she was sure of was that it had to do with what I’m currently checking into.”
“Everett’s and Morano’s backgrounds?”
“That’s what I’m working on. So that’s what it must be.”
“Did she give you any specifics?”
“Nope.” Ryan shook his head, swiveling back around to face his computer. “She hated like hell having to call me at all. She knows how little value I place on psychic insights. But I’m the genius who’s going to dig up everything there is to know about Everett and Morano. So she had no choice but to turn to me.”
“Got it.” Whether or not Marc believed him was anyone’s guess. Nothing ever showed on Marc’s face—he was a pro at that. “Then I’ll leave you to your digging. By the way, how do you want to follow up on our plan to bug Morano’s office?”
“Give it a day,” Ryan replied. “Morano’s already in the process of renting a trailer to operate out of. I’m sure he salvaged a good chunk of his work. He’d be an asshole not to have backed it up on a flash drive and taken it home with him—just in case. He’ll be up and running in no time. Gecko will just have a different hiding place to do his reconnaissance.”
Marc chuckled. “Right. And I have no doubt that Gecko will adapt beautifully.” He headed toward the door. “Just let me know when we’re heading back out to the Hamptons. I have some follow-up to do here.”
“On what?”
Again, Marc’s face showed nothing. But the way he stopped in his tracks and gazed back at Ryan, that searching look in his eyes, spoke volumes. Ryan wanted to kick himself for being so transparent and so abrupt. He’d make a lousy addition to the BAU.
“On Amanda,” Marc replied. “I haven’t talked to her since Justin took a turn for the worse. Plus, I want to talk to Hutch while he’s here. I haven’t even seen him yet. I know he’s calling his FBI contacts to se
e what he can find out about Paul Everett—if anything. I still have a few contacts at the Bureau myself. I want to see if I can help him.” A pointed pause. “Why? Do you need me for something?”
“No.” This time, Ryan kept his interest in check. “I was just curious. I know how invested you are in this case.”
“If you’re worried that I’ll let my baggage cloud my judgment, don’t. It never does.” Another pause, this one speculative. “Just let me know when Morano has his trailer set up. We’ll reverse our tracks and head right back to the Hamptons to install Gecko in the trailer. A baby could break into one of those. We’ll have Gecko in place in twenty minutes.”
* * *
Casey spent a good hour in her private office upstairs, watching Mercer’s press conference online. Or, to be more specific, watching Mercer at his press conference.
He was a charismatic speaker, yet he also came across as very warm and sincere—a real family man with solid family values. Some of it was genuine, some was exaggerated. Just like every other politician.
He was definitely uneasy about the whole blood donor situation. Every time the press said something about his altruistic gesture, his lips thinned into a tight smile, and Casey could almost see his internal wince. He wanted the baby to survive. But he didn’t want the details of his genetic relationship to Justin to come out. Mercer was also intimidated by his “father.” Lyle Fenton was standing on his left. And Mercer was angled away from him, his face slanted to the right, his body positioned as if to shield himself from Fenton.
The whole situation would be fascinating if it weren’t so maddening. There was nothing in this clip that could help Amanda. For her purposes, it didn’t matter why the congressman had taken the steps he’d taken, only that he had taken them. Now it was back to the waiting game. The complete testing results didn’t come back for almost two weeks. While FI knew that Amanda and Mercer were loosely related, Amanda didn’t. And the biological connection was weak, at best. So the odds weren’t good.
Finding Paul Everett was still the best, maybe the only option. Flying under the radar wasn’t working, especially since FI’s involvement was public knowledge at this point. Not to mention the fact that they’d put some dangerous people on high alert.
Forget subtlety. It was time to be more aggressive.
“Maybe you should let it go.”
Casey started. She hadn’t heard Hutch come in.
“Let what go?” she asked. “Mercer? I don’t think so. If anything, I’m starting to think we should confront him.”
“About what—being Fenton’s son?”
“About the fact that we know he’s Fenton’s son. Also, about the fact that we know he’s in Fenton’s pocket. It might make him more amenable to telling us anything else he knows about—like Fenton’s involvement with Paul Everett’s supposed death.”
“I doubt he knows anything.” Hutch shrugged. “I realize you’re getting desperate. But I’d leave that avenue alone.”
Casey blinked. “Leave alone a dirty politician? I can’t believe this is you. Are you, Supervisory Special Agent Kyle Hutchinson, the most honorable person on earth, actually suggesting I turn my back on corruption?”
Hutch’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No, although I thank you for the slightly exaggerated compliment. I’m suggesting you find a donor match for little Justin and stop being sidetracked. That’s not just my professional opinion, it’s my personal one. Getting Amanda’s son healthy is what you were hired for.”
Something wasn’t sitting right with Casey.
“Did you reach your contacts?” she asked.
“Most of them, yes.”
“Good. Because you’ve been in there for hours. What did they tell you? Is Paul Everett in the federal system?”
“They didn’t tell me anything. No one could give me information about Paul Everett or about any investigation involving him in any capacity.”
Casey rose slowly, her eyes narrowing on Hutch’s face. His choice of wording didn’t escape her. “That’s pretty vague.”
“Actually, it’s very definitive.” Hutch’s expression was totally nondescript. “I tried my best to help you out. But there’s nothing I can say. It sucks, Casey. But it’s a dead end.”
“A dead end,” Casey repeated. “Nothing you can say. Nothing anyone could tell you. Nothing you could get. That’s an awful lot of nothings.”
“I realize that. I’m sorry. I was hoping to help your investigation.”
“But you didn’t. Then again, you already know that. You told me nothing.” Her emphasis was pointed.
“That’s true.” Hutch didn’t avert his gaze. “So maybe it’s time to widen your search for a donor.”
“Or maybe it’s time for you to tell me the truth.”
“I just did.”
“You made sure to word things perfectly. But the truth? That’s crap.” Casey walked right up to him. “What’s going on?”
His jaw tightened. “Leave it alone, Casey.”
She was quiet for a long moment, just scrutinizing his face.
“Wow,” she said at last. “This is even bigger than I thought. They shut you down, didn’t they? Whatever’s going on, they don’t want Forensic Instincts involved. This must be some major career-building case. No wonder we’ve got the bad guys so nervous. There’s a lot more at stake for them than our search for Paul Everett. He’s part of a much bigger picture.”
Hutch didn’t answer. Then again, he didn’t have to.
“You’re coming through loud and clear,” Casey told him. “I guess that means that figuring out what the bigger picture is will be FI’s job.”
“No.” Hutch’s tone was hard. “FI’s job will be to find some other way to save Justin Gleason. Paul Everett isn’t an option.”
“That’s the FBI’s opinion. Not mine.”
“You’re playing with fire, Casey. That’s as much as I can say. I don’t have too many details—but I have enough to know you’re in danger. So drop it.”
“There’s no chance in hell. Do you have any idea how good the odds are that Paul Everett will turn out to be the best match for Justin? Do you know how fervently Amanda’s been counting on that national donor list and coming up empty? Do you know that her son-of-a-bitch uncle, who’s her closest living relative, isn’t a match? Do you realize that Mercer and his kids are long, long shots?” Anger sparked in Casey’s eyes. “Do you understand that you’re practically telling me to let a baby die to protect your precious Bureau?”
“That’s not what I’m telling you.” Now Hutch was getting angry. “But if more powerful forces than you haven’t found Paul Everett, FI isn’t going to, either. Assuming you’re right—and I’m not saying you are—and he is part of some massive investigation, you’re wasting your time hunting him down. That’s time you could be spending finding a viable donor for Justin.”
“Do you know where he is?” Casey demanded.
“I haven’t a clue.” Hutch’s jaw was working. “And, if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”
“Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?”
“Both.”
“Dammit, Hutch.” Casey was furious. “I’m trying to save a baby’s life. And you’re clinging to some stupid bureaucratic rules?”
“Those bureaucratic rules are what define our criminal justice system. Without them—” Hutch broke off with a frustrated sound. “Let’s not go down this path for the hundredth time. We don’t agree. That’s why you started Forensic Instincts and why I’m with the Bureau.”
Casey struggled for control—and for objectivity. She knew Hutch was being Hutch, doing what he believed in. But she just couldn’t wrap her mind around it, not in this case.
“We’re talking about a newborn baby,” she said, keeping her tone intentionally calm. “He won’t survive
much longer without a donor transplant. He might not survive anyway. Hutch, I won’t ask you to compromise your principles. Just tell me what you can, what you feel comfortable saying. I’ll try to fill in the blanks. Please. I’m begging you. I won’t tell anyone, not even the team, where I got the information.”
“You know that’s not the issue, Casey.” Hutch’s tone was equally restrained. “Anything I wouldn’t feel comfortable with your sharing with the team, I wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing with you. This isn’t personal. It’s professional.” A pause, as Hutch grappled with his choice of words. “I wasn’t lying. I have no idea where Paul Everett is. Nor do I have the faintest idea how to find him. I’m not sure who, if anyone, does. Classified information is shared on a need-to-know basis.”
“I hear you.” Casey digested what Hutch was and wasn’t saying. Paul Everett was in the federal system and he was a part of some investigation. A significant investigation, if it was classified. And that meant that even Hutch had limited information.
“Is Paul alive?” Casey asked.
“I don’t know. I can only speculate.”
“Okay, then what would you speculate?”
“I’d speculate that he’s probably alive.”
“Agreed. Or the Bureau wouldn’t be so eager to keep a lid on his part in their investigation.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Hutch shrugged. “It could be that any update on his status is classified. I’m just guessing, based on instinct. I have no facts to support them.”
Casey nodded. “When you first walked in here, you had a strong, negative reaction to my watching Mercer’s press conference. That tells me that this investigation involves him, too.”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“And Lyle Fenton?”
Hutch sliced the air with his hand. “That’s it, Case. Twenty questions is over. I helped you as much as I can—and then some. Any more and I’ll be violating my beliefs and my professional ethics.”
Casey listened to Hutch’s every word, watched his every tell. He was trained and he was good. Downright unreadable, under most circumstances. But in this case, he was trying to convey information without conveying it. So he was definitely more open to interpretation.