Andrea Kane - The Line Between Here and Now

“See you tomorrow,” he said. “And tell Hero he’ll be sharing the bed.”

Casey smiled as she disconnected the call.

“You know,” Marc mused aloud. “Maybe we could clear it with Amanda, and ask Hutch for his help. We’ll tell her he’s an FBI consultant. He might give us a fresh take on Paul Everett.”

Casey’s brows rose. “Hutch and me working together? The death toll could be high.”

It had taken a half hour of pleading and persuasion on Amanda’s part to get the ICU staff to agree to her request. But when she explained what she was desperate to accomplish, they’d finally agreed.

A professional videographer and his assistant showed up just before 7:00 p.m. Amanda thanked her friends profusely for the huge favor. Her instructions were brief-record a five-minute video right outside the PICU window where Justin was sleeping in his crib. They’d have to work overnight to have everything ready and posted on YouTube by morning.

It wouldn’t be easy. But it could be done. And they’d do it.

The video went smoothly. The entire event-from arrival to departure-took seventeen minutes.

Its repercussions would last far longer.

Bleary-eyed and weary, the Forensic Instincts team trudged into the main conference room and reconvened around the expansive mahogany table just after midnight.

As they entered, the wall of floor-to-ceiling video screens began to glow. A long green line slid across each panel, pulsating from left to right as it appeared.

“Hello, team,” Yoda welcomed them. The green line bent into the contour of his voice pattern. “Room temperature is currently at sixty-eight point three degrees. Due to the body heat generated by five humans and one canine, the room temperature will rise to exactly seventy degrees in eight minutes and thirteen seconds. Shall I maintain seventy degrees?” Yoda paused, awaiting further instructions.

“That’s fine, Yoda,” Casey replied. “We’re just fine.”

“Fine?” Ryan muttered reflexively. “How much sleep have you had in the past few days?”

“If you’re addressing me, I don’t sleep, Ryan,” Yoda responded. “You programmed me not to require it. Lumen, Equitas and Intueri were designed to ensure my uninterrupted service.”

Yoda was referring to the three servers that made up the server farm in FI’s secure data center, located downstairs in Ryan’s lair. Ryan himself had named his custom-built servers, giving them the Latin names for light, justice, and intuition.

“I am available twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year,” Yoda continued. “And three hundred sixty-six days every four years, plus or minus an occasional leap second as needed-except, of course, for the century year twenty-one hundred, per the leap year algorithm.”

“Gee, Ryan, and here you claimed you were Superman.” Claire’s tone was dry, but her lips were twitching. “Yoda is clearly superior, needs no sleep and is a lot easier to get along with.”

“Thank you, Claire,” Yoda said politely.

“Oh, shut up, both of you.” Ryan looked as if he’d like to short-circuit his creation. “Yoda, chill. We’ll let you know if we need you.”

“Very well, Ryan.” Yoda fell silent, and the glowing line receded.

“Now that you’ve finished having it out with Yoda, can we discuss our respective evenings?” Casey inquired. “And that doesn’t include your lack of sleep, Ryan. Suck it up.”

Ryan knew that tone of voice. Casey wasn’t in the mood for bullshit.

He nodded. “Sorry. Although I want to go on record as saying that everything Yoda knows, I taught him.” Being Ryan, he couldn’t resist adding that, along with darting Claire a sideways look. “In any case, do you want me to report my findings first?”

“Actually, I think Marc and I should go first. That’ll provide a good baseline for Lyle Fenton. Then, yes, I want to hear what your facial recognition software showed.”

Casey and Marc went on to detail the meeting with Lyle Fenton and their take on it.

“Got it,” Ryan said, summing it up for the team. “A dirtbag and a scumbag.”

“Is there a difference?” Claire asked, amused.

“Yeah. A scumbag’s a slimier dirtbag.”

“Ah. Thanks for enlightening me.”

“No problem.” Ryan pursed his lips. “As far as Fenton getting all weird when you brought Mercer into the conversation, I can explain that one-although I think we already know the answer.”

“Go on,” Casey urged him.

“I’ll spare you the mathematical details and just get to the bottom line. I ran a whole bunch of different facial recognition algorithms, just to see if the results came out the same. They did. There’s more than an eighty-percent chance that Lyle Fenton and Congressman Mercer are related. The percentages drop down somewhat when you compare Fenton with the twins, and even more when you compare Mercer with Amanda. But that’s to be expected, since the relationships are once or twice removed. They’re still high, though. High enough for me to conclude that there are blood ties across the board. Most important, in my opinion, Clifford Mercer is Lyle Fenton’s son.”

“No shocker. But it adds a whole new dimension to this investigation.” Casey tapped her fingernails on the table-a gesture that meant she was digesting and analyzing the situation. “Mercer’s being illegitimate wouldn’t mean the end of his career, not these days. But the fact that his biological father has as much to gain from this relationship-now that’s a whole different story. It’s bad enough to be in someone’s pocket. But being in the pocket of the man who’s secretly your father? A pocket deep enough to make or break your career? That’s a scandal-waiting-to-happen.” She gave Ryan a quizzical look. “Who’s Mercer’s mother?”

“She was Catherine Mercer, born Catherine Wilmot. She died of cancer four years ago.” Ryan glanced at his notes. “No eye-openers about her background. Middle-class. Born and bred in a less affluent section of Bridgehampton. Got married at twenty-one to Warren Mercer, a rich, significantly older attorney she met as a secretary in his law firm.”

“Let me guess. One child, Clifford, who was the light of his father’s life.”

“You got it.” Ryan shot Casey an admiring look. “Nice assessment.”

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist,” Casey replied. “If there were other children, keeping the secret wouldn’t have been as crucial. Catherine would still be tied to her husband through the other kids. But an only child? And a son, to boot? Catherine wouldn’t risk her marriage by letting the cat out of the bag.”

“Are we sure Clifford Mercer isn’t adopted?” Claire asked. “We can’t assume Catherine had an affair with Lyle Fenton.”

“Sorry to burst your naive little bubble, Claire-voyant, but they were hot and heavy for a couple of years,” Ryan informed her. “I checked with a few of Catherine’s old friends. At first, they were guarded. But I managed to charm them into talking to me.”

“And how did you manage that?” Claire asked. “I doubt they’d be interested in a trade-their cooperation for one of your Superman comic books.”

“Nope. No need to trade.” Rather than pissed, Ryan looked amused. “Just some finesse on my part. I told them I worked for Congressman Mercer, and that I’d been assigned the job of protecting his political future by preserving his mother’s good name. I asked them to tell me what they knew about her extramarital affair so I could squelch it. Loyal friends that they were, they were happy to supply me with the information.”

“What about Warren Mercer?” Claire demanded. “Did they say whether or not he knew? Or is he still in the dark after all these years? Actually, is he even alive?”