The Line Between Here and Gone by Andrea Kane Page B

get ’em. You have an appointment scheduled with Morano at eleven o’clock this morning—right after his 9:00 a.m. breakfast with Lyle Fenton. Oh, as an aside, sorry I let myself into your apartment, but I had to get you proper business attire for a stick-up-the-ass journalist. And while I’m still on the aside, your wardrobe’s boring. Remind me to give you some pointers. Back to business. I’ve included all you need to be a real live news correspondent. This email will erase in ten seconds. Good luck, Robert.”
    Marc couldn’t resist watching and counting backward from ten—although he had no doubt that the inevitable would happen. Sure enough, the instant he muttered “zero,” the email vanished from his screen and his in-box.
    Another Ryan-ism. The guy might be full of himself, but he had good reason to be.
    Putting down his bottle of water, Marc rose. He had his work cut out for him. He glanced at his watch—7:45 a.m. Enough time to do some comprehensive indoor sleuthing, drive over to Paul’s neck of the woods and chat up a few neighbors and maybe a poker buddy or two, and then head out for Morano’s dock.
    It was going to be a productive morning. Marc could feel it in his bones.
    * * *
    John Morano walked into the Living Room, the Maidstone Inn’s rustic but upscale restaurant in East Hampton. He peered around, shifting from one foot to the other as he searched the room.
    Lyle Fenton was relaxing at a quiet corner table, sipping a cup of coffee and glancing over the menu with the casual ease of someone who’d memorized the whole damned thing.
    Morano waved to catch the hostess’s attention, pointing at Fenton to indicate he’d be joining him. When the hostess nodded her understanding, he went straight over to join Fenton.
    “Good morning, Lyle.” Morano pulled out his chair and sat down on the bright, primary-colored upholstery.
    “Morano.” Lyle acknowledged him with a gesture at the silver urn in the center of the table. “Coffee?”
    “Sure.” John poured himself a cup, then accepted the menu the hostess handed him. “I’m glad you could meet me.”
    “Your message sounded as if it were important. So I made some time. But not a lot of it. I’m flying to D.C. for lunch.” Lyle turned to the waitress. “I’ll have the smoked salmon and onion omelet,” he instructed, passing back the menu. “And a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.”
    “Yes, sir.” She jotted down his order.
    John glanced down quickly, scanning the options. “Two eggs over easy, please, with bacon, crisp.” He nodded his thanks at the waitress as he, too, returned the menu to her.
    “What’s on your mind?” Lyle asked.
    John folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “I need those permits. I need you to get them for me. I can’t start construction without them. And I need you on board once I get them.”
    Anger flashed in Lyle’s eyes. “You called me here for that? We’ve had this conversation, Morano. You know my terms.”
    “Yeah. I also know my pressure. I’ve been paying these guys off for months now. I’ve only got so much cash to go around. You know who I’m dealing with. They don’t play games. And they sure as hell don’t take MasterCard. I don’t want to wind up like Paul Everett.”
    “I’m afraid that’s in your hands. Being on Southampton’s Board of Trustees, I have my own pressures. It’ll take a lot of calling in favors on my part to get those permits approved, and a lot of feather-smoothing to get the necessary people to accept my company’s involvement in this venture. Turning Southampton into a mini-Manhattan is not a popular idea with the locals. I’ve got to resort to all kinds of incentives. And I never do something for nothing. You know that. You also know what I need from you. This project of yours has the potential to bring in big money. I want a major chunk of that.”
    “I promised to give you ten percent of the profits over and above the generous amount