The Line Between Here and Gone. Andrea Kane

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СКАЧАТЬ shifted in her seat, turning to peer past Amanda and—ostensibly—into the hatch area of the van. “Hero’s exhausted,” she noted. “He’s out for the count.”

      She turned back, feeling Casey’s stare, knowing she was well aware that Claire hadn’t just been checking on Hero. She was checking to see if they were being followed.

      Casey herself had kept a watchful eye the whole time they’d been driving on the Long Island Expressway. She’d seen nothing and no one suspicious. Obviously, neither had Claire, or she’d be conveying that to Casey right now.

      But that didn’t mean Claire was happy. True, she hadn’t spotted any car that stood out as being on their tail. But that didn’t ease the knot in her gut. The LIE was jammed with traffic, as always. And someone was out there. Whether they were near or far, she couldn’t say. Nor could she determine if they were following the FI team or Amanda, and what their intentions were. But, whatever they were, they weren’t good.

      The van reached Manhattan, and Casey dropped Amanda off right in front of Sloane Kettering.

      “I hope all is well,” she said as Amanda got out of the car. “Keep us posted.”

      “I will. We’ll talk later.” Amanda shut the door as she spoke. Her mind was already in the Pediatric Bone 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 who. I’m not getting any flashes. Only vibes. Which makes this all the creepier.”

      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 Money-boque 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 Mission Impossible style. “Your assignment today, should you choose to accept it, is to interview John Morano and learn all you can about him, his real-estate development project and anything he knows about Paul Everett. If there are any leads to be gotten, you’re the guy to get ‘em. You have an appointment scheduled with Morano at eleven o’clock this morning—right after his 9:00 a.m. breakfast with Lyle Fenton. Oh, as an aside, sorry I let myself into your apartment, but I had to get you proper business attire for a stick-up-the-ass journalist. And while I’m still on the aside, your wardrobe’s boring. Remind me to give you some pointers. Back to business. I’ve included all you need to be a real live news correspondent. This email will erase in ten seconds. Good luck, Robert.”

      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 СКАЧАТЬ