The second man nodded. “I’ll figure something out and make it happen.”
“Make it happen today.”
The Starbucks near Republic Airport was crowded just like every other Starbucks Casey had ever been in. She sometimes wondered if the regulars actually lived there with their laptops, having their first cup of Pike Place at 6:00 a.m. and their final decaf latte at closing time, all the while clinging to the brownies and the Wi-Fi until they were forcibly removed from the store. It was even worse now, since it was lunchtime, which meant that there was a line for paninis that spilled out into the street.
Casey scanned the packed cafe, wondering how she was ever going to find the man they were here to see.
She needn’t have worried. He found them.
Even in the lunchtime crush, Detective Jones had spotted the FI team and was now gesturing them over to the table he’d obviously claimed a long time ago. His venti coffee cup was sitting on the table, half-empty, along with a partially eaten blueberry scone and an official-looking manila folder. Customers were glaring at him and the three extra chairs at his table as they passed by, but he ignored them. And the few patrons who went up to the counter to complain were spoken quietly to, after which they shut their mouths and went away.
Okay, so the staff knew who and what Jones was. And no one wanted to mess with the State Police.
Jones was a middle-aged guy with a lean build and a balding head. He was wearing a white shirt and a staid red tie with dark blue stripes. The BCI were plainclothes detectives, and Jones epitomized the word
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he began after the introductions had been made and everyone was sitting down. He cast a dubious eye at the long line of patrons. “Did you want some coffee?”
Casey followed his gaze to the line of people snaking from the door to the counter, and she gave a wry grin. “Not unless we want to postpone this meeting for a week. Let’s get down to business. Why did you want to see us?”
Jones interlaced his fingers in front of him. “You’re conducting an investigation into Paul Everett. More specifically,
“I assume this conversation was prompted by the YouTube video?”
“Yes. It’s pretty hard to miss.”
“We didn’t make it or give our consent to have it made,” Casey clarified. “It was all done by our client on her own initiative. We didn’t even know the video existed until after the fact.”
“Why was your contact information withdrawn and replaced by a toll-free number?”
“For privacy and proper handling of phone calls.” It was Marc who answered. “Trust me, Detective, if there were any content issues, we would have demanded the video be pulled-or dropped our client. We’ve done neither. Now that the cat’s out of the bag, we’re just hoping the video brings in more donors to check for possible matches-a long shot, but one that we agreed could at least make Amanda feel like she’s doing something.”
“So my question remains,” Jones said. “Do you believe that Paul Everett is alive?”
“Yes,” Casey stated flatly.
“What proof do you have?”
“We have a photo of a man that our facial recognition software tells us is Everett-a photo that was taken within the past few weeks. We have at least one person who believes she’s seen Everett regularly and recently. And we have strong professional gut instincts that convince us he’s alive.”
“Gut instincts?” Jones’s brows went up. “That hardly constitutes evidence. What are you basing these instincts on?”
“Experience-and me.” Claire spoke up for the first time. “I don’t know how much research you’ve done into the FI team, Detective Jones. But I suspect it was thorough. In which case, you know that I’m an intuitive. And there’s not a doubt in my mind that Paul Everett is alive.”
There was that typical look of skepticism that Claire had learned to expect-and to ignore.
“We’re a private investigative firm, Detective Jones,” Casey reminded him. “You require hard evidence. We don’t. We’re not going to court. We’re trying to find a dying infant’s father.” She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table and folding her hands under her chin in an aggressive stance. “But let me turn the tables. What solid evidence do you have that Paul Everett is dead?”
Jones’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you called and made some police inquiries already. So you have your answers.”
“I do. And everything I heard was speculative, suggesting, but not proving, a no-body homicide. Without a corpse, all you can do is draw a logical conclusion. But not a concrete one.”
That one made Jones visibly uncomfortable. “Is your theory that the man’s been walking around with amnesia for the past eight months? Or that he’s in hiding?”
“Amnesia isn’t really on the table,” Marc replied with the same note of sarcasm in his tone as Jones had. “Other than that, anything is possible. I’m sure you checked out Everett’s background, his business dealings, his potential enemies and his friends and colleagues. There could be dozens of reasons for his disappearance. But, frankly, that’s your problem. Ours is just finding him.”
Jones’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Withholding evidence is a crime, Mr. Devereaux.”
“And discussing our case is unethical, Detective Jones. Casey just told you the only solid evidence we have. If we had more, we’d be sharing it with you. I was an FBI agent. I know the law.”
Casey had to bite back a smile on that one. Marc knew the law, all right. He also knew how to break it.
“We’re the least of your concerns, Detective,” Casey said aloud. “We have no plans of hiding any evidence from you that we stumble upon. But we will keep hunting down Paul Everett. And I believe we’ll find him. In the meantime, you have more pressing problems to contend with. A few hours ago, Congressman Mercer met with the media and made a personal appeal to find blood donors for our client’s infant son-an appeal that will make the evening news cycle. Once that happens, and once people start putting together the YouTube video and the congressman’s plea, your phone will be ringing off the hook. So I hope you have all your ducks in a row-and a good media person. You’re going to need it.”
Jones’s lips tightened. “Thank you for the advice, Ms. Woods.”
“Anytime.” Casey rose, placing her business card on the table. “Call us if you have any further questions. And we’ll do the same with you.”
Jones watched Casey, Marc and Claire leave. He waited until they’d walked their bloodhound, then climbed into their van and driven away.
He entered a number on his cell phone and pressed Send.
“It’s Jones,” he said when the call was answered. “Consider this a heads-up. This Forensic Instincts team has skills and smarts. They’re not giving up. And they’re putting the pieces together. I’m doing my part. I’ll beef up my file and run as much interference as you want me to. But I’m telling you now, you don’t have much time.” He paused. “And neither do I.”
“We’re making a lot of people nervous,” Casey stated as she accelerated onto the highway and headed for home. “Fenton. Mercer. The cops.”
“Do you think Jones’s division is just worrying about covering their asses, or do you think there’s more here?” Marc asked. “Jones could be dirty.”
“Everybody’s beginning to feel dirty,” Claire said in exasperation. “I haven’t had a positive feeling all day-except when the Mercers gave blood.”
“You think Cliff Mercer is a match?”
