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Not two minutes later, Dr. Braeburn strode into the reverse isolation unit and straight over to Justin’s crib.
He examined him quickly, took his vitals and listened carefully to his chest. “It looks like we’re dealing with a new infection in addition to the others,” he told Amanda, gesturing for the nurse to come in.
“What kind of infection?” Amanda asked in a high, thin voice.
“That’s what we’re going to find out. It could be anything from bacterial sepsis or pneumonia to a fungal infection.” He turned to the nurse, issuing instructions. “I’ll need blood cultures drawn, as well as chest X-rays…” A pause. “Make that a chest CT. We’ll start broad spectrum antibiotics. If I don’t like what I see on the CT, I’ll want a bronchoscopy.” Seeing the terrified look in Amanda’s eyes, he explained. “A bronchoscopy sounds far worse than it is. It’s only a test to check Justin’s lungs. We’ll insert a flexible tube through his nose into his lungs and take some tissue and fluid samples. He won’t feel a thing. He’ll be asleep. We’ll do the procedure in the ICU. Once we know what we’re dealing with, we’ll know how to treat it.”
“You’re already adding more antibiotics. How else would you treat it? What is it you’re looking for?”
“I suspect that Justin has bacterial pneumonia on top of the parainfluenza pneumonia,” Dr. Braeburn replied as gently as he could. “In which case I’m going to put him on a pediatric ventilator to ease his breathing.”
“A ventilator?” All the color drained from Amanda’s face.
“Yes. But it’s likely to be temporary,” Dr. Braeburn hastened to add. “Once we get the infection under control, we might be able to remove the ventilator support.”
“Might.”
“Let’s take this one step at a time, Amanda. First, let’s run the tests, find out what we’re dealing with. Then we can proceed.”
“Another hurdle.” Amanda was trembling. “He’s so tiny, Doctor. How many more complications and procedures can he take before…” She broke off, clenching her teeth to fight back the tears.
Dr. Braeburn cleared his throat. “No other donors have turned up yet. Have you had any luck locating Justin’s father?”
“No.” Amanda met his gaze. “But, as you know, I’ve hired an excellent investigative team. They’re working round the clock.”
“Good. Round the clock is what we need.”
He didn’t have to elaborate. Amanda saw it in his eyes. And she knew exactly what he was telling her.
* * *
Marc arrived at the marina at ten-fifty. He climbed out of his rental car and stretched, simultaneously taking in the dock, the boat masts and the run-down shack that was John Morano’s office—for now.
But what a location.
Shinnecock Bay was beautiful, even in December. There wasn’t much activity going on, other than some fishing boats. But there was something incredibly invigorating about the cold air mixed with the smell of salt water. Extreme sports addict that he was, Marc had the sudden urge to go windsurfing.
Not going to happen now, he reminded himself, turning away from the temptation and restoring the ironclad discipline that had been ingrained in him since his days as a Navy SEAL. Today was about getting information from John Morano. It had to be done with finesse, not threats or violence. He was supposed to be a news writer. That meant words, not muscle. But, dammit, it would be a challenge to keep himself in check if he suspected Morano knew more about Everett than he was willing to say. An infant’s life was on the line. An innocent baby. The clock was ticking. And accepting failure wasn’t
in Marc’s DNA—especially where it came to kids.
His early-morning interviews hadn’t yielded much. Paul’s neighbors described him as friendly but private, not the type to attend block parties. And his poker buddies—at least those Marc could track down on such short notice—knew only that he was a real-estate developer with great ideas and a great sense of humor, and that he’d become a less familiar face around the poker table once he got involved with Amanda. They’d ribbed him about it mercilessly, but they were pretty easygoing guys. Besides, Paul was a relative newcomer to the game, so he wasn’t a regular, meaning that his absence didn’t break up the game. And Amanda, who dropped by once or twice during a game, was a sweetheart. So the guys went with the flow. They were pretty shaken up by Paul’s murder, but not one of them could think of a reason why he’d been killed.
All that added up to was a whole lotta nothing.
This meeting had to be different.
Marc straightened his tie, picked up his writing tablet and stuck his hand in his pocket to ensure that his ID was there. Check, check and check.
He pulled out the ID, clipped it to his lapel, then walked across the wooden deck and knocked.
“Come in,” a male voice called.
Marc swung open the rickety office door and stepped inside. He was immediately struck by the smell of damp wood and fish—both of which he’d expected. And John Morano looked pretty much like he’d expected, too. Maybe a little taller and broader-shouldered than he’d imagined. But a well-put-together guy who, beneath the surface, Marc could sense was a little rough around the edges, the kind of businessman who could handle himself in down-and-dirty dealings. Again, no surprise, since, according to Ryan, Morano had made his way from the bottom up. He wore an open-collared business shirt and a Hugo Boss jacket—okay, so he was definitely not hurting financially, but not rolling in money. either. Not yet.
Morano rose from behind the desk, buttoning his sport jacket and giving Marc a cordial smile. “Mr. Curtis?” A swift confirming glance at Marc’s credentials.
“Mr. Morano.” Marc extended his hand. “I really appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.”
