Chapter 7
Casey and Hutch’s apartment
Battery Park City
Manhattan, New York
Casey had just settled herself on the bed with an afghan thrown over her, a cup of tea on the nightstand beside her, and Hero stretched out on the rug beside her, when the phone rang.
“Good afternoon, Supervisory Special Agent Hutchinson,” she greeted her husband. “I was just about to check in. I’m positioned as ordered.”
Hutch didn’t laugh. “You spent almost eight hours at the office,” he said in a steely voice. “That’s at least four hours too many. If you get off that bed, I’m calling your surgeon.”
A soft smile touched Casey’s lips. “Don’t bother. I’m more intimidated by you than I am by him.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
Casey heard beyond the drill sergeant tone to the worry beneath it. “I’m really fine, Hutch,” she said in a gentle voice. “Promise.”
Hutch blew out a relieved breath. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it, until I can confirm it myself. I’m inundated here. But I’m going to try to get out at a reasonable hour. I’ll bring home dinner.”
“Inundated? Anything you can tell me?” Casey asked like a hopeful puppy awaiting a treat. “Maybe something that’s not classified?”
Hutch chuckled. “No, my beautiful wife. But nice try. Now put your head down and sleep.”
“Okay,” Casey reluctantly agreed. “Even though I’m not tired.”
Hutch’s lips curved as he heard her yawn. “That’s fine. I’ll stay on the line while you settle in to rest.”
He waited three minutes. “Case?”
No answer. As he could have predicted, his exhausted wife was out cold.
Smiling, he disconnected the call and sent out the necessary group text.
Ryan’s lair
Offices of Forensic Instincts
Tribeca, Manhattan, New York
4:10 pm
Ryan was peering at his computer, working with Yoda to restore Shane’s cell phone data, when Claire knocked lightly at the door.
“Am I interrupting?” she asked, poking her head inside. “Because if it’s not a convenient breaking point for you, I’ll come back later.”
Ryan raised his head and swiveled his chair around to face her.
“No problem,” he said. “Restoring data off a cell phone that’s shattered and in FBI custody is slow, tedious work. I could use a diversion.” For a brief second, a hint of the old Ryan emerged, and a corner of his mouth lifted, his brows arching in hopeful anticipation. “Is this a booty call?”
Claire smiled. “Sorry to dash your hopes, but this is work-related.” She held up two evidence bags containing the personal items of Shane’s that Ryan had given her.
Seeing the pained expression that crossed his face, Claire softened the discussion that lay ahead.
“Although I have felt neglected. Maybe a raincheck for tonight, when we’re both here working until God knows when? ”
With a hard swallow, Ryan nodded. “My pleasure. Yours, too.” That was about all the lighthearted conversation he could muster up. “Did you pick up on any sensory connections from holding Shane’s stuff?”
Crossing over, Claire perched on the wobble stool that Ryan had engineered for his restless moments.
“Not the NYPD-related items,” she responded.
“But the hoodie—yes.” She set aside the NYPD evidence bag, opened the other, and took out the zip-up hoodie.
She held it gently, running her finger along the jagged edges of the zipper.
Her eyes slid shut, and when she spoke, she was unmistakably repeating an awareness she’d accessed and was now recounting.
“Shane’s had this since he was just out of college.
Caitlin gave it to him because he always forgot his regular jacket.
He was more of a sweats’ guy. So this jacket-like hoodie was a no-brainer.
She wound up buying him several, which is why he was okay with lending this one to you. ”
Ryan nodded, stifling a choked-up sound.
Claire’s brow furrowed, as she sought an answer she didn’t quite have.
“I see the unrelated past so clearly. But the more immediate past? The present? All I perceive is an aura of danger. It doesn’t just surround Shane.
It surrounds Caitlin, too. Before. After.
Impending death is still out there. I can’t reach its source.
I’m trying…” Claire’s fingers tightened around the hoodie.
“But it hasn’t come yet.” Her eyes opened, and her gaze was torn with sadness and grief.
“I’ve got to reach it. I must.” A pause. “I’m so sorry it’s taking this long.”
Ryan rose, walked over and tugged Claire to her feet and into the circle of his arms. “Don’t be,” he murmured.
“You’re doing everything you can, stretching yourself as far as you can go.
” He could feel moisture burning behind his eyes.
“I realize you’re going above and beyond.
Please know how much it means to me—how much you mean to me.
” He pressed his lips into the crown of her head.
Nodding, Claire wrapped her arms around his waist. “I know. You mean the same to me. I wish I could take away your pain. But, Ryan, we will resolve this, bring peace to Shane’s memory, find Caitlin, and help heal Kennedy.”
“Wishful thinking?” Ryan asked.
“Maybe. But my every instinct is telling me I’m right.” She eased back. “You go back to what you were doing. I’m ordering a couple of sandwiches for us. We haven’t eaten since our five-thirty AM PowerBars.”
Despite the sober feeling permeating the room, a corner of Ryan’s mouth lifted.
“Those PowerBars don’t count, at least not for you.
You barely choked yours down without heaving.
And my appetite wasn’t exactly great. So a sandwich sounds good about now.
Nothing with alfalfa sprouts in it though, not for me. ”
“I’ll try to restrain myself.” Claire was, not only a vegetarian, but a health food nut. Ryan, the carnivore, always teased her about it. She usually shot back a playful barb. Not this time.
Grateful that she’d infused Ryan with a bit of laughter, she went over, retrieved the hoodie, and zipped it back in its storage bag. She’d reexamine it after a brief lunch break.
“I’ll slide your sandwich under the door,” she called over her shoulder. “Hard at work or not, you’d better eat it. Or you can forget the midnight booty call.”
That didn’t please Ryan at all. “Every morsel will be gone in record time,” he assured her. “Do I get extra points for that?”
Claire smiled from the doorway. “Most definitely.”
Offices of Forensic Instincts
Marc’s office, 3rd floor
Tribeca, Manhattan, New York
4:30 pm
Marc leaned back in his office chair, not even waiting for Patrick to get settled in the chair on the opposite side of the desk before opening the frustrating conversation.
“All today proved to us is that, in order to accomplish what’s necessary, we need Ryan to hack the Bureau’s database and get us a comprehensive list of present, former, and retired agents,” he stated flatly.
“We both know that’s not happening. Which results in meetings like we just had with SA Groban—unproductive and a waste of time. ”
Patrick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“The only worthwhile bit of information that he passed along to us was one name—SA Tricia Adams—a just-retired agent who worked the same VC squad as Shane did during his freshman year at the Bureau. And even she, unfortunately, moved out west after retiring. We’ll contact her and set up a Zoom meeting, but I’m not too optimistic about finding out anything pertinent from her either. ”
Marc scowled. “Plus, Shane was young and only with the Bureau for eight years. There are going to be a slim number of either retired or former agents who worked closely with him. Which narrows the possibilities even more.”
“I’m as disgusted as you, but equally unsurprised,” Patrick replied, seeing how pissed off Marc was, and trying to be the voice of reason.
“I can’t blame any of the agents, retired or current, for not wanting to spill their guts.
We might have once been Bureau, but now we’re not.
Worse, we operate by our own set of rules—rules they don’t respect. They’ll never trust us.”
“I know.” Marc took his irritation down a notch, speaking in his customary pragmatic fashion.
“As for the current agents, they have an additional reason to shut the door in our faces. Hutch must have put the fear of God in them where it comes to us. And I don’t blame him, either.
He’s just doing his job. Casey is his wife and FI is her family. He knows our methods only too well.”
“Which leaves us where?”
Marc folded his hands behind his head. “With one approach left to tweak. When we talk to SA Adams, we have to shift our line of questioning. Rather than asking about former squad members and specific cases, we have to ask about BU employees who Shane was tight with—not just agents he worked with, but agents in other squads or field offices, and support staff, as well.”
“You’re going for a personal connection,” Patrick said.
“Yes. I want to reach out to anyone Shane might have expressed his concerns to. It’s our only hope of gathering pertinent information. It might be a long shot—but it’s the only one we’ve got.”
With that, Marc opened his iPad. “I’ll email Tricia Adams now. It’s only one-thirty on the west coast, so hopefully she’ll answer sometime today. While we wait to set up the Zoom meeting, you and I will strategize.”
Casey and Hutch’s apartment
Battery Park City
Manhattan, New York
6:30 pm
Hutch walked into the apartment, quietly shut the door, and crossed over to the kitchen.
He put the bag of Chinese food on the kitchen island, then turned and headed into the bedroom.
He smiled when he saw Casey curled up on the bed, still sound asleep.
Her cell phone had dropped onto the pillow beside her.
Hero leaped up, tail wagging, and came over to welcome Hutch home.
“Hey, boy,” Hutch said quietly, squatting down and scratching behind the bloodhound’s ears. “Thanks for keeping an eye on our girl.” Rising, he crossed over to the bed, sank down beside Casey, and bent to give her a tender kiss.
Casey’s eyelashes fluttered, then lifted.
“Hi,” she said with a small smile. “I guess I nodded off.”
Hutch steeled himself for the explosion. “You didn’t just nod off, sweetheart . . . You’ve been asleep for almost three hours.”
Sure enough, Casey bolted into a sitting position.
“What?” she demanded. “Three hours?” As if to confirm, she picked up her cell phone and looked at the time.
“Dammit!” Shoving waves of hair off her face, she glanced frantically around, as if she didn’t know which thing to do first. “Patrick…Claire…Angela—shit!” She squirmed to get up, determined to get to the living room, grab her iPad, and initiate a group Zoom meeting.
“Hey, easy.” Hutch pulled her against him, ignoring her furious expression, and pressing her head to his shoulder. “You’ll make it all happen.” He kissed the crown of her head, easing her struggles to free herself. “I know you’re ripping pissed at me, but you were wiped. You needed your rest.”
Casey stared up at him accusingly. “I was fine until you pulled the whole caveman thing on me.”
A grin tugged at Hutch’s lips. “Really? Did I also hypnotize you into falling asleep?”
Casey frowned, realizing how irrational she was being. “I was supposed to talk to members of my team hours ago. They must be worried and angry.”
“They’re neither. I texted them all, and told them you’d conked out. They’re waiting patiently for you to get back to them. And, no, I didn’t ask what they were doing or why. No sabotaging your investigation—you have my word.”
Easing herself to standing, Casey shot him a sideways look. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Your reaction? Yes. Your pushing yourself too hard? No.”
Casey grimaced. “You made your point. Now I have to get to my iPad and get to work.”
“Fine. One condition. Group text your team and let them know you’ll be initiating a Zoom meeting in fifteen minutes. Then, come to the kitchen and eat. No shoveling while you work. Please, Case. For me.”
Between Hutch’s plea and how worried he looked, Casey relented. “Fifteen minutes. Then I get our office to myself—for as many hours as I need it.”
“Within reason,” Hutch clarified. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Go ahead and send your text. I’ll put out the food.”