CHAPTER TWO
Cold air. Bare trees. Christmas lights twinkling up and down the Tribeca street.
At 9:15 p.m. in this residential section of Manhattan, the four-story brownstone that housed the offices of Forensic Instincts was a secluded haven, isolated from the jungle of the city. Two sweeping willow trees marked either side of the brownstone, and a sense of peace made it seem more like a home than a workplace for Forensic Instincts.
Tonight was even quieter than usual. Casey Woods, the company president, was out holiday shopping with some friends. Most of the specialized team had taken the night off. They were all still recovering from the whirlwind of cases they’d tackled over the past month and a half-all of which had been dominated by an intense kidnapping investigation.
Marc Devereaux was the only FI team member who was on-site. And he wasn’t working. He was in one of the empty meeting rooms, doing a hundred push-ups, feeling the sweat soak through his workout clothes and hoping the intense exercise would help wipe away the mental ghosts that had come back, full force, these past few months.
They’d stayed quiet for a while. But since the kidnapping of that little girl…
He dropped to the floor, forehead pressed to the carpet, breathing heavily. Memories cut deep. Even for a former Navy SEAL. Especially for a former Navy SEAL. Everyone thought they were impervious to emotional scars. They weren’t. What he’d seen during those years might have made him a better FBI agent, and now a valuable member of Forensic Instincts, but they’d taken away something that could never be restored.
And left something dark and destructive in its place.
Marc’s head came up abruptly as he heard the front doorbell ring. It couldn’t be one of the team. They all had keys and knew the alarm code for the Hirsch pad. Instinctively, Marc reached for the pistol he’d placed on the table beside him. Rising, he walked over and eyed the small window on the computer screen displaying a view of the front door from the video surveillance camera.
A woman stood on the doorstep.
Marc pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”
A brief silence.
“Is this the office of Forensic Instincts?” the woman’s voice asked.
“Yes.” Marc could have pointed out the ridiculous hour. But he’d worked for the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit for five years. He could read people and tones of voice. And this voice sounded dazed and shaken. Panicky. He wasn’t about to ignore it.
“I…I didn’t think anyone would be in. I just prayed you were.” Her words confirmed Marc’s assessment. “I was afraid if I called you wouldn’t answer. Please…may I come in? It’s urgent. More than urgent. It’s life or death.”
Marc had made his decision long before the end of her dire plea. He put away his pistol. “I’m on my way down.”
He draped a towel around his neck and headed for the stairs. Professional dress decorum wasn’t high on his list right now.
He reached the entranceway, punched in the alarm code and unlocked the door.
The woman standing there with a file folder under her arm was brunette and in her mid-thirties, although the strain on her face made her look older, as did the dark circles under her eyes. She was wearing a winter coat that enveloped her body, so it was hard to make out her build. Not to mention that she was clutching the coat around her as if it were a protective shield.
She stared at Marc, taking in his imposing build, the high cheekbones, dark coloring and aristocratic nose he’d inherited from his extensive French lineage, and the brooding, slightly slanted eyes that reflected his maternal grandparents’ Asian background.
His formidable appearance made the woman nervous, and she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “You’re not Casey Woods,” she said, stating the obvious. She was not only uneasy, she was in a visible state of shock.
“I’m Marc Devereaux, Casey’s associate,” Marc replied in a voice that was intentionally calming. “And you are…?”
“Amanda Gleason.” She summoned up her composure. “I’m sorry to come by so late. But I couldn’t leave the hospital until now. I don’t have much time. Please, can we talk? I want to hire you.”
“Hospital? Are you ill?”
“No. Yes. Please…I need to explain.”
Marc pulled the door open and gestured for her to come in. “Sorry for the casual attire. I wasn’t expecting a client.” As he spoke, a series of deep, warning barks sounded from above. The echo of padded paws announced the arrival of a sleek red bloodhound as he lumbered to the front door. He stood beside Marc and woofed at the stranger.
“It’s okay, Hero,” Marc said. “Quiet down.”
Instantly, the dog obeyed.
“Hero is a human scent evidence dog and part of our team,” Marc explained. “But if you’re afraid of dogs, I can put him upstairs.”
Amanda shook her head. “That’s not necessary. I like dogs.”
“Then we’ll head to a meeting room.” He indicated the second door to the left and escorted her inside.
“Hello, Marc,” an invisible voice greeted him, along with a series of wall lights that blinked in conjunction with the voice tones. “You have a guest. The interview room temperature is sixty-five degrees. Shall I raise it?”
“Yeah, Yoda,” Marc replied. “Raise it to seventy.”
“Temperature will reach seventy degrees in approximately seven minutes.”
“Great. Thanks.” Marc gave a faint smile at the startled look on Amanda’s face. She was peering around, trying to determine the source of the voice.
“That’s Yoda,” he informed her. “He’s the inexplicable creation of Ryan McKay, the techno genius of Forensic Instincts. He’s omniscient…and harmless.” Marc pulled out a chair. “Have a seat. You’ll probably want to keep your coat on until it gets a little warmer in here.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind.” Amanda sank down into the chair, continuing to clutch her coat and her file folder. She looked like a terrified bird being chased by a predator.
“Now, tell me what Forensic Instincts can do for you.”
Amanda drew an unsteady breath. “You can find someone for me. If he’s alive.”
Marc sank back in his chair, intentionally trying to put Amanda at ease, even though his brain was on high alert. “Who is it you want us to find and why aren’t you sure he’s alive?”
“My boyfriend. He was declared a no-body homicide. The police found his car, with blood splattered all over the driver’s seat and windshield, out at Lake Montauk. There were signs that he was dragged to another car. The theory was that he was killed, and his body dumped in the ocean. The Coast Guard searched for days, using every form of sophisticated equipment they had. Nothing turned up. The case was closed.”
“When did this happen?”
“In April.”
“And you’re first coming to us now, eight months later. Why? Do you have some new evidence that suggests he’s alive?”
“New evidence and a new reason to find him immediately.” Amanda rushed on to dispel the obvious. “I know you’re thinking that, if he’s alive, maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Even if that’s true, which I don’t believe it is, he has no choice. Not now.”
Marc leaned across the table and pulled over a legal-size pad. He preferred to take his notes in longhand, then transfer them into the computer. Typing into a laptop was very off-putting to clients who needed a personal connection.
“What’s this man’s name?”
“Paul Everett.”
“And why is finding him so urgent?”
Amanda swallowed, her hands twisting in her lap. “We have a son. He was born three weeks ago. He was just
