Marrow Transplant Unit with Justin.
Casey eased the van away from the curb and back into traffic. “They’re still following us?” she asked Claire as she headed up East Sixty-seventh Street toward Park Avenue, en route to Tribeca and the FI brownstone.
“I don’t know.” Claire spread her hands wide, palms up, in a gesture of sheer uncertainty. “Maybe. Their presence isn’t as strong as it was on the expressway. But they’re out there. I just don’t know where. Or why. Or
One block behind Casey and Claire, a black sedan cruised slowly by Sloane Kettering. The driver paused, watching intently as Amanda disappeared into the hospital. From the passenger seat, his colleague peered through his binoculars, focusing on the FI van until it disappeared from view.
“They’re gone,” he announced.
The driver nodded. Then he punched a number into his cell phone to make his report.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Despite the brisk weather, Marc took a five-mile, predawn run through Westhampton Beach-down Main Street to Dune Road and around the beautiful beaches of Moneyboque Bay. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was overlapping any part of the loop Paul Everett had taken during his own morning runs-the ones that had followed those nights he’d stayed over at Amanda’s place. Had anyone seen him? Talked to him? Or had he made sure to limit himself to private areas where he could ensure himself the solitude he needed for his private phone calls?
There was no way to know. Not unless Marc had the time to locate and interview every Westhampton Beach resident. Which, clearly, he didn’t.
He’d spent the night at Amanda’s vacant Main Street apartment, rather than a motel, out of sheer convenience. At least that was the part of his decision he’d conveyed to Amanda. The truth was, he also wanted to take a private look around their client’s residence. He didn’t plan on violating Amanda’s privacy. He just planned on focusing on the areas of her apartment that he hadn’t had the opportunity to scrutinize in her presence. He wouldn’t open drawers, closets or cabinets-not unless something he saw compelled him to do so.
He didn’t get very far in his endeavors. He’d barely had time to shower, pull on the standard pair of jeans and a T-shirt he brought along as his emergency change of clothes, and guzzle down two bottles of water while sifting through Amanda’s unopened mail in the kitchen, when the doorbell rang. He stayed very still, not moving as he heard the thump at the front door, the retreating footsteps and the roar of a truck as it pulled away from the curb.
A delivery. He didn’t need to look to know that. Nor did he need to guess who the package was from.
With a hint of a grin, Marc crossed over and opened the front door. Bending down, he retrieved the large box from the stoop. He couldn’t wait to see what Ryan had come up with this time.
Taking another belt of water, he carried the box inside and opened it.
A suit, tie and shirt were folded neatly inside. In an envelope was a driver’s license issued to Robert Curtis but bearing Marc’s photo, along with falsified press credentials from Crain’s business magazine in the name of Robert Curtis. Last, there was a note telling Marc to check his email ASAP.
Quickly, Marc laid his business clothes out on the sofa. Then he sat down beside them and opened his laptop, checking his email box as instructed, and seeing the email from Ryan that had arrived seconds ago. The damned genius even knew the exact time when the FedEx truck would show up.
The email was strictly an audio attachment. Marc clicked on it, and Ryan’s voice filled the room.
“Good morning, Mr. Curtis,” he said soberly, in true
Marc couldn’t resist watching and counting backward from ten-although he had no doubt that the inevitable would happen. Sure enough, the instant he muttered “zero,” the email vanished from his screen and his in- box.
Another Ryan-ism. The guy might be full of himself, but he had good reason to be.
Putting down his bottle of water, Marc rose. He had his work cut out for him. He glanced at his watch-7:45 a.m. Enough time to do some comprehensive indoor sleuthing, drive over to Paul’s neck of the woods and chat up a few neighbors and maybe a poker buddy or two, and then head out for Morano’s dock.
It was going to be a productive morning. Marc could feel it in his bones.
John Morano walked into the Living Room, the Maidstone Inn’s rustic but upscale restaurant in East Hampton. He peered around, shifting from one foot to the other as he searched the room.
Lyle Fenton was relaxing at a quiet corner table, sipping a cup of coffee and glancing over the menu with the casual ease of someone who’d memorized the whole damned thing.
Morano waved to catch the hostess’s attention, pointing at Fenton to indicate he’d be joining him. When the hostess nodded her understanding, he went straight over to join Fenton.
“Good morning, Lyle.” Morano pulled out his chair and sat down on the bright, primary-colored upholstery.
“Morano.” Lyle acknowledged him with a gesture at the silver urn in the center of the table. “Coffee?”
“Sure.” John poured himself a cup, then accepted the menu the hostess handed him. “I’m glad you could meet me.”
“Your message sounded as if it were important. So I made some time. But not a lot of it. I’m flying to D.C. for lunch.” Lyle turned to the waitress. “I’ll have the smoked salmon and onion omelet,” he instructed, passing back the menu. “And a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.”
“Yes, sir.” She jotted down his order.
John glanced down quickly, scanning the options. “Two eggs over easy, please, with bacon, crisp.” He nodded his thanks at the waitress as he, too, returned the menu to her.
“What’s on your mind?” Lyle asked.
John folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “I need those permits. I need you to get them for me. I can’t start construction without them. And I need you on board once I get them.”
Anger flashed in Lyle’s eyes. “You called me here for that? We’ve had this conversation, Morano. You know my terms.”
“Yeah. I also know my pressure. I’ve been paying these guys off for months now. I’ve only got so much cash to go around. You know who I’m dealing with. They don’t play games. And they sure as hell don’t take MasterCard. I don’t want to wind up like Paul Everett.”
“I’m afraid that’s in your hands. Being on Southampton’s Board of Trustees, I have my own pressures. It’ll take a lot of calling in favors on my part to get those permits approved, and a lot of feather-smoothing to get the necessary people to accept my company’s involvement in this venture. Turning Southampton into a mini-Manhattan is not a popular idea with the locals. I’ve got to resort to all kinds of incentives. And I never do something for nothing. You know that. You also know what I need from you. This project of yours has the potential to bring in big money. I want a major chunk of that.”
“I promised to give you ten percent of the profits over and above the generous amount I’ll be shelling out to your company. I’ll have documents drawn up to that effect.”
“That’s not enough.”
