Chapter 23
Marc and Madeleine’s Duplex
Upper East Side
Manhattan, New York
Marc opened the door and let his brother in.
The two men looked much alike—tall, dark, and broodingly handsome, as Emma always like to describe them.
But where Marc’s eyes were dark and slightly narrowed at the edges—favoring their mother’s Asian heritage—Aidan’s eyes were rounder and midnight blue, indicative of their father’s European blood.
Now, Marc shook his brother’s hand and shut the door behind him. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“I aim to please.” Aidan strolled into the living room, his lips curving into a smile as he saw Maddy propped up on sofa cushions, a blanket covering her lap and a snack tray filled with a plate of French toast and a cup of tea beside her. “Hi, Maddy. How are you feeling?”
“Starting my third trimester, and getting big,” she said, putting down the novel she’d been reading and placing a palm on her growing belly.
“But I have no complaints. The baby and I are doing great.” She glanced behind Aidan, looking disappointed.
“You didn’t bring Abby with you? I would have happily watched her while you and Marc talked. ”
Aidan chuckled at the image of his wild, precocious six-and-a-half-year-old daughter taking it easy on Maddy.
“You’re on bed rest, remember? Abby would have you doing gymnastics in no time.
That would be a big no-no for you and for the baby.
Besides, my little princess is on the verge of winning a popularity contest. She’s at yet another play date with one of her school friends, and I was not invited.
They’re polishing each other’s nails. Both her friend’s parents are there, as is Joyce, who’ll be with her all weekend. ”
Aidan was referring to Joyce Reynolds, Abby’s middle-aged nanny, who took care of Abby on weekdays—and on weekends when work required his full attention, plus whenever Aidan had to travel or work overtime.
She spent many an overnight or a late night in Aidan’s guest room.
She also cooked, straightened up the apartment, and took Abby to school, as well as to her afterschool activities and play dates.
She had twenty years of experience, an enormously long fuse, and a genuine fondness for her little charge. She was a lifesaver.
“The deal I made with Abby was to behave with Joyce,” Aidan continued. “In return, I had to promise to play nail salon with her tonight. I’m sure I’ll have neon nails by bedtime.”
Marc barked out a laugh at that image.
“Laugh while you can,” Aidan informed him. “In six-plus years that will be you.”
“I’ll survive—with pleasure.” Marc was gearing up for the joys of fatherhood, something he’d been wanting for a long time.
He and Maddy knew they were having a girl, and he was over the moon about it.
“Besides, Abby gets practice sessions in on me, too. So far, I’ve escaped being made-up, but I’m sure that will come.
” He sobered. “Much as I love talking about our girls, you and I need to have that meeting.”
Aidan also grew serious. “Ready when you are.”
Marc walked over to the sofa and gave Maddy a tender kiss. “Aidan and I will be in my office. Text if you need me.”
“Promise,” she replied. “But I’ll be just fine. Brunch. Reading material. I’m all set.” She waved her hand in the direction of Marc’s office. “Go have your meeting.”
Marc and Aidan settled themselves in the two club chairs in Marc’s office.
“Shoot,” Aidan said.
Quickly and succinctly, Marc filled Aidan in on their case, where things stood, and what the FI team needed from him and from Zermatt.
Aidan let out a low whistle. “FI has really backed itself into a brick wall,” he said. “You’re walking targets, both to the FBI and to Scott Security. Any move you make will be a bad one.”
“Yeah, that much I knew.”
A corner of Aidan’s mouth lifted. “Fortunately for you, Zermatt has no such problem. We’re totally off the grid. No law enforcement agency has crossed paths with us—at least to their knowledge. And none of the scummy companies we deal with has any idea who screwed them over.”
“We need the works—everything about Scott Security, who exactly is part of the criminal arm of the company, how far their reach is, specifics on what they have and what they’re doing, how they’re getting their money—”
“This isn’t my first rodeo, frogman,” Aidan cut in, looking amused. “I’ll get it all, and then some—and do what has to be done. And, before you ask, I’ll be bringing Terri on board.” His grin widened. “She’ll jump at the chance to bring these bastards down.”
Marc nodded. “Good. Ryan already programmed two computers—one for him and one for Caitlin Walsh—both with the ultimate levels of security. He’s waiting for the go-ahead from me to program a third computer for you, so you can communicate with him, and also with Caitlin.”
Aidan folded his arms across his chest. “Give it to him. I need that computer yesterday. We need to jog Caitlin’s memory enough to get more specifics about Shane’s killer.
That’ll be your job, former BAU agent. You’ll do the talking.
Terri and I will do the listening and move on whatever you learn.
” A frown. “When can we realistically expect Ryan to finish programming the computer and get it to us?”
“Less than a day. I’ll hand-deliver it to you tomorrow at your place and we can make that call. I’ll tell Ryan to let Caitlin know about our arrangement so there won’t be any surprises.”
Aidan rose to his feet. “And Terri and I will get started today. We’ll already have a shitload of information by the time we talk to Caitlin.”
Marc nodded. “I never doubted it.” He gripped Aidan’s shoulder. “Thanks.”
“For what? You know what Zermatt is about. This will be a labor of love.”
Offices of Forensic Instincts
Main Conference Room, Second Floor
Tribeca, Manhattan, New York
Saturday, March 18, 1:45 p.m.
Casey frowned as she hung up the phone with John Nickels. John had used his NYPD connections to get a lowdown from the NYFD on the status of the fire at the McKays’ residence.
No surprise that it was being investigated as arson.
The guy who’d started the fire had all but left his calling card at the house.
Even so, Casey’s gut told her that the incident hadn’t been done to kill or to cause maximum structural damage, as much as it had been done to scare the crap out of everyone, Maureen in particular.
Scott’s goal had doubtless been to push Maureen to her limit, to the point where she’d contact Caitlin and get her out in the open—assuming she knew where Caitlin was.
Well, that plan had backfired. Maureen had no clue where Caitlin was, although Casey was sure that despite Ryan’s mom’s reluctant lack of questions, she was well aware that both Kennedy and Ryan had spoken to Caitlin.
No one but the team, and of course, Kennedy, was certain of that.
The fact that the McKays were now staying at FI kept them safe, plus it allowed Kennedy to talk to her mommy daily.
It also kept the specialized computer safe in Ryan’s lair, and eliminated Ryan’s need to commute to the Bronx.
Less time away. Less risk by not having to move the computer back and forth. It was a win-win.
Meanwhile, Ryan was in his lair now, working at the speed of light to clone the third computer so it would be ready to turn over to Marc early tomorrow morning, where it would then be transferred into Aidan’s and Terri’s capable hands.
With a hard wince of pain, Casey leaned back in her chair and massaged her temples.
She knew damn well that FI had to stop in its tracks after that, at least where it came to overt action.
It didn’t take a scholar to know that Hutch was watching them like a hawk, and that if they so much as dug deeper into the arson investigation, he’d be taking legal action against them in the blink of an eye.
Damn the man.
And not only because of the existing threat he represented, but because everything he’d said to her about her health had been right.
Her physical condition was deteriorating.
At this point her entire body ached from a day of toting around a backpack and walking blocks of Fifth Avenue—despite Claire’s protests and frequent offers to help.
She’d also climbed up and down three flights of stairs numerous times as she’d put in ungodly hours for the past two days.
She was shaky and bone-weary, and the sharp internal flashes of pain she was experiencing, along with the rawness and pain near the site of her incision, were bad enough to red-flag her.
She’d lost her spleen and a hell of a lot of blood to that shooting.
No time to be a martyr. She had to make a call to her surgeon.
Stoic or not, she wasn’t going to play Russian roulette with her body, not after three months of fighting to get back to herself.
Disgusted and a little afraid, she picked up her cell phone and called her surgeon, who, fortunately, was in his office at the hospital. As she’d dreaded, he instructed her to get to the ER pronto. He had one more virtual appointment, after which he’d meet her there.
So much for resting. She’d call the car service now, then text Marc from the car saying only that she had to go out.
There wasn’t a prayer that she was sharing this situation with the team, or even with Hutch, for that matter.
And not because she was angry. She just didn’t want to make a huge deal out of this.
It was probably nothing more than her body’s protest at being overworked.
With that, she made the phone call to the car service, then rose, unsteady and with a bout of internal chills.
Not good.
Offices of the Zermatt Group
West Seventy-Fifth Street, Seventh Floor
Manhattan, New York
Saturday, March 18, 3:45 p.m.