“What commitments?” Amanda asked. “What was he involved in?”
Claire frowned. “I don’t know.” She turned, pointing at the opposite wall. “What used to be there?”
“Paul’s desk. His small file cabinet. His laptop.”
“And intensity. Not emotional. Mental. This is where plans were reviewed, strategies were devised…” A pause. “And phone calls were made. Not on his regular cell. On a separate one. One he kept locked in his desk drawer and used only when he was alone. He was a different man during those calls. He wasn’t the person you knew.” A pause. “He was running. To something, and away from something. Again, that same binary energy. No clear images of the to or the from—or the why. Just flashes of Paul in motion.”
“Paul did run—in the literal sense,” Amanda supplied. “Five miles every morning, no matter what the weather. Here. At my place. No matter where we stayed. Could that be the running you’re envisioning?”
“Sometimes.” Claire was concentrating, hard. “I can see him in his sweats. Panting as he makes his way rhythmically along the beach. Stopping to make a phone call—on that private phone again. He enjoyed his run, but he used it for more than exercise. And the running isn’t just literal. It’s more complex than that.” Claire squeezed her eyes shut, and then gave a frustrated shake of her head. “That’s it. I just can’t pick up on any details.”
Casey was studying the anguished look on Amanda’s face.
“Let’s walk the rest of the house,” she suggested. “We’ll see if Paul inadvertently left something behind—something you didn’t notice when you had his things removed. If we find anything, I’ll make some scent pads for Hero. By now, he’ll have memorized every smell in the cottage. Then we’ll head out to Montauk.” A quizzical glance at Amanda. “If you’re up for it.”
“I’ve got to be up for it.” There was no hesitation in Amanda’s voice. “Any pain I feel over Paul pales in comparison to my pain over Justin. I hired you to find Paul. I don’t plan on being an obstacle in your search. Let’s drive out to the crime scene—now. If Justin can fight, so can I.”
CHAPTER SIX
Patrick Lynch was very good at everything he did—whether it was as a private investigator, a security consultant or as an FBI agent, something he’d done for most of his life.
He’d worked for the Bureau for more than thirty-two years, starting in the days before the New York Field Office had moved to Federal Plaza and, instead, had occupied just several floors in a building on East Sixty-ninth Street and Third Avenue. He’d handled everything from white-collar crime to violent crime. Things had been so different back then—no computers, only shared telephones among the agents, and fewer, less-easily accessible resources.
But one thing hadn’t changed: Patrick worked within the letter of the law—always.
Consequently, he’d never expected to find himself part of a team like Forensic Instincts, whose methods were as different from his own as could be imagined. But events in life, especially the recent kidnapping case that had introduced Patrick to FI, had taught him that sometimes, sometimes, the end really did justify the means.
That didn’t mean he was ready to abandon his principles—only that he was willing to bend them a bit when it became absolutely necessary.
The team considered him to be the seasoned and steadying voice of reason at Forensic Instincts, the guy who played by the book and acted as the anchoring fist on the kite strings of the other team members. Patrick considered himself to be the guy who kept his colleagues out of jail.
But, hell, he respected their talents. And on the flip side, they respected his.
In this new case, Patrick felt totally comfortable with the first assignment Casey had given him. He knew D.C. like the back of his hand and his task was solid. He might not have Hero’s nose, but he was damned good at tracking down people.
He landed at Reagan National around noon and took a cab into D.C.’s Capitol District. Ryan had enlarged the mystery man’s photo on the computer, fine-tuning it as sharply as possible so the man’s image was clear, the background less blurry. The pictures of Amanda and Paul were close-ups and needed only minor tweaks to make their images crisp.
Patrick stood on the corner of Second Street and C Street NE, and glanced around. Just as he recalled. Government buildings, St. Joseph’s Church and throngs of people moving rapidly along. And that was just what was within line of sight. A short walk away there were a couple of coffee shops, a bagel place, a café and a supermarket. Farther on was Stanton Park, and north was Union Square Station.
He had lots of territory to cover. And nothing but a few photos and his gut instincts to go on.
One thing about the Hamptons. It literally shut down in the wintertime. The same applied to Montauk, which was at the far eastern tip of Long Island. Even the avid fishermen, who braved the cool autumn days to cast their lines, were long gone by December.
Although cars drove by it year-round, Lake Montauk was deserted when the team arrived. A stiff breeze had kicked up, reminding them all that it was nearly Christmas-time. And the chill in the air was accentuated by the proximity of the water.
“Here. Stop here,” Amanda told Casey as they rounded a bend on West Lake Drive.
Casey braked, bringing the van to a halt. “You’re sure?” she asked quietly.
Amanda scanned the lake before her gaze shifted back to the road. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll never forget this spot.” She swallowed hard, her face sheet-white. “Let’s get this over with.” She turned the door handle and stepped out of the van.
Casey and Marc exchanged quick glances.
“It’s the right spot.” Claire answered their unspoken question from the backseat. “There’s a dark aura of violence here. Something ugly happened within yards of where we are.” She opened her own door, brows drawn together as she stepped out. “The feeling is strong. And equally as complex as what I was feeling in Paul Everett’s house. So many conflicting emotions coming at me all at once.” She stayed where she was, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to zero in on something concrete.
“Do what you need to do. Marc, you and Hero do your thing, as well. I don’t want to leave Amanda alone.” Casey had already turned off the car and was out and moving. “This has got to be the most torturous part of her day. We’ve got to tread carefully in our questions and the depth of our interrogation.”
“Yes. We do,” Claire agreed.
Marc nodded, getting out and going around back to leash up Hero.
Amanda had walked a short distance away, then stopped, wrapping her arms around herself in an instinctive act of self-protection. She bowed her head, staring at the road. But Casey could tell that she wasn’t really seeing it. She was seeing Paul’s car, the driver’s seat covered in blood, and the nightmarish hour that had followed.
“Hey.” Casey came up behind Amanda, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling right now. I’m sorry you have to go through this.”
“So am I. But it has to
