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“Ms. Gleason,” she greeted her. “I’m glad you got out for a little while.”
“Thank you.” Amanda gestured at the medical apparatus, then at her baby, who had started waving a tiny fist and whining. “How is Justin? Is there any change?”
“No. The little guy is a fighter, though. And he obviously knows his mommy’s voice. He was quiet until you walked in. Would you like to hold him for a while?”
It was a routine question—one that, in this case, the nurse already knew the answer to. Amanda held her baby every chance she could. It was one of the few things she could offer him at this point—the warmth of her body, the soft lullabies that soothed him, plus her constant prayers and love. Holding him was a bittersweet experience. The joy of cradling him close, having his tiny fingers curl around hers—the feeling was indescribable. But the guilt of knowing why she couldn’t nurse him, why he couldn’t even be bottle-fed, but instead had to get his nourishment from an IV catheter, why his breathing was raspy, and why he had an infection—an infection she’d given to him—ate at her like the vilest of poisons.
Now she gathered him close, being careful to avoid his IV, and rocked him as she began singing him the lullabies he seemed to love. He stopped fussing, his tiny body relaxing as he experienced the security of his mother’s embrace and the melodic sounds of her voice. At that moment, all was right with his world—and Amanda’s.
If Paul really were alive, he couldn’t help but fall in love with this little miracle.
Tears welled up in Amanda’s eyes, slid down her cheeks beneath the mask. Between the pain, the worry and the hormones, she cried at the drop of a hat. She’d even wept in front of Marc Devereaux, although he’d seemed to understand. He’d taken her case. He’d been confident. He’d reassured her. And she believed in him.
But would they find Paul? Was Paul alive to be found? Or was that just wishful thinking on her part?
She’d mourned him for so long. More so after she found out she was carrying his baby. They’d never talked about having children, nor about settling down together. It was too soon. They’d only been together for five months. But they were five intense months, filled with a love and a passion Amanda had never before experienced. Justin was the culmination of that. And Paul would never be able to share in the miracle that was his son.
Finding out that Paul might truly be alive had been a devastating blow to her gut. Disbelief, hope, confusion, betrayal, and most of all, anger had rushed through her, one sharp emotion at a time. But, with Justin’s diagnosis, all that emotion channeled into desperation to find Paul. The fact that he might have been lying to her since day one and that he’d done a dump-and-run was insignificant. All that mattered was Justin. She had to save her baby. Even if it meant pleading at the feet of a man who’d made a fool of her.
Justin gave a little cough, then screwed up his face and kicked his legs. Amanda didn’t like the sound of that cough. And she didn’t like the way his nose was running. He looked paler than before. And he seemed fussier. Was that normal baby behavior or was it the pneumonia getting worse? She’d have to find Dr. Braeburn and ask him.
She stopped singing and kissed the top of Justin’s silky head. Please, God, she prayed. Please let Forensic Instincts find Paul. And please let him be a healthy match for Justin. Please.
But Amanda was a realist. And she knew that prayers alone wouldn’t be enough.
* * *
Ryan McKay’s lair, as the team called it, took up the entire basement of Forensic Instincts. Usually, he was down there by his lonesome, with only his servers, his gadgets and his workout equipment to keep him company. But, at the moment, things were different. Even though it was after two in the morning, Marc was pacing around Ryan’s space like a hungry lion.
Finally, Ryan swiveled around in his computer chair and faced Marc, hands folded behind his head.
“Nothing jumps out at me,” he pronounced. “Our client is just who she says she is. A thirty-four-year-old photojournalist who lives in an apartment over a café in Westhampton Beach. Her only family is an uncle, Lyle Fenton, who’s a rich business tycoon serving on the Southampton Board of Trustees. He put her through school after her parents died and used his influence to get her some high-profile jobs. Doesn’t look like he’s subsidizing her, though. She’s on her own financially.”
Marc nodded. No surprises there. Not about the information itself nor the scope of it. He didn’t ask how Ryan had accessed Amanda’s finances. Ryan could access anything.
“I also checked out Amanda’s photojournalist friend,” Ryan continued. “She’s as legit as Amanda.”
“Yeah, she’s also cooperative,” Marc added. “She didn’t hang up on me when I woke her up in the middle of the night. She confirmed that she’d taken the photo, and when and where it was taken.”
“Okay, so that takes care of those preliminaries.”
“What about Paul Everett?” Marc demanded.
“Again, he seems clean enough on the surface. A real-estate developer, like Amanda said. Had some decent-size prospects, most of which are underwater, thanks to the economy. I can check around in the morning, see what I can find out from the people he worked with—assuming I can find them. Apparently, he owned a wharf and marina out in the Hamptons where local fisherman docked their boats. Looks like he had plans to grow it into something bigger. He was trying to get all kinds of building permits. Once again, I can’t dig deeper until business hours start. No one’s in the township office at 2:00 a.m. So we’ve got a seven-hour wait. What I can do until then is use my facial recognition software to compare the older photos of Paul Everett with the new one. It’ll take time to enhance the cell phone shot. But I’ll do it. And we’ll have stronger confirmation that the two guys in the pictures are one and the same.”
“At least we’ll be using the time instead of wasting it,” Marc concurred. “What about D.C.? Did Everett have any ties there?” Marc asked. “Any reason he’d be in Washington?”
“None that I can see. That doesn’t mean he didn’t start a new life after he took off—if he took off. Remember, we still have to consider the possibility that Paul Everett is dead and decomposing at the bottom of the ocean, or that he was dinner for a bunch of hungry sharks.”
“Uplifting thoughts.” Marc blew out his breath. “So no signs of dirty dealings? No business contacts who would want him out of the way, or who he’d run from?”
“Not yet. This was a cursory search, Marc. It was meant to give us some starting points. I only scratched the surface. I’ll go deeper.
I’ll dig up Everett’s friends, business associates, partners, history—anything sketchy from his past. Whether he ran or was killed, he was into something over his head. It’s up to me to give the team something to run with. I’ll figure out if Everett was a victim or a slimeball. He can’t hide from me.” A smug grin. “No one can.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Casey faced Amanda across a table in Sloane Kettering’s institutional cafeteria.
