“Paul Everett is
“That tells me what my gut already knows,” Casey replied. “That either Paul Everett or whoever dragged Paul Everett off wants it this way. Which makes Paul either a criminal or a victim. All the more reason to find him. Most importantly, for Justin. Secondarily, for justice-or rescue. Right now, the ‘whys’ don’t matter. All that matters is that we find what right now looks like Justin’s only chance of survival.”
“Then I think we all have our tasks cut out for us,” Ryan said.
“I want to visit Amanda in the hospital,” Claire stated. “I have the perfect opportunity tonight, since both Casey and Marc are away. After them, I’ve spent the most time with her. I want to check on her and the baby. I want to touch something of the baby’s-maybe a sheet or blanket he came in contact with that’s no longer in the ICU with him. And I want to see if I pick up on anything weird on the way to the hospital.”
“What do you mean by weird?” Ryan asked.
“She means that she’s been sensing we’re being followed,” Casey supplied. “Us and Amanda.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Claire said. “But it’s getting pretty sinister.”
“You’re sure?” For once, Ryan didn’t taunt Claire for her gift.
“Positive.”
“You shouldn’t go alone,” Patrick jumped in. “I’ll go with you. I’m a trained investigator. Maybe I’ll spot something you missed. Besides, I’m in a holding pattern, anyway. I can’t just sit on my hands and wait for the waitress to call me. I need to do something.”
“Good.” Casey liked that idea. Patrick had a sharp eye, Claire had a psychic gift and there was also safety in numbers. “So we’re all in sync for this evening’s activities. We’ll report in if there’s something to say. If not, Marc and I will be home by midnight. We can resume our discussion then.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lyle Fenton’s East Hampton estate was the size of a suburban cul-de-sac.
Marc was doing the driving tonight, giving Casey a break after her monster trip out. He turned in to the paving stone driveway and waited for his entranceway summons to be answered. After the video cameras surveyed their van and the intercom exchange confirmed who they were, the iron gates swung open and the van was allowed to pass through.
Using Ryan’s night-vision-enabled camera, Casey shot a few photos of the grounds and the mansion as the van wound its way up the serpentine driveway, past the guesthouse to the megamanor.
“Impressive,” Marc commented drily. “A bit extreme for my tastes.”
A smile curved Casey’s lips. Marc hated extravagance. And pretentiousness. “Yeah, I’d say so. Too much for me, as well. I’d get lost just going downstairs for a bottle of water.” She glanced down at her camera. “You never know when these shots might come in handy. Not that I think Fenton has any incriminating evidence on his front lawn. I’m sure I’ll get a lot more off Patrick’s iPad video. Still, you never know when we’ll need a frame of reference.”
“Agreed.” Marc was a big believer in visuals, not to mention being superthorough. The more data they collected, the better. “Fenton’s probably going to be rough around the edges. But he’ll also be smart. No one builds the kind of empire he has by stepping in shit. Clean or dirty-and we both know which of those applies to Fenton-he’s got brains. We’re going to have to tread very carefully to get what we want.”
A nod. “I know. I’m glad we ran through our planned script. But we both know we’ll be deviating. Fenton will have his own agenda-not just what he wants to know, but what he has no intentions of saying.”
“Then we’ll wing it. But we’ll get the job done.”
Casey shot him a sideways look. “Nothing threatening, Marc. I don’t want to clue Fenton in to what we’re digging for.”
“I promise not to rough the guy up.” It was Marc’s turn to smile-a tight, restrained smile. “That doesn’t mean I won’t want to. Especially if he’s responsible for keeping Paul Everett away from his critically ill son.”
“That’s what we’re here to find out.” Casey looked out the window as the van pulled up to the front of the house. The front door was already opening. “It’s showtime,” she muttered.
Lyle Fenton looked like a combination of a filthy rich businessman and a retired prizefighter. He was stocky- dense and muscular rather than pudgy. His powerful shoulders strained at the jacket of his two-thousand-dollar suit, and his physical presence totally reminded Casey of a bulldog. His complexion was ruddy, accentuating the tough-guy veneer, and he had thick salt-and-pepper hair. Expensive clothing or not, he lacked the polish and presence he was trying to convey. He’d clearly grown up in the school of hard knocks and had elevated himself to his current position of wealth and authority. If he’d made the transformation honestly, he’d be admirable. But if he was the sleazy guy Casey suspected he was, admiration was the last thing she’d feel.
He showed them into the study himself and shut the door. “Ms. Woods. Mr. Devereaux.” He shook both their hands, studying Marc for one hard moment before looking away. Marc had an intimidating presence when he chose to. And now he clearly chose to. “Amanda’s told me all about your company and your efforts on her behalf. You have my thanks.”
Okay, the guy was putting on a show. Casey sized that up in about a minute. He’d been home for a couple of hours now and hadn’t even loosened his tie, much less changed into some comfortable clothes. He was dressed and ready for them-the business tycoon and the concerned uncle. Too bad his facade was fake, his manners forced. He was the walking epitome of a street rat turned rich, and trying to act as if he’d been born that way. The discomfort was all there, from his uberstiff handshake to his tight lips and jaw, to the fact that he wouldn’t look them in the eye. And that last bit of body language, well, that smacked of a lot more than just superficial deception.
Lyle Fenton was playing a role-and not very well.
“That’s our job, Mr. Fenton,” Casey replied, intentionally clasping his hand in a firm handshake and staring directly at him as she spoke. “We were hired to help Amanda. We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice.”
As Casey had hoped, Fenton’s gaze darted quickly to hers, and there was a glint of surprise reflected there. No shocker. Fenton was used to dealing in a man’s world. To meet a strong, assertive woman was a rarity, if not a first. This would definitely work in Casey’s favor. With a modicum of luck, she could keep Fenton slightly off balance, tipping the scales in hers and Marc’s direction.
“Please have a seat.” Fenton gestured at the tufted leather chairs that sat across from his desk. The desk was formidable-large, mahogany, expensive and situated in front of a wall filled with power photos. Photos of Fenton in his company headquarters. Photos of Fenton at a ribbon-cutting ceremony, in front of a Welcome to Bayonne, New Jersey, banner. In that photo, he was holding a bottle of champagne and christening yet another vessel, all with the backdrop of towering cranes and Fenton’s extensive-and expensive-fleet.
And, in the center of all the other wall photos, a marble-framed photo of a sleek and stunning ship, its elegant bow boasting the name
The whole package-the desk and the wall-made a perfect boundary between Fenton and his guests.
Sure enough, he walked around to the buttery-soft brown leather executive chair behind the desk. “Can I offer you anything?” he asked before he sat. “A glass of wine? A soft drink?”
“Nothing, thanks.” Marc answered for them both in that tone of his. Hard. Tough. He, too, was setting the stage, showing Fenton the entirety of what he was up against. All kinds of strength, both mental and physical. Neither the successful businessman or the tough street fighter would scare them. So he could forget it. “Nice ship.” Marc pointed at the center photo.
