The Line Between Here and Gone Page 5

  “Very,” Casey agreed. “If someone wanted to stay as inconspicuous as possible, this is a good place to do it.”

  Marc nodded, glancing down at Hero, who was sniffing the length of the deck. “It also tilts the scales slightly in favor of Paul Everett being alive. If someone killed him, why do it out in the open, on a road in his car where a passerby could witness it? Why not kill him here, where it’s private, then clean up the mess, toss the body in the trunk of your car and drive it to the ocean to dump it? There’d be no evidence of a murder at all.”

  “Unless the murder wasn’t premeditated,” Casey pointed out. “If Paul met someone for an illegal dealing of some kind, it would explain the seclusion of his car’s location. And if that meeting ended violently, the rest of the police’s suggested scenario plays out.”

  “True.” Marc frowned. “It just doesn’t feel right. I’m not sure why.”

  Casey’s lips curved slightly. “Maybe because it sounds like a low-budget B movie. Besides, I don’t think Paul Everett was an idiot. And only idiots drive out to deserted, sinister places in the middle of the night to meet someone, even for illegal purposes. Paul wasn’t some random drug dealer who hid in alleys to make a drop.”

  “That would be the low-budget B movie part,” Marc said, chuckling. “I agree. From all the info Ryan’s given us, Paul Everett was a smart, white-collar businessman.”

  “Whose murder is starting to feel more staged by the minute.”

  “Casey?” Claire’s voice echoed from inside the empty house.

  “Coming.” Casey glanced at Marc. “Keep looking around. Let Hero keep sniffing out all the smells. If you find anything, make a couple of scent pads. I’ll see what’s up with Claire.”

  Marc nodded.

  Casey went back inside, going straight to where she knew Claire would be—in the master bedroom.

  “What are you picking up on?” she asked.

  Claire had been standing by the window, staring into the room, her brows knit in puzzlement, her expression shaken. She looked uncharacteristically off balance.

  “Contradictions,” she replied. “There are conflicting energies in this room—and throughout this house. Dark and fervent, light and joyous. It’s exhausting to be here. I’d guess Paul Everett felt the same way—like he was being torn in two. The pull is especially strong in this bedroom. He went through some powerful emotional struggles in here.”

  “Probably because he and Amanda spent some powerful emotional hours in here.” Casey eyed Claire’s face. “But that’s not what’s got you so weirded out. What is it?”

  “Paul. His energy,” Claire said. “I’ve never experienced anything like it. His energy keeps clicking in and out, like a light switch being flipped—on, off, on, off. It’s not just weird. It’s creepy. I don’t understand what it means.”

  One of Casey’s brows rose. “You’re not talking about an identical twin scenario, are you?”

  “No.” Claire gave a hard shake of her head. “Nothing like that. This is all Paul—here and then gone. Like some binary energy I can’t wrap my mind around.”

  Casey pursed her lips. “What can I do to help you get a clearer picture?”

  “I’m not sure. As you well know, this isn’t an on-command ability. I either sense it, feel it, or I don’t. And it doesn’t come with an instruction manual.” Claire dragged a frustrated hand through her long blond hair. “The only thing I can suggest is that we bring Amanda in here. She might trigger something stronger, clarify this strange intangible energy. Also, I know that Paul’s personal items are at her apartment, but maybe she has something of his that she carries around, something meaningful to the two of them. This isn’t about just Paul. It’s about him and Amanda as a couple.”

  “I’ll get her.” Casey left the house and walked back to the van. Amanda was sitting in the backseat, just as they’d left her. Only her head was bowed and she was openly weeping.

  Casey’s gut knotted.

  “Amanda?” she said quietly through the slit in the window.

  Amanda’s head came up. Her cheeks were wet with tears and her expression was haunted. “I just spoke to Dr. Braeburn. He’s head of the pediatric bone marrow transplant team at Sloane Kettering. Justin’s fever spiked. Not a lot. But enough. Dr. Braeburn isn’t sure whether it’s because the antibiotic isn’t doing its job or because it’s the parainfluenza that’s getting worse. There’s no antibiotic treatment for parainfluenza like there is for CMV. Most people just fight it off. But with Justin’s lack of an immune system, he can’t…”

  “Do you need to get back?” Casey asked at once.

  Amanda swallowed and shook her head. “No. Dr. Braeburn said that, right now, they’re not making any change in Justin’s antibiotics and there’s no imminent danger. My little guy is still holding his own. He’s a fighter. And Melissa is right by his side. Frankly, the doctor thought it was far more crucial that I continue trying to track down Paul. And, much as my instincts are to rush right back, the truth is I’m not doing Justin any good hovering over him and getting hysterical. I’ve got to help him. I’ve got to find Paul.”

  Seeing the determination on Amanda’s face, hearing the firm tone to her voice, Casey got her first real glimpse of the strong woman beneath the grieving mother. Amanda Gleason was nobody’s doormat. She’d do what she had to. And she was ready to face whatever she had to about Paul.

  “Can you come inside, please?” Casey opened the door. “Claire thinks it might help her.”

  “Of course. That’s what I’m here for.” Wiping the tears off her face, Amanda slid out of the car and preceded Casey to the front door.

  Claire was standing in the middle of the master bedroom when they walked in. She glanced up, clearing her expression of anything negative or alarming, and acknowledging Amanda with a compassionate look. “How are you holding up?” she asked.

  “Not great. But I’m not the concern here. Justin is. Did you sense anything from your tour of the cottage?”

  Claire explained the same thing to Amanda that she had to Casey—omitting the unnerving part and sticking to the conflicting energies she was picking up.

  Amanda gave a sad nod. “That doesn’t surprise me. If Paul was wrestling with something ugly or illegal and keeping it from me, it probably was gnawing away at him—that is, if he actually cared about me at all.”

  “He did.” That Claire said without hesitation. “One of the positive energies I can pick up on is love. There was genuine emotion here, especially in this bedroom. I can sense intimacy, passion and tenderness. But it’s all tangled up with guilt and a dark, underlying purposefulness. I can’t promise you there was no manipulation involved in Paul’s relationship with you. I can only tell you that he was torn—and that he did care for you.” Claire pointed at the area on the long wall. “What was there?”

  “Paul’s bed.”

  A nod. “That explains why the emotions I’m picking up on are the strongest there. There’s a raw vulnerability and a clarity there that make it easier for me to connect. There’s no divisiveness—only pained confusion. Paul was definitely battling feelings for you versus other commitments.”

  “What commitments?” Amanda asked. “What was he involved in?”

  Claire frowned. “I don’t know.” She turned, pointing at the opposite wall. “What used to be there?”

  “Paul’s desk. His small file cabinet. His laptop.”

  “And intensity. Not emotional. Mental. This is where plans were reviewed, strategies were devised…” A pause. “And phone calls were made. Not on his regular cell. On a separate one. One he kept locked in his desk drawer and used only when he was alone. He was a different man during those calls. He wasn’t the person you knew.” A pause. “He was running. To something, and away from something. Again, that same binary energy. No clear images of the to or the
from—or the why. Just flashes of Paul in motion.”

  “Paul did run—in the literal sense,” Amanda supplied. “Five miles every morning, no matter what the weather. Here. At my place. No matter where we stayed. Could that be the running you’re envisioning?”

  “Sometimes.” Claire was concentrating, hard. “I can see him in his sweats. Panting as he makes his way rhythmically along the beach. Stopping to make a phone call—on that private phone again. He enjoyed his run, but he used it for more than exercise. And the running isn’t just literal. It’s more complex than that.” Claire squeezed her eyes shut, and then gave a frustrated shake of her head. “That’s it. I just can’t pick up on any details.”

  Casey was studying the anguished look on Amanda’s face.

  “Let’s walk the rest of the house,” she suggested. “We’ll see if Paul inadvertently left something behind—something you didn’t notice when you had his things removed. If we find anything, I’ll make some scent pads for Hero. By now, he’ll have memorized every smell in the cottage. Then we’ll head out to Montauk.” A quizzical glance at Amanda. “If you’re up for it.”

  “I’ve got to be up for it.” There was no hesitation in Amanda’s voice. “Any pain I feel over Paul pales in comparison to my pain over Justin. I hired you to find Paul. I don’t plan on being an obstacle in your search. Let’s drive out to the crime scene—now. If Justin can fight, so can I.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Patrick Lynch was very good at everything he did—whether it was as a private investigator, a security consultant or as an FBI agent, something he’d done for most of his life.

  He’d worked for the Bureau for more than thirty-two years, starting in the days before the New York Field Office had moved to Federal Plaza and, instead, had occupied just several floors in a building on East Sixty-ninth Street and Third Avenue. He’d handled everything from white-collar crime to violent crime. Things had been so different back then—no computers, only shared telephones among the agents, and fewer, less-easily accessible resources.

  But one thing hadn’t changed: Patrick worked within the letter of the law—always.

  Consequently, he’d never expected to find himself part of a team like Forensic Instincts, whose methods were as different from his own as could be imagined. But events in life, especially the recent kidnapping case that had introduced Patrick to FI, had taught him that sometimes, sometimes, the end really did justify the means.

  That didn’t mean he was ready to abandon his principles—only that he was willing to bend them a bit when it became absolutely necessary.

  The team considered him to be the seasoned and steadying voice of reason at Forensic Instincts, the guy who played by the book and acted as the anchoring fist on the kite strings of the other team members. Patrick considered himself to be the guy who kept his colleagues out of jail.

  But, hell, he respected their talents. And on the flip side, they respected his.

  In this new case, Patrick felt totally comfortable with the first assignment Casey had given him. He knew D.C. like the back of his hand and his task was solid. He might not have Hero’s nose, but he was damned good at tracking down people.

  He landed at Reagan National around noon and took a cab into D.C.’s Capitol District. Ryan had enlarged the mystery man’s photo on the computer, fine-tuning it as sharply as possible so the man’s image was clear, the background less blurry. The pictures of Amanda and Paul were close-ups and needed only minor tweaks to make their images crisp.

  Patrick stood on the corner of Second Street and C Street NE, and glanced around. Just as he recalled. Government buildings, St. Joseph’s Church and throngs of people moving rapidly along. And that was just what was within line of sight. A short walk away there were a couple of coffee shops, a bagel place, a café and a supermarket. Farther on was Stanton Park, and north was Union Square Station.

  He had lots of territory to cover. And nothing but a few photos and his gut instincts to go on.

  * * *

  One thing about the Hamptons. It literally shut down in the wintertime. The same applied to Montauk, which was at the far eastern tip of Long Island. Even the avid fishermen, who braved the cool autumn days to cast their lines, were long gone by December.

  Although cars drove by it year-round, Lake Montauk was deserted when the team arrived. A stiff breeze had kicked up, reminding them all that it was nearly Christmas-time. And the chill in the air was accentuated by the proximity of the water.

  “Here. Stop here,” Amanda told Casey as they rounded a bend on West Lake Drive.

  Casey braked, bringing the van to a halt. “You’re sure?” she asked quietly.

  Amanda scanned the lake before her gaze shifted back to the road. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll never forget this spot.” She swallowed hard, her face sheet-white. “Let’s get this over with.” She turned the door handle and stepped out of the van.

  Casey and Marc exchanged quick glances.

  “It’s the right spot.” Claire answered their unspoken question from the backseat. “There’s a dark aura of violence here. Something ugly happened within yards of where we are.” She opened her own door, brows drawn together as she stepped out. “The feeling is strong. And equally as complex as what I was feeling in Paul Everett’s house. So many conflicting emotions coming at me all at once.” She stayed where she was, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to zero in on something concrete.

  “Do what you need to do. Marc, you and Hero do your thing, as well. I don’t want to leave Amanda alone.” Casey had already turned off the car and was out and moving. “This has got to be the most torturous part of her day. We’ve got to tread carefully in our questions and the depth of our interrogation.”

  “Yes. We do,” Claire agreed.

  Marc nodded, getting out and going around back to leash up Hero.

  Amanda had walked a short distance away, then stopped, wrapping her arms around herself in an instinctive act of self-protection. She bowed her head, staring at the road. But Casey could tell that she wasn’t really seeing it. She was seeing Paul’s car, the driver’s seat covered in blood, and the nightmarish hour that had followed.

  “Hey.” Casey came up behind Amanda, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling right now. I’m sorry you have to go through this.”

  “So am I. But it has to be done.” Amanda’s chin came up as she steeled herself. “It’s an odd combination of emotions. Some of it’s cutting pain. Some of it’s anger and resentment. Obviously, that’s justified if Paul’s still alive. But even if he’s dead—the feelings are the same. If someone drove all the way out here just to kill him, there had to be reasons for it. And Paul clearly agreed to the meeting. So how could he have not played some part in getting himself killed? He had to be involved in something illegal. I loved him, but I guess I never knew him. And Justin…” She drew a slow, shaky breath. “I realize Paul had no idea I was pregnant. Still, I blame him for not being here when Justin needs him. I guess that’s irrational.”

  “No, it’s human.” Casey’s reply was filled with conviction. “Paul’s death was a life crisis. Justin’s illness is a bigger one. Your emotions might be all over the place, but every one of them is justified. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “Thanks.” Amanda glanced behind her as the sound of approaching footsteps announced Claire’s arrival.

  “Do you need more time alone?” Claire asked, scanning the area. She gazed past the tree-lined street, down to the water. The lake was rough, the waves keeping pace with the wind, slapping the sand with the impact that announced winter’s impending arrival.

  Amanda shook her head. “I need resolution.”

  “Then let’s get it.” Casey gestured around. “Describe everything you remember in the order it happened.”

  “I got a call from the
police reporting that they had found Paul’s car and where. They asked me to meet them. I raced out here like a lunatic.” Amanda’s tone was flat, as if she were replaying a scene she’d long since memorized. “I knew the car was Paul’s. I saw the license plate as I drove up. And I saw a few personal things—his sunglasses case, the peppermint candies he kept in his cup holder and the suction-cup heart I’d given him was stuck on his dashboard.”

  “So you identified the car to the police.”

  “Yes.”

  “A Mercedes SL63 AMG convertible,” Casey stated. “That’s quite a car.”

  “Paul was a successful real-estate developer. That much, at least, he told me. Then again, I guess he couldn’t lie when he was driving a hundred-thousand-dollar car.”

  “True.” Casey refrained from making a judgmental comment. “Real-estate development can be very lucrative, if the developer is smart and lucky. So let’s skip that part. Go on.”

  “The door to the driver’s side was wide-open. There was blood all over the seat and on the windshield.”

  “How much blood?”

  “Enough to convince the cops that Paul was dead. It was written all over their faces.”

  “According to the police report, they found tracks leading from the car. Is that why they wrote off the lake as a potential place for the body to have been dumped?”

  A nod. “They did drag the lake. But the bloody tracks were pretty convincing. They headed north, up the west side of the lake toward Gosman’s Dock. The theory was that Paul had been dragged to another car and driven up to Gosman’s Dock, where he was dumped into the water.”

  “That’s quite a supposition. I get the other car part. But what convinced them he was dumped into the water?”

  “The proximity of Gosman’s Dock. The fact that there’s an open inlet between the jetties there that leads from Block Island Sound out to the ocean. The fact that high tide last April occurred in the middle of the night, which would make it possible for the body to be carried away by the tide…to the ocean—” Amanda’s voice quavered “—and the sharks. The fact that the killer chose Lake Montauk for the meeting. And, most of all, the fact that there was no body.”