Читать книгу The Line Between Here and Gone - Andrea Kane - Страница 7

Cold air. Bare trees. Christmas lights twinkling up and down the Tribeca street.

At 9:15 p.m. in this residential section of Manhattan, the four-story brownstone that housed the offices of Forensic Instincts was a secluded haven, isolated from the jungle of the city. Two sweeping willow trees marked either side of the brownstone, and a sense of peace made it seem more like a home than a workplace for Forensic Instincts.

Tonight was even quieter than usual. Casey Woods, the company president, was out holiday shopping with some friends. Most of the specialized team had taken the night off. They were all still recovering from the whirlwind of cases they’d tackled over the past month and a half—all of which had been dominated by an intense kidnapping investigation.

Marc Devereaux was the only FI team member who was on-site. And he wasn’t working. He was in one of the empty meeting rooms, doing a hundred push-ups, feeling the sweat soak through his workout clothes and hoping the intense exercise would help wipe away the mental ghosts that had come back, full force, these past few months.

They’d stayed quiet for a while. But since the kidnapping of that little girl…

He dropped to the floor, forehead pressed to the carpet, breathing heavily. Memories cut deep. Even for a former Navy SEAL. Especially for a former Navy SEAL. Everyone thought they were impervious to emotional scars. They weren’t. What he’d seen during those years might have made him a better FBI agent, and now a valuable member of Forensic Instincts, but they’d taken away something that could never be restored.

And left something dark and destructive in its place.

Marc’s head came up abruptly as he heard the front doorbell ring. It couldn’t be one of the team. They all had keys and knew the alarm code for the Hirsch pad. Instinctively, Marc reached for the pistol he’d placed on the table beside him. Rising, he walked over and eyed the small window on the computer screen displaying a view of the front door from the video surveillance camera.

A woman stood on the doorstep.

Marc pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

A brief silence.

“Is this the office of Forensic Instincts?” the woman’s voice asked.

“Yes.” Marc could have pointed out the ridiculous hour. But he’d worked for the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit for five years. He could read people and tones of voice. And this voice sounded dazed and shaken. Panicky. He wasn’t about to ignore it.

“I… I didn’t think anyone would be in. I just prayed you were.” Her words confirmed Marc’s assessment. “I was afraid if I called you wouldn’t answer. Please… may I come in? It’s urgent. More than urgent. It’s life or death.”

Marc had made his decision long before the end of her dire plea. He put away his pistol. “I’m on my way down.”

He draped a towel around his neck and headed for the stairs. Professional dress decorum wasn’t high on his list right now.

He reached the entranceway, punched in the alarm code and unlocked the door.

The woman standing there with a file folder under her arm was brunette and in her mid-thirties, although the strain on her face made her look older, as did the dark circles under her eyes. She was wearing a winter coat that enveloped her body, so it was hard to make out her build. Not to mention that she was clutching the coat around her as if it were a protective shield.

She stared at Marc, taking in his imposing build, the high cheekbones, dark coloring and aristocratic nose he’d inherited from his extensive French lineage, and the brooding, slightly slanted eyes that reflected his maternal grandparents’ Asian background.

His formidable appearance made the woman nervous, and she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “You’re not Casey Woods,” she said, stating the obvious. She was not only uneasy, she was in a visible state of shock.

“I’m Marc Devereaux, Casey’s associate,” Marc replied in a voice that was intentionally calming. “And you are…?”

“Amanda Gleason.” She summoned up her composure. “I’m sorry to come by so late. But I couldn’t leave the hospital until now. I don’t have much time. Please, can we talk? I want to hire you.”

“Hospital? Are you ill?”

“No. Yes. Please… I need to explain.”

Marc pulled the door open and gestured for her to come in. “Sorry for the casual attire. I wasn’t expecting a client.” As he spoke, a series of deep, warning barks sounded from above. The echo of padded paws announced the arrival of a sleek red bloodhound as he lumbered to the front door. He stood beside Marc and woofed at the stranger.

“It’s okay, Hero,” Marc said. “Quiet down.”

Instantly, the dog obeyed.

“Hero is a human scent evidence dog and part of our team,” Marc explained. “But if you’re afraid of dogs, I can put him upstairs.”

Amanda shook her head. “That’s not necessary. I like dogs.”

“Then we’ll head to a meeting room.” He indicated the second door to the left and escorted her inside.

“Hello, Marc,” an invisible voice greeted him, along with a series of wall lights that blinked in conjunction with the voice tones. “You have a guest. The interview room temperature is sixty-five degrees. Shall I raise it?”

“Yeah, Yoda,” Marc replied. “Raise it to seventy.”

“Temperature will reach seventy degrees in approximately seven minutes.”

“Great. Thanks.” Marc gave a faint smile at the startled look on Amanda’s face. She was peering around, trying to determine the source of the voice.

“That’s Yoda,” he informed her. “He’s the inexplicable creation of Ryan McKay, the techno genius of Forensic Instincts. He’s omniscient… and harmless.” Marc pulled out a chair. “Have a seat. You’ll probably want to keep your coat on until it gets a little warmer in here.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind.” Amanda sank down into the chair, continuing to clutch her coat and her file folder. She looked like a terrified bird being chased by a predator.

“Now, tell me what Forensic Instincts can do for you.”

Amanda drew an unsteady breath. “You can find someone for me. If he’s alive.”

Marc sank back in his chair, intentionally trying to put Amanda at ease, even though his brain was on high alert. “Who is it you want us to find and why aren’t you sure he’s alive?”

“My boyfriend. He was declared a no-body homicide. The police found his car, with blood splattered all over the driver’s seat and windshield, out at Lake Montauk. There were signs that he was dragged to another car. The theory was that he was killed, and his body dumped in the ocean. The Coast Guard searched for days, using every form of sophisticated equipment they had. Nothing turned up. The case was closed.”

“When did this happen?”

“In April.”

“And you’re first coming to us now, eight months later. Why? Do you have some new evidence that suggests he’s alive?”

“New evidence and a new reason to find him immediately.” Amanda rushed on to dispel the obvious. “I know you’re thinking that, if he’s alive, maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Even if that’s true, which I don’t believe it is, he has no choice. Not now.”

Marc leaned across the table and pulled over a legal-size pad. He preferred to take his notes in longhand, then transfer them into the computer. Typing into a laptop was very off-putting to clients who needed a personal connection.

“What’s this man’s name?”

“Paul Everett.”

“And why is finding him so urgent?”

Amanda swallowed, her hands twisting in her lap. “We have a son. He was born three weeks ago. He was just diagnosed with SCID—Severe Combined Immunodeficiency. His body is incapable of fighting infection. He needs a stem cell transplant from a matched donor or he’ll die.”

Marc put down his pen. “I assume you’re not a match?”

She shook her head. “The testing said I’m not even a candidate. I was in a car accident as a child. Thanks to the blood transfusions I received, I have hepatitis C. So I’m out of the picture. And so far, so is the National Marrow Donor Program Registry. They have no match for us. The best, maybe the only hope is Justin’s father.” Two tears slid down Amanda’s cheeks. Fiercely, she wiped them away. “I could give you a full scientific explanation, Mr. Devereaux. It’s consumed my life these past weeks, and I seem to know far more about how a human body can fail than I ever thought possible. But we don’t have time. Thanks to me, Justin already has an infection and is showing symptoms of pneumonia.”

“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.