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“Impressive,” Marc commented drily. “A bit extreme for my tastes.”
A smile curved Casey’s lips. Marc hated extravagance. And pretentiousness. “Yeah, I’d say so. Too much for me, as well. I’d get lost just going downstairs for a bottle of water.” She glanced down at her camera. “You never know when these shots might come in handy. Not that I think Fenton has any incriminating evidence on his front lawn. I’m sure I’ll get a lot more off Patrick’s iPad video. Still, you never know when we’ll need a frame of reference.”
“Agreed.” Marc was a big believer in visuals, not to mention being superthorough. The more data they collected, the better. “Fenton’s probably going to be rough around the edges. But he’ll also be smart. No one builds the kind of empire he has by stepping in shit. Clean or dirty—and we both know which of those applies to Fenton—he’s got brains. We’re going to have to tread very carefully to get what we want.”
A nod. “I know. I’m glad we ran through our planned script. But we both know we’ll be deviating. Fenton will have his own agenda—not just what he wants to know, but what he has no intentions of saying.”
“Then we’ll wing it. But we’ll get the job done.”
Casey shot him a sideways look. “Nothing threatening, Marc. I don’t want to clue Fenton in to what we’re digging for.”
“I promise not to rough the guy up.” It was Marc’s turn to smile—a tight, restrained smile. “That doesn’t mean I won’t want to. Especially if he’s responsible for keeping Paul Everett away from his critically ill son.”
“That’s what we’re here to find out.” Casey looked out the window as the van pulled up to the front of the house. The front door was already opening. “It’s showtime,” she muttered.
* * *
Lyle Fenton looked like a combination of a filthy rich businessman and a retired prizefighter. He was stocky—dense and muscular rather than pudgy. His powerful shoulders strained at the jacket of his two-thousand-dollar suit, and his physical presence totally reminded Casey of a bulldog. His complexion was ruddy, accentuating the tough-guy veneer, and he had thick salt-and-pepper hair. Expensive clothing or not, he lacked the polish and presence he was trying to convey. He’d clearly grown up in the school of hard knocks and had elevated himself to his current position of wealth and authority. If he’d made the transformation honestly, he’d be admirable. But if he was the sleazy guy Casey suspected he was, admiration was the last thing she’d feel.
He showed them into the study himself and shut the door. “Ms. Woods. Mr. Devereaux.” He shook both their hands, studying Marc for one hard moment before looking away. Marc had an intimidating presence when he chose to. And now he clearly chose to. “Amanda’s told me all about your company and your efforts on her behalf. You have my thanks.”
Okay, the guy was putting on a show. Casey sized that up in about a minute. He’d been home for a couple of hours now and hadn’t even loosened his tie, much less changed into some comfortable clothes. He was dressed and ready for them—the business tycoon and the concerned uncle. Too bad his facade was fake, his manners forced. He was the walking epitome of a street rat turned rich, and trying to act as if he’d been born that way. The discomfort was all there, from his überstiff handshake to his tight lips and jaw, to the fact that he wouldn’t look them in the eye. And that last bit of body language, well, that smacked of a lot more than just superficial deception.
Lyle Fenton was playing a role—and not very well.
“That’s ou
r job, Mr. Fenton,” Casey replied, intentionally clasping his hand in a firm handshake and staring directly at him as she spoke. “We were hired to help Amanda. We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice.”
As Casey had hoped, Fenton’s gaze darted quickly to hers, and there was a glint of surprise reflected there. No shocker. Fenton was used to dealing in a man’s world. To meet a strong, assertive woman was a rarity, if not a first. This would definitely work in Casey’s favor. With a modicum of luck, she could keep Fenton slightly off balance, tipping the scales in hers and Marc’s direction.
“Please have a seat.” Fenton gestured at the tufted leather chairs that sat across from his desk. The desk was formidable—large, mahogany, expensive and situated in front of a wall filled with power photos. Photos of Fenton in his company headquarters. Photos of Fenton at a ribbon-cutting ceremony, in front of a Welcome to Bayonne, New Jersey, banner. In that photo, he was holding a bottle of champagne and christening yet another vessel, all with the backdrop of towering cranes and Fenton’s extensive—and expensive—fleet.
And, in the center of all the other wall photos, a marble-framed photo of a sleek and stunning ship, its elegant bow boasting the name Big Money.
The whole package—the desk and the wall—made a perfect boundary between Fenton and his guests.
Sure enough, he walked around to the buttery-soft brown leather executive chair behind the desk. “Can I offer you anything?” he asked before he sat. “A glass of wine? A soft drink?”
“Nothing, thanks.” Marc answered for them both in that tone of his. Hard. Tough. He, too, was setting the stage, showing Fenton the entirety of what he was up against. All kinds of strength, both mental and physical. Neither the successful businessman or the tough street fighter would scare them. So he could forget it. “Nice ship.” Marc pointed at the center photo.
A proud smile curved Fenton’s lips. “My first. All these years and still going strong. Are you a seafaring man, Mr. Devereaux?”
“You could say that. I was in the navy.”
“He was a Navy SEAL,” Casey amended.
“Oh, I see.” Once again, Fenton looked taken aback—and out of his league. He’d been comfortable with the conversation for exactly thirty seconds. Marc had made quick work of that.
Casey almost started to laugh.
“We’d really just like to get started.” Marc forged on while Fenton was still at a disadvantage. “As you well know, we’re racing the clock.”
“Yes, I know.” The grim expression that crossed Fenton’s face was genuine. He settled himself in his chair and folded his hands stiffly in front of him. “How can I help? I’ve offered Amanda a blank check—anything she needs to launch a wide-scale search for a donor. She’s fixated on the idea that the baby’s father is her only answer. I even offered to pay your fee. She’s proud. She won’t accept any more of my financial help.”
“Speaking of the baby’s father, that’s the reason we’re here,” Casey replied, pulling out a writing tablet and pen. “Tell us about Paul Everett. What was your take on him? How well did you know him? What was your reaction to his supposed murder?”
“Supposed?” Fenton’s brows rose. “Are you saying you agree with Amanda in thinking that Everett is alive? Or just that you’re following every possible lead to make sure that he’s not?”
