The Line Between Here and Gone. Andrea Kane

in the hot seat. Forensic Instincts had an unbroken rule: they never took on a case without first having a full-team discussion and a unanimous decision.

      Well, these were dire circumstances. And given that no one else from the team was around and that it would take time to reach them all and get them over here—hell, there was a first time for everything.

      “It’s nothing I can’t work out,” he stated flatly. “We’ll find Paul Everett, Ms. Gleason. If he’s alive, we’ll find him. And we’ll do whatever’s necessary to ensure his cooperation.”

      Amanda’s head shot up, her tear-streaked face displaying a glimmer of hope. “Oh, thank you. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”

      “Thank me when we’ve done the job.” Marc’s mind was on overdrive. “What hospital is your son in?”

      “Sloane Kettering. He was referred there by the staff at Mount Sinai who made the original diagnosis.”

      “So you’re staying there with him?”

      “I haven’t left until just now.”

      “Fine.” Marc nodded. “I’ll need you to email that cell phone picture to me. I’ll also need some basic information from you—including the name and contact info of your photojournalist friend. Then go back to your baby. Give me a chance to assemble the team and lay all this out for them. We’ll have a plan by morning.”

      Part of that plan, he knew, was going to include having his ass kicked.

      CHAPTER THREE

      “Marc, you’re the one person I rely on to keep a consistent level head. You, of all people, know what it means to be a team member. What made you jump the gun like this?”

      Casey Woods, the founder and president of Forensic Instincts, stood at the head of the sweeping oval table in the main conference room, her palms pressed flat on the surface, her spine ramrod straight. For a petite, strikingly attractive redhead in her early thirties, she had the commanding presence of an army general and the leadership skills to match. She was also a trained behavioral and investigative profiler with unerring gut instincts that enhanced her skills.

      Right now, it didn’t take a profiler to know she was pissed.

      And not because it was close to midnight, and the entire FI team was gathered around the table, bleary-eyed, having been summoned for an emergency meeting. Business as usual at Forensic Instincts. But not for this reason.

      Marc leaned back in his chair and met Casey’s gaze head-on. “Amanda Gleason had to get back to the hospital to her gravely ill infant. An on-the-spot decision had to be made. I know you, Casey. I know the whole team. We would have agreed to take this case. So I bent the rules. Under the circumstances, I’m sure you can understand my rationale.”

      Glancing back down at Marc’s notes, Casey blew out her breath. The fact was, she could see the merit behind Marc’s argument. But it had still been a major breach of their team credo.

      “I want to help this poor woman as much as you do,” she said, calming down enough to lower herself into a chair and begin stroking Hero’s glossy head. He was sitting up and looking around, visibly aware of the tension in the room. “But you know you could have gotten the whole team together, either in person or by conference call, in a matter of minutes. All you had to do was explain that to Ms. Gleason.”

      “You’re right,” Marc acknowledged. “I should have waited. But after the child kidnapping case we just wrapped up…” A brief pause. “Look. Stuff like this is my hot button. That’s not news to any of you. Circumstances just made it easier to push it.”

      “I understand where Marc is coming from.” Claire Hedgleigh spoke up. She was one of the team’s newest members, and also its least hard-edged. Her abilities could be described as psychic; she preferred the term intuitive. Either way, her intangible connections to people and things were astonishing. They also made her more sensitive to Marc’s plight.

      “This is a newborn baby we’re talking about,” she continued. “Every moment counts.”

      “So do agreed-upon rules.” Retired FBI Special Agent Patrick Lynch—also a new team member—spoke up. “If we don’t have some kind of protocol here, we’ll be tripping over each other, each taking on different, and maybe conflicting, cases.” He arched a brow at Casey. “Actually, I think this is the first time we’ve ever agreed about rule breaking.”

      “We’re coming from different places, Patrick,” Casey replied. “So don’t get too excited.”

      “Come on, Casey, take it down a couple of notches. Cut Marc some slack.” Ryan McKay, Forensic Instincts’ strategic whiz and techno-genius, made a disgusted sound. “He called us the minute Amanda Gleason walked out the door. I’m the one who should be complaining. I was in stage four sleep when Marc’s phone call came. You know how I feel about my sleep.”

      Everyone knew how Ryan felt about his sleep. And no one wanted to be around him when he didn’t get it.

      On the other hand, with those drop-dead Black Irish looks, Ryan looked better with red eyes and bed head than most men did at a formal affair.

      “I guess we were lucky you were alone,” Claire commented drily. “Or you might have blown us off.”

      Ryan shot her a look. “Never happen.” He angled his head toward Casey. “Well? What’s the verdict?”

      Casey stared at Marc’s notes for another second, then raised her head and glanced at the team members, one by one. “I say we take it,” she stated.

      “Take it,” Ryan echoed.

      “Absolutely,” Claire chimed in.

      Patrick’s nod was firm. “We could save a child’s life. Take it.”

      “I’m still ticked off at you,” Casey informed Marc. “But let’s get on this case—now. Bring us up to speed.”

      John Morano’s office was a dump, a ramshackle wooden building that smelled of damp wood, fish and salt water.

      The location, however, was prime. His wharf and marina’s dock service business for local fishermen was located right on the Shinnecock Bay in Long Island’s affluent town of Southampton. He made good money because he was smart. But he was also a well-heeled real-estate developer with not only a big reputation, but equally big plans for the future. He was sitting on a gold mine and he knew it. He’d gotten in early. Now, as he’d expected, real-estate prices were skyrocketing, thanks to the construction of the nearby Shinnecock Indian Casino. It was the perfect time to act.

      Morano could visualize the transformation that was about to occur. His dilapidated office would soon disappear; in its place a multimillion-dollar luxury hotel that would attract vacationers everywhere. The cash flow from his dock services would still be incoming. But there’d be a lot more than fishing boats making their way to his pier. Chartered yachts would soon conveniently travel between Manhattan and here, bringing affluent tourists to gamble in the casino and be pampered in his five-star hotel.

      The pieces were falling into place. He just had to play his cards right.

      The rickety office door swung open and a gruff workman walked in, carrying an empty toolbox.

      It looked for all the world as if he was here to do carpentry or make repairs—and the place could sure use it.

      But a short time later, the man left, his empty toolbox now filled with twenty thousand dollars in cash.

      Just outside the office, he pulled out his burner phone and punched in the requisite number. “Today’s repairs are done,” he reported.

      “Good,” was the reply.

      The workman headed to the gravel area where he’d parked. He walked past his truck and across the dock, stopping to hurl his phone into the bay. Then he reversed his steps, got