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 bl
oodhound’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.”