Andrea Kane - The Line Between Here and Now

It was after 5:00 a.m. when Ryan finally crawled into bed. He wasn’t going to get a hell of a lot of sleep. But he’d be getting more than the rest of the team. They’d be on the road by nine o’clock, right after rush-hour traffic. He didn’t envy them. At least he could catch a good five hours before he was needed.

That idea was blown to hell at 8:30 a.m. when the Star Wars theme music began blaring through his room in triplicate-from his BlackBerry, his iPhone and his Droid.

He bolted up in bed, simultaneously groping for the closest phone, his BlackBerry, which was sitting on his nightstand. The screen was furiously flashing Yoda. That meant he’d find the same name on all three screens. Clearly, it was an emergency.

“Yeah, Yoda, it’s me,” he said, waiting a split second for the voice recognition to register.

“Ryan,” Yoda replied. “We have a comm server overload. I repeat, a comm server overload.”

Ryan blinked away the final cobwebs of sleep, although he was totally confused. Why the hell would they have a comm server overload?

He got out of bed and crossed over to his laptop, quickly logging onto the Forensic Instincts server. “What the fuck…?” He stared at the huge volume of phone calls that were pouring in. “I’m coming in, Yoda.”

Twenty minutes and one subway ride later, Ryan was in his lair, punching computer keys and monitoring what he soon realized was a big-time screwup on their client’s part and a major communications crisis at FI.

He watched the video on YouTube, redirected to voice mail the incoming calls responding to Amanda’s plea, and then called Casey on speed dial.

“What’s up?” she asked, briskly towel-drying her hair.

“I’ll tell you what’s up. Amanda went public-and I mean public-last night. Our server can’t handle all the calls coming in as a result. You’d better get a bank of receptionists in here, now, or we’re in trouble. Screw that, we’re already in trouble.”

“Ryan, slow down.” Casey tossed the towel aside. “Where are you? And what did Amanda do?”

“I’m downstairs. Come on down and take a look. And then call a temp agency, or whoever you call in situations like this, and get some people in here to answer the damned phones.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Casey was already dressed. She grabbed her BlackBerry and raced down the four flights of stairs to the basement. Ryan was standing up at his desk, visibly freaking out at the number of red lights that were flashing throughout his lair.

“Yoda called me,” he explained briefly. “The phones are blowing off the hook. Wanna see why?” He gestured for Casey to come over.

She complied, staring at his computer screen as he got on the YouTube site and called up what he was looking for.

The video was very clear. It was Amanda, standing in the corridor of Sloane Kettering’s Pediatric ICU. She was just outside the window where Justin’s crib was situated, and the curtains were pulled open. The viewer could see inside and clearly make out the infant, along with his medical apparatus, through the glass. In a voice that was shaky and filled with tears, Amanda explained Justin’s condition and why it was imperative that they find a donor match immediately. She held up a photo of Paul, announcing that he was the baby’s father and the prime option, but that he’d been away and had no knowledge of Justin’s health crisis. She begged everyone to call immediately if they knew anything about Paul Everett or his whereabouts. She concluded by saying it was literally a matter of life or death, pleading with the world to save her child.

Throughout the three-minute video, Forensic Instincts’ name and phone number were posted prominently at the bottom of the screen, to be contacted on any and all potential leads.

“Dammit.” Casey dragged a hand through her tousled hair. “I can’t believe she did this.”

“Me, either. Now what are we going to do?”

Casey was already going through the contact list on her BlackBerry. “I’m going to call the first person on my NYU phone chain.”

Comprehension flashed in Ryan’s eyes. The whole team knew that Casey taught a biweekly human behavior seminar to a class of psychology students at NYU. “Phone chains are for class cancelations,” he reminded her.

“True.” Casey found the number she was looking for and pressed dial home. “But the kids have out-of-class hours they need to put in before Christmas-a fact I’m sure they’ve procrastinated away. Here’s their chance to fulfill those hours and get a great experience in human behavior.” A grin. “Even if they did finish partying and/or cramming for exams at dawn.” A brief pause. “Hi, Marcy. It’s Casey Woods. I need a favor.”

A minute later, she hung up. “Marcy’s calling the next person on the list. There are ten people in that class. We’ll get at least three-quarters of them, trust me. Our server won’t explode. I, on the other hand, might.” Casey’s features tightened. “I understand that Amanda is desperate. But she should have come to us first. Not just because it’s our phone number she’s listing. But because any hope we had of keeping this under the radar is now shot to hell.”

Ryan scowled. “Even if we got her to pull the video, it’s had thousands of hits already. The damage is done.”

“It sure is.” Casey sighed. “Well, now we know what vibes Claire was picking up on last night.”

A grudging nod. “Yeah, even I’ve got to admit that Claire-voyant knew what she was talking about. And if you repeat that, I’ll deny having said it.”

“Your rivalry with Claire is low on my priority list right now.” Casey’s mind was racing again. “I’m not the right one to handle Amanda. Not now. I’m too pissed. And I want to get my interns settled at the phones before I take off for Southampton. I need to quickly throw together an interview script. Train them to use it. Something simple, easy to follow, but designed to flag any useful leads.” She pressed Marc’s number on speed dial. “I’ll get Marc to go over to Sloane Kettering. He’s the best man for the job. He’ll stay cool. And he has a soothing effect on Amanda.”

“He has a soothing effect on everyone-except those he beats the shit out of,” Ryan muttered.

“True.” Casey turned her attention to the phone, which Marc picked up on the second ring, sounding alert and ready to hit the road. Bless the man. Once a Navy SEAL, always a Navy SEAL. He’d probably done a hundred push-ups before dawn. The man never slept. “Hey,” she began. “We’ve got a situation.”

Just after the morning rush hour, Investigative Detective Rick Jones of the New York State Police Department’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation was settling himself behind his desk when the phone rang.

“Jones,” he answered, simultaneously juggling the receiver and his foam cup of coffee so it didn’t spill over the mounds of paper on his desk.

“The girlfriend released a video on YouTube,” the voice at the other end of the phone informed him. “It spells out everything, including a photo of Everett and a plea for any news on him. The video was released at 6:30 a.m. It’s already had over a hundred thousand hits. There’s no getting away from it. Everett’s homicide is going to be in the headlines and the goddamn media will be up your ass.”

“What do you want me to do?” Jones asked.

“Pull the whole case file and work it.”

“What whole case file? It’s a couple of sheets of paper.”

“Beef up the file. Make the investigation you conducted look thorough. Backdate it. Get rid of anything that points to your passing off the case to the Coast Guard. The media’s going to be all over this. And that sucks for all of us. Is all that clear?”