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“So do agreed-upon rules.” Retired FBI Special Agent Patrick Lynch—also a new team member—spoke up. “If we don’t have some kind of protocol here, we’ll be tripping over each other, each taking on different, and maybe conflicting, cases.” He arched a brow at Casey. “Actually, I think this is the first time we’ve ever agreed about rule breaking.”
“We’re coming from different places, Patrick,” Casey replied. “So don’t get too excited.”
“Come on, Casey, take it down a couple of notches. Cut Marc some slack.” Ryan McKay, Forensic Instincts’ strategic whiz and techno-genius, made a disgusted sound. “He called us the minute Amanda Gleason walked out the door. I’m the one who should be complaining. I was in stage four sleep when Marc’s phone call came. You know how I feel about my sleep.”
Everyone knew how Ryan felt about his sleep. And no one wanted to be around him when he didn’t get it.
On the other hand, with those drop-dead Black Irish looks, Ryan looked better with red eyes and bed head than most men did at a formal affair.
“I guess we were lucky you were alone,” Claire commented drily. “Or you might have blown us off.”
Ryan shot her a look. “Never happen.” He angled his head toward Casey. “Well? What’s the verdict?”
Casey stared at Marc’s notes for another second, then raised her head and glanced at the team members, one by one. “I say we take it,” she stated.
“Take it,” Ryan echoed.
“Absolutely,” Claire chimed in.
Patrick’s nod was firm. “We could save a child’s life.
Take it.”
“I’m still ticked off at you,” Casey informed Marc. “But let’s get on this case—now. Bring us up to speed.”
* * *
John Morano’s office was a dump, a ramshackle wooden building that smelled of damp wood, fish and salt water.
The location, however, was prime. His wharf and marina’s dock service business for local fishermen was located right on the Shinnecock Bay in Long Island’s affluent town of Southampton. He made good money because he was smart. But he was also a well-heeled real-estate developer with not only a big reputation, but equally big plans for the future. He was sitting on a gold mine and he knew it. He’d gotten in early. Now, as he’d expected, real-estate prices were skyrocketing, thanks to the construction of the nearby Shinnecock Indian Casino. It was the perfect time to act.
Morano could visualize the transformation that was about to occur. His dilapidated office would soon disappear; in its place a multimillion-dollar luxury hotel that would attract vacationers everywhere. The cash flow from his dock services would still be incoming. But there’d be a lot more than fishing boats making their way to his pier. Chartered yachts would soon conveniently travel between Manhattan and here, bringing affluent tourists to gamble in the casino and be pampered in his five-star hotel.
The pieces were falling into place. He just had to play his cards right.
The rickety office door swung open and a gruff workman walked in, carrying an empty toolbox.
It looked for all the world as if he was here to do carpentry or make repairs—and the place could sure use it.
But a short time later, the man left, his empty toolbox now filled with twenty thousand dollars in cash.
Just outside the office, he pulled out his burner phone and punched in the requisite number. “Today’s repairs are done,” he reported.
“Good,” was the reply.
The workman headed to the gravel area where he’d parked. He walked past his truck and across the dock, stopping to hurl his phone into the bay. Then he reversed his steps, got into his vehicle and drove away.
* * *
Amanda hurried back to Sloane Kettering and the Pediatric Bone Marrow Transplant unit. She knew Melissa would never leave Justin’s side during her absence. And she’d checked her cell phone twelve times since she’d called in an hour ago. But, despite Melissa’s reassurances, her heart was still racing, her prayers still echoing inside her head as she rushed to see Justin, to make sure he was still alive and fighting.
She was startled to see the stocky man with the ruddy complexion and salt-and-pepper hair standing outside the BMT Unit, hands clasped behind his back as he stared inside.
“Uncle Lyle?” Amanda broke into a run. “What are you doing here at this hour? Has something happened?”
“No, nothing like that.” Lyle Fenton patted his niece’s shoulder. He wasn’t an affectionate man. Never had been. He’d grown up poor, made himself rich, but had never included a family as part of the picture. But when his sister and her husband had been killed in a car accident, he’d felt some sense of responsibility for their only child. Amanda had been in photojournalism school at the time, and Lyle had already made a decent amount of money. So paying for her education and kick-starting her career had been his way of reaching out. It was easy enough, given she loved the Hamptons and had moved within ten miles of his estate.
Still, they rarely saw each other. Until now.
