The Line Between Here and Gone (Forensic Instincts 2)

John Morano sat in his decrepit, run-down office and shoved aside the legal documents that Lyle Fenton’s attorney had drawn up. Frustrated, he rubbed his eyes, feeling the pressure deep in his gut. He popped two antacid tablets, washing them down with a bottle of water. He wished it were bourbon. But at 9:30 a.m. with an ugly confrontation about to occur, the last thing he needed was to have his faculties compromised.

He was taking a huge risk, and he knew it. Cutting off kickbacks to the Vizzinis could backfire big-time. They controlled the unions. Teamsters. Ironworkers. Even the service workers that would staff his hotel. As a result, they’d been controlling him. He couldn’t jeopardize this project, much less his life. But he couldn’t keep paying twenty grand every six weeks for nothing. There was only so far a dwindling cash balance could be stretched. And only so much manipulation he could successfully juggle.

He’d managed to get Fenton on board, which meant he’d get his permits—at a much steeper price than he expected. Talk about manipulation. Fenton’s rules. Fenton’s profits. Fenton’s investors.

And Fenton’s pressure.

Things were about to come to a head. And Morano had to keep his eye on the prize.

The door to his office swung open and Sal, the gruff workman aka slimy mob soldier who paid Morano collection visits, walked in. He was wearing jeans and a work vest, and he had his usual toolbox, although he wasn’t expecting to leave with it filled. It was weeks too soon for that. No, today was a different kind of scheduled visit, one that had been requested by Morano.

Sal shut the door behind him, grabbed himself a chair and sat down. He plunked the toolbox on the wooden floor and folded his arms across his chest. The fingers of his right hand brushed the top of his vest pocket, in close proximity to the gun that, no doubt, was concealed inside.

Morano intentionally avoided staring at the vest, instead fixing his gaze on Sal’s pockmarked face.

“What do you want?” Sal demanded.

“To renegotiate.” Morano got straight to the point, keeping his tone and his expression hard, his jaw set. “This time by my rules. We’re done. I’m finished paying. Tell your boss enough is enough. No more bullshit. I’m cutting ties. I’ve got other mouths to feed on this project. I’ve coughed up a fucking fortune to keep him happy. Time to move on.”

Sal’s dark eyes narrowed. “You’re making a huge mistake, Morano. You need us. And I don’t need to remind you what happened to Everett, do I?”

Morano went very still. “Is that a threat?”

“A threat?” Sal shrugged. “Call it a helpful suggestion from a concerned associate. What happened to Everett was an unfortunate coincidence. You’re not into unfortunate coincidences, are you?”

“No. But I’m also not into being bled dry. You got your pound of flesh—and then some. We’re more than even. I’m done with these visits. And I want the decks cleared for my project.”

“Not happening. And not smart,” Sal replied.

“Maybe not. But necessary.” Morano rose slowly, hands in front of him. “So that’s that. Now what? Do you plan on gunning me down?”

A crooked smile twisted Sal’s lips, as he, too, came to his feet. “Nope. I plan on delivering your message. I’m guessing you’ll be getting one in return.”

* * *

The parking lot outside Southampton Hospital’s brick building was crawling with press when the FI team drove in.

“Wow,” Casey commented drily. “Mercer’s whole PR department deserves a raise. The media here isn’t only from New York’s First Congressional District. It’s from all of Long Island, Queens and Manhattan. Which means the networks and cable will also pick it up.”

“Damn straight. And not just thanks to Mercer’s press office. All these reporters have probably seen Amanda’s video by now,” Marc reminded her, studying the crowd as Casey cruised along, looking for a parking space. “Mercer couldn’t ask for better publicity. The whole crowd is tweeting as they wait for his appearance. This altruistic act of his will be in everyone’s face in minutes.”

“How are we going to get close enough to him to accomplish anything?” Claire asked from the backseat of the van. “He’s going to have security around him when he arrives and when he leaves the hospital.”

“That’s not what our problem’s going to be,” Marc said with a frown. “FI is already on everyone’s computer screen as the go-to place for anybody with information on Paul Everett. We’re smack in the middle of this saga. The problem is going to be getting to Mercer without being bombarded by the media. Once they hear who we are, it’s all over. Not to mention Lyle Fenton, who’s sure to be showing up with Mercer. He’ll recognize us instantly and stand between us and the congressman.”

“Maybe we can pull this off without identifying ourselves.” Claire was thoughtful as she stroked Hero’s glossy neck. “At least not until we’re close enough to Mercer to keep our conversation private.”

Casey glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “I’m listening.”

“You two are the only members of the team that Lyle Fenton has met. No one knows Hero or me. And we’ve both learned how to be very good actors. Right, Hero?”

Hero turned his soulful eyes on her and made a sound deep in his throat. Then he licked Claire’s hand, slobbering on her ski jacket. Clearly, he knew he was being discussed.

“I hate being stereotyped as the vapid, helpless blonde,” Claire continued. “But it can sometimes work to our advantage. When the congressman shows up and heads for the door, I’ll take Hero for a walk. I’ll issue the necessary command for him to lurch into high gear. We’ll practically crash into Mercer. I’ll act pathetic enough for his security to shift into at-ease position. Then I’ll quietly tell Mercer who I am and that we need to speak to him about that video after he and his wife donate their blood. If Fenton is with them, he won’t be happy, but he won’t freak out, because the video wasn’t on YouTube when you had your meeting last night. He’ll probably want to sit in on our chat with Mercer, but we can’t help that. At least it’ll gain us access without causing a riot.”

“Nice,” Marc praised. “And you’re right. Fenton won’t make a scene—and that’s true even if he is thrown by our talking to Mercer. He’ll be as eager as we are to keep the lid on who we are. The last thing he wants is a public spectacle—especially if that public spectacle shifts the limelight off Mercer.” Marc was nodding as he spoke. “It could work.”

“Okay, then let’s go for it.” Casey pulled into a parking space a good distance away and turned off the ignition. She glanced at her watch. “Mercer should be here any minute.”