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“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.”
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sp; 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?”
