“To my various subsidiaries.”
“Hmm. I assume your itinerary is available, should it be needed.”
Red splotches were forming on Fenton’s cheeks. He was livid. And he was starting to feel trapped.
“I don’t really see—”
“Amanda,” Casey interrupted, inclining her head in Amanda’s direction, “make sure you know how to reach your uncle. You’re bound to have good news to share with him. In which case, he’ll want to know immediately, especially given his attachment to Justin. Who knows? Maybe Congressman Mercer will be a donor match.” Her curious gaze flitted back to Fenton. “Or will he be going on this business trip with you?”
“Of course not,” Fenton snapped. “Why would he?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he just needs a little getaway.”
“Hardly. His kids are coming home from school. He’ll be with his family.”
“Right. His family.” Casey’s stare bore right through Fenton. “The congressman strikes me as a loyal and devoted husband and father. I’m sure the same applies to him as a son—if his father is deserving.” A purposeful pause. “From what I hear, his father is a tough and demanding man. I’m sure the congressman’s loyalties can only be pushed so far. Don’t you agree?”
Fenton started. Clearly, Mercer hadn’t mentioned to him that Forensic Instincts knew about their blood ties. That was to the congressman’s credit. It meant he’d been sincere when he told FI he’d be keeping his eye on—and his distance from—Fenton’s suspicious activities.
But Casey had just taken care of that omission in grand style. It had to throw Fenton big-time to know that Mercer wasn’t quite the lap dog he’d assumed, and, more important, that Forensic Instincts had uncovered yet another secret of Fenton’s—this one explaining the leverage he used to “encourage” congressional support for Fenton Dredging.
His hostile expression said it all.
“You’re acquainted with Warren Mercer, right?” Casey asked, the vision of innocence. “Although, if I recall correctly, the two of you haven’t spoken in many years.”
“Warren and I lost touch, yes. But Cliff is a fine man, so I’m sure he’s a fine son.” Fenton was trying. But, hostile or not, he was panicking. Casey could see it in every gesture, hear it in every syllable.
Amanda, meanwhile, was staring at Casey as if she’d lost her mind. And Casey could certainly read hers: why the hell was Casey making small talk, however useful, when Paul was about to return to the PICU and run smack into Fenton?
Casey wished she could explain.
As it turned out, she didn’t have to.
The waiting room door opened, and a man and a woman walked in. They didn’t warrant a second look—just average professionals, with a brisk Manhattan stride and everyday business attire.
Except that Casey’s trained eye spotted the pistols clutched subtly at their sides. Even without that giveaway, she’d know they were plainclothes FBI. She’d interacted with the Bureau long enough to recognize the demeanor. All the tells were there—the sense of purpose, the sharp look in their eyes as they sought out and found their target, and their casual yet intense way of closing in.
Fenton had his back to them, so he didn’t react. And Amanda noticed nothing unusual about the pair, so she didn’t react, either—not until she saw Marc, Claire and Ryan clustered in the corridor, standing to the side as a set of three armed plainclothesmen stepped just inside the doorway.
Spotting the M4 rifles, Amanda’s eyes widened, and her whole body tensed.
Casey remained intentionally relaxed, and she didn’t meet Amanda’s gaze. She simply watched the SWAT team position themselves along the periphery of the doorway, their M4 rifles raised.
Fenton saw his niece’s expression and started to turn around.
He didn’t have the chance.
The two agents had raised their pistols into ready gun position, the female agent announcing in a clear, firm voice, “Lyle Fenton. FBI. You’re under arrest for racketeering and corruption.” A moment later, his arms were pulled behind him and handcuffs were snapped onto his wrists.
The male agent then searched him for weapons and contraband.
“This is outrageous,” Fenton snapped, too stunned to struggle. “I want my attorney.” He shot a scathing look at Casey. “You bitch,” he muttered between clenched teeth.
“I’ve been called worse.” Casey gave him a saccharine-sweet smile. “And I’m happy to oblige. Thank you both,” she added, speaking to the FBI agents.
“Our pleasure,” the female agent replied. “We have a car waiting out back with Mr. Fenton’s name on it. Let’s go,” she addressed Fenton, urging him toward the door.
“Amanda…” Fenton opened his mouth, then shut it again.