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“Frustrated.”
“Then I didn’t do as good a job as I thought.”
Casey smiled. “Yes, you did. That’s the only way I’m not frustrated. But this damned case…”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Hutch asked, playing with a strand of Casey’s red hair. He was as respectful as she about not overstepping his bounds with her cases—at least until he sensed she was in danger. Then all bets were off. Casey often muttered that he was a caveman, although they both knew that wasn’t true. Hutch was the furthest thing from sexist. His longtime BAU partner, Grace, was female, and they worked together seamlessly and respectfully. But Grace was a trained law enforcement agent. Casey wasn’t. And Hutch had just seen way too much, first as a D.C. cop, then as a BU agent, to be okay with Casey throwing herself smack in the middle of big-time danger.
Unfortunately, that’s what she always seemed to do.
“You know a lot of it already, thanks to YouTube,” Casey said now, still staring at the ceiling with a troubled expression on her face. “Amanda Gleason’s baby has a life-threatening autoimmune disease. He needs a stem cell transplant. No donor match has been found. His best chance of survival is his father. FI’s job is to find that father—Paul Everett.”
Hutch arched a brow. “Now why don’t I think it’s that simple?”
“Because you just heard me on the phone. And because your instincts are almost as good as mine.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Hutch said drily. “How much can you tell me without violating client confidentiality?”
“I can tell you that Paul Everett is supposedly dead, the victim of a no-body homicide. That’s the official police report. I can tell you the cops found his
abandoned car, complete with a fair amount of his blood on the driver’s seat, just east of the Hamptons on Long Island. And I can tell you that no one on my team believes that he’s dead.”
Hutch didn’t need time to digest that speech. “That last part is the only thing we need to discuss—or not discuss. The rest is all fact, not investigative work.”
Casey nodded, chewing her lip thoughtfully. Then, she angled her head toward Hutch. “I need to speak to my client. But, hypothetically, if I asked you to check someone out and see if they were on the FBI’s radar for some criminal act, or because of some criminal act, could you?”
“You’re not sure if this someone is an offender or a victim—hypothetically.”
“Right.”
“I could check our system, sure. If there’s a federal crime involved, the BU would be as eager to solve it as you are.”
“Then let me get Amanda’s permission. I’m sure she’ll jump at the offer. This isn’t the kind of case she wants to keep under wraps. The sooner we find Paul, the better chance that Justin, her baby, will make it—assuming Paul’s a healthy donor match. But from what I understand, the odds are good.”
“I take it Amanda’s not a match?”
“She’s not eligible to be tested for health reasons,” Casey replied carefully.
“Got it.” Hutch studied Casey’s face, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Go ahead and call your client. You won’t get any sleep until you do. And, for what I have in mind, you need your sleep to recoup your strength.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ryan turned off the headlights as he slowed the van to a crawl, then pulled onto a deserted stretch of the Shinnecock Bay shoreline, just around the bend from the marina.
Marc was peering through his night-vision binoculars. “No one’s around,” he announced.
“What a surprise.” Ryan grinned. “It’s after 1:00 a.m. on a December night. Who wouldn’t be basking on the beach?”
“I wasn’t looking for sunbathers, smart-ass. I was looking for pot-smoking kids and anyone else who might want a dark, deserted spot to do their thing.”
“The idea of kids smoking up or drug dealers doing business here—that I get. But you’d have to be really desperate to choose this spot to hop in the backseat and get laid. On the other hand, hormones do trump atmosphere when you’re a teenager.”
“Yup.” Marc put down the binoculars. “You take Gecko. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot. Although, like I said in the van, I doubt I’ll need you. This is a one-story shack, not an office complex. You won’t have to get access to the roof and feed Gecko down. I’ll just jimmy my way in, unscrew a return and put the little critter in.”
“Uh…”
“I know. No one touches Gecko but you.”
“True. But it’s not just that. I need to find a good location to plant my black box. It will pick up Gecko’s video and audio feeds, encrypt them and route them over the internet using a secure tunnel between the black box and the Forensic Instincts firewall.”
