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“Yoda called me,” he explained briefly. “The phones are blowing off the hook. Wanna see why?” He gestured for Casey to come over.
She complied, staring at his computer screen as he got on the YouTube site and called up what he was looking for.
The video was very clear. It was Amanda, standing in the corridor of Sloane Kettering’s Pediatric ICU. She was just outside the window where Justin’s crib was situated, and the curtains were pulled open. The viewer could see inside and clearly make out the infant, along with his medical apparatus, through the glass. In a voice that was shaky and filled with tears, Amanda explained Justin’s condition and why it was imperative that they find a donor match immediately. She held up a photo of Paul, announcing that he was the baby’s father and the prime option, but that he’d been away and had no knowledge of Justin’s health crisis. She begged everyone to call immediately if they knew anything about Paul Everett or his whereabouts. She concluded by saying it was literally a matter of life or death, pleading with the world to save her child.
Throughout the three-minute video, Forensic Instincts’ name and phone number were posted prominently at the bottom of the screen, to be contacted on any and all potential leads.
“Dammit.” Casey dragged a hand through her tousled hair. “I can’t believe she did this.”
“Me, either. Now what are we going to do?”
Casey was already going through the contact list on her BlackBerry. “I’m going to call the first person on my NYU phone chain.”
Comprehension flashed in Ryan’s eyes. The whole team knew that Casey taught a biweekly human behavior seminar to a class of psychology students at NYU. “Phone chains are for class cancelations,” he reminded h
er.
“True.” Casey found the number she was looking for and pressed dial home. “But the kids have out-of-class hours they need to put in before Christmas—a fact I’m sure they’ve procrastinated away. Here’s their chance to fulfill those hours and get a great experience in human behavior.” A grin. “Even if they did finish partying and/or cramming for exams at dawn.” A brief pause. “Hi, Marcy. It’s Casey Woods. I need a favor.”
A minute later, she hung up. “Marcy’s calling the next person on the list. There are ten people in that class. We’ll get at least three-quarters of them, trust me. Our server won’t explode. I, on the other hand, might.” Casey’s features tightened. “I understand that Amanda is desperate. But she should have come to us first. Not just because it’s our phone number she’s listing. But because any hope we had of keeping this under the radar is now shot to hell.”
Ryan scowled. “Even if we got her to pull the video, it’s had thousands of hits already. The damage is done.”
“It sure is.” Casey sighed. “Well, now we know what vibes Claire was picking up on last night.”
A grudging nod. “Yeah, even I’ve got to admit that Claire-voyant knew what she was talking about. And if you repeat that, I’ll deny having said it.”
“Your rivalry with Claire is low on my priority list right now.” Casey’s mind was racing again. “I’m not the right one to handle Amanda. Not now. I’m too pissed. And I want to get my interns settled at the phones before I take off for Southampton. I need to quickly throw together an interview script. Train them to use it. Something simple, easy to follow, but designed to flag any useful leads.” She pressed Marc’s number on speed dial. “I’ll get Marc to go over to Sloane Kettering. He’s the best man for the job. He’ll stay cool. And he has a soothing effect on Amanda.”
“He has a soothing effect on everyone—except those he beats the shit out of,” Ryan muttered.
“True.” Casey turned her attention to the phone, which Marc picked up on the second ring, sounding alert and ready to hit the road. Bless the man. Once a Navy SEAL, always a Navy SEAL. He’d probably done a hundred push-ups before dawn. The man never slept. “Hey,” she began. “We’ve got a situation.”
* * *
Just after the morning rush hour, Investigative Detective Rick Jones of the New York State Police Department’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation was settling himself behind his desk when the phone rang.
“Jones,” he answered, simultaneously juggling the receiver and his foam cup of coffee so it didn’t spill over the mounds of paper on his desk.
“The girlfriend released a video on YouTube,” the voice at the other end of the phone informed him. “It spells out everything, including a photo of Everett and a plea for any news on him. The video was released at 6:30 a.m. It’s already had over a hundred thousand hits. There’s no getting away from it. Everett’s homicide is going to be in the headlines and the goddamn media will be up your ass.”
“What do you want me to do?” Jones asked.
“Pull the whole case file and work it.”
“What whole case file? It’s a couple of sheets of paper.”
“Beef up the file. Make the investigation you conducted look thorough. Backdate it. Get rid of anything that points to your passing off the case to the Coast Guard. The media’s going to be all over this. And that sucks for all of us. Is all that clear?”
“As glass.”
“Good. Now go do it—fast.”
* * *
Marc sat in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit waiting area, downing a cup of coffee and waiting for Amanda to come out.
When she did arrive, it was stiffly, with slow, weary steps. She pulled off her hospital mask, and she had the same weary expression on her face. “Hi,” she greeted Marc.
