The Murder That Never Was: A Forensic Instincts Novel (25 page)

Chicago, Illinois

Slava was in one hell of a mood when he blasted into his office building the next morning. He didn’t do his usual lobby scanning of the beautiful women he’d like to screw. He just strode directly into the coffee shop, pitying whoever waited on him today if the asshole didn’t know that he took his coffee black. In Russia, he always drank black tea, but the black tea in this country sucked. If the server asked him if he wanted “room” in his cup, he’d probably choke the life out of the guy and enjoy doing it.

He ordered his drink and loomed at the counter, waiting, his jaw clenched as he recalled the phone call to Max yesterday. The lunatic had gone ballistic when he’d heard about Alexei’s and Vitaliy’s screw-up. No argument about the fact that it had been a big one—one that was going to cost them their lives. Slava had already verbally castrated them, even as he decided who he’d move up to be their replacements once they were six feet under.

But Max? The guy had reacted like a raging psychopath, screaming about his research being compromised, about killing everyone who threatened it, and about slitting the throats of his own people if need be. Half of it had been in English and half in Russian, but, more than once, Slava had heard his name shouted with an expletive attached to it.

He didn’t take well to being threatened. And if Max didn’t calm down, it would be his throat that would be slit.

Slava’s jaw clenched as he reached the counter and barked out a command for coffee. Fortunately, the coffee shop employee gave him the right drink, looking like a timid mouse as he did. Slava snatched the steaming cup from his hand, threw a crumpled five on the counter, and walked out. He stood in the lobby, loosening his tie and ignoring the scalding in his throat as he took a huge gulp of the hot liquid. A redheaded Russian woman with long, shapely legs gave him a coy smile. He ignored it. She wasn’t his current type, and he wasn’t in the mood.

He half scanned the room and was about to veer toward the elevator when a flash of blonde hair caught his eye. It belonged to a beautiful young woman he’d never seen here before. She was seated directly across from him and was studying him as intently as he was her. Exquisite, he thought. Natural blonde hair, loose and just brushing her shoulders. Huge blue eyes like the sky. The face of an angel. The body of sin. She was wearing a tight black dress that hugged every inch of her and that barely covered the tops of her thighs. One shapely leg was crossed over the other—legs that were surprisingly long, given her diminutive size, and that looked even longer thanks to the four-inch heels on her designer shoes.

When she moistened her full red lips with her tongue and then smiled at him, gesturing toward the seat beside her, he was lost.

He re-knotted his tie and made his way over, stopping to lower himself into the chair she’d designated.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly, her voice as bewitching as the rest of her.

“You’re American,” he noted in a thick Russian accent.

“Is that a problem?”

“With a woman as beautiful as you? Never.”

She gave him a more melting smile, and he could feel his erection pounding against his clothes.

“I am Slava. And you are…?”

“Isabella.” She breathed the word in a soft, ethereal cloud.

“A lovely name.” He watched as she took a sip of her coffee, frowning as she looked down.

“A beautiful face like yours should never wear a frown,” Slava said. He sized up the problem instantly. “Let me buy you another cup.”

Her smile returned, reaching her eyes. “Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure.” He rose. “How do you like it?”

A teasing spark flickered in her eyes. “Many ways. I’m adventurous. Surprise me.”

He caught his breath. “I’d enjoy doing that very much.” He nearly knocked over the businesspeople arriving for their workday, and was in and out of the coffee shop in record time, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow.

“With cream and sugar,” he said, handing her the cup. “Just like you.”

Their fingers brushed, and Slava literally caught his breath.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re a gentleman. Such a rarity these days.”

“Not always such a gentleman.” He chuckled. “Did you just start work here? I would have noticed you.” He shifted in his chair so that his trouser leg brushed up against her bare calf.

“I’m just in town on business,” she answered ruefully. “I have to fly back to LA tonight.”

Slava felt his erection deflate. “Can’t you take the…” He searched his mind for the right phrase. “Late night to morning…”

“The red-eye,” she supplied. She bit her lip thoughtfully. “I can try.” She looked as eager as he did, which raised his spirits and his appropriate body part. He watched as she put down her coffee and pulled out her phone. “What’s your cell number?” she asked.

“I text it to you. You give me yours.” He, too, took out his cell.

She rattled off a number that he very much wanted in his contact information. He punched it in, sent her a text message from his unrestricted phone, and then waited to hear her message chime.

“I’ll call you,” she said when it arrived, rising and retrieving her coffee cup. “I have a lot of juggling to do—meeting and flight time changes—and arrangements with my hotel.” Another seductive smile. “I’ll make this happen, Slava. I want it as much as you do.”

“That I doubt.” He came to his feet, as well, lifting her fingers to his lips. “My evening is open to you, Isabella.”

“Until then.” With one last bone-melting smile, she turned and walked out the door.

Once out of view, Emma shuddered, wiping the fingers he’d kissed on her dress before she gingerly gulped down the rest of her coffee—being careful to only touch the rim—and slipped the empty cup into a Ziploc, which she then deposited in her purse. “I’ve got it,” she said into the tiny microphone clipped to her bra. “And I think I’m going to puke.”

“You missed your calling, Isabella,” Ryan teased into her earbud. “Bruiser was about to come in his pants.”

“Not funny. I’m pretty sure his eyes drilled a hole in my dress on the way out. And FYI, he’s repulsive.” She was already walking toward the curb, arm raised. “I’m taking a cab to the hotel. No way I’m walking on these shoes for another minute.”

Cruising through the streets of Chicago was a bittersweet experience for Emma. She stared out the window of the taxi, flashes of memories popping into her mind like nostalgic photos. The just-like-in-the-movies suburban house with a white picket fence and rows of tulips that came up every year. Doing cartwheels on the lawn. Learning to ride a bike with training wheels and pedals she could barely reach. Her dad tinkering in the garage. Her mom cooking Sunday dinner. Her first day of kindergarten. Her sixth birthday party and the red velvet cupcakes with the heaps of white frosting her mom had baked for her and her twenty school friends. She and her parents going to the movies. Buying a deep-dish pizza and having her dad dangle a piece of mozzarella over her mouth, teasing her until she jumped up and chomped it between her teeth.

Emma blinked back tears. All of that was in the past, treasured memories that she’d stored away and that were only now resurfacing because of her first return trip home. The dark memories followed close behind. Her family moving to New York. Her parents dying in that horrible crash. Foster care. Life on the streets.

She’d become a different person since then—harder, street-smart, a seasoned pickpocket who had only now turned her life around.

She swallowed hard. She had to concentrate on business or she’d lose it entirely. But, despite her best efforts, long-suppressed tears slid down her cheeks.

Fifteen minutes later, under control with her emotions back in check, Emma knocked on the hotel room door. Marc swung it open, and Emma walked past him and directly over to a chair. She dropped down into it, groaning as she yanked off her shoes.

“Thank God.” She massaged one aching foot. “I’m glad I’m too short to be a model.” With that, she dug into her purse and handed the Ziploc to Marc. “Here’s your evidence. I got Bruiser sweating like a pig in heat. He’s as good as caught.”

“You did a great job, Emma.” Marc, with his keen sense of observation, noted the tears on her lashes and the strained look on her face. “I realize this must have been difficult for you. But you pushed past it and got even more than we hoped for. A name, a phone number, and the touch DNA we needed. You’ve moved up the FI team ladder.”

That brought a small smile to her lips. “Thanks. I aim to please.”

“Okay,” Ryan announced from his spot at the computer. “I took care of the cell phone problem. All calls to Isabella will be routed to voice mail on an untraceable number. And since Emma gave Bruiser—aka Slava—nothing else to go on, we’re in the clear. Slava, on the other hand, won’t be too happy. He’ll go to bed with a hard-on and never find his mystery woman. Tough break for him.”

“My heart bleeds.” Marc was shrugging on his jacket and snapping shut his suitcase. “Ready to hit the road?”

“Damn straight,” Ryan replied. “At top speed. We’ll brief Casey as we drive. I want to get back ASAP so I can have access to all my technological resources. Meanwhile, I’ll be in the back of the van, subtly hacking into Homeland Security.”

“To see if there’s more on Slava,” Marc stated.

“Yup. The DNA needs to go to a crime lab. But the partial name, the photos… Who knows what our government agencies have on him. So if not Homeland Security, there’s the NSA, the DMV…”

“I get it.”

Ryan grinned. “By the time I’m done, we’ll know everything about Slava, including his jock size.” A quick glance at Emma. “Hey, brat, are you all set?”

Emma inhaled sharply and shook off the rest of her nostalgia. “Not until I change into normal clothes and wash this crap off my face. She grabbed her backpack and a towel and headed for the bathroom. “Give me five.”

Burlington, Vermont

Max sat in his study, his hands clenched tightly on the desk in front of him. His rage from yesterday had been eclipsed by reality and the difficult decisions he had to make. The attempt at kidnapping Shannon Barker had not only been unsuccessful, it had opened the door to major questions, complications, and the potential for dire consequences.

The episode itself would have been salvageable if the Barker girl had merely seen she was being followed and taken off. At worst, she would have taken her suspicions—and that’s all they would have been—to the police, who would have shooed her off like an annoying fly. After all, she’d just been interviewed by two Chicago cops. She’d clearly given them nothing and doubtlessly come across as a traumatized teenager. So resurfacing again, claiming she was the target of some dire act, would come across as an overactive imagination.

But that wasn’t what had happened. The fact that someone was after Shannon Barker had been validated and the kidnapping attempt foiled by some private security guy—a guy who was clearly safeguarding her and who carried a gun.

That raised the red flag question. Why did Shannon Barker have an armed bodyguard? She must have convinced someone her life was in danger. And that meant she knew something, provable or not. It also meant that, whatever she knew, she’d passed along to Julie Forman and her friend, Miles Parker. Did they also have a security detail watching them?

And who was orchestrating all this? It had to be professionals. Which made the threat to Max even more problematic.

This was a ticking time bomb. And when it exploded—well, Max couldn’t risk any of the burning embers raining down on him.

He picked up his cell phone and pressed the familiar number.

Slava answered in Russian, respectful, if still pissed off by yesterday’s reaming out. “Yes.”

“Time to do damage control,” Max told him. “And you’re in charge of it all—in person. Not just the cleanup. The arrangements. The execution. Hire only the best you know to assist you. No more assholes who make costly mistakes.”

That appealed to Slava and his ego, and the edge in his tone vanished.

“Alexei and Vitaliy—you want me to take care of them?” It was more of a suggestion than a question.

“Immediately,” Max replied. “The bodyguard can identify them. He’ll have taken pictures, run license plates, and questioned car rental places. They’re a major liability.”

“Don’t worry. I made sure nothing leads back to you,” Slava assured him. “But you’re right. I’ll fly out to Jersey and take care of them today. Their bodies—or what’s left of them—won’t ever be found.” A pause. “Do you want me to take care of the Barker girl, too?”

“No. We can’t risk it. But we need eyes on her, Julie Forman, and Miles Parker. They obviously know something. They have to be contained—but not killed. Keeping a low profile is paramount at this point. I have to figure out what they know and who’s in charge of protecting them.”

“And if they make a move to do something before you figure all that out?”

“Then there’ll be no choice but to kill them.”

Tribeca, New York

Office of Forensic Instincts

Casey waited until everyone had gathered around the conference room table. No one got coffee. No one joked or talked. Tension crackled in the air since everyone had important information to share in the debriefing. Even Hero picked up on the strained atmosphere. His head was raised, as if he were ready to leap into action at a moment’s provocation.

Hard copies of Patrick’s report on Shannon’s attempted kidnapping were waiting for each of them at their seats. Conversely, Ryan’s notes were scribbled on pages that only he had, as they were filled with too much undecipherable, complex information for the average layperson to make sense of. But he was visibly chomping at the bit. So was Emma, who was proud of her role in uncovering a major facet of the case.

Claire was quiet, dark circles under her eyes, but she, too, had a lot to share.

And Casey, who’d already been briefed across the board, had her own information to impart.

“Damn.” Marc was skimming Patrick’s report. “This is a direct attack, no attempt at subterfuge. Something really scared these guys—probably the Chicago cops showing up.” He read on. “Talk about desperate,” he muttered. “This whole operation fell apart after they saw John pull his gun. The whole point was to leave with Shannon no matter what. They should have been prepared for anything.”

“Their desperation is what worries me the most,” Patrick said. “So I’ve doubled security on Shannon and on Lisa and Miles.” He glanced quizzically at Casey. “How much have you told Hutch?... Never mind,” he said, waving away his own question. “There’s no way we can ask him to run the license plates and do some facial recognition work for us.”

“I wish we could, but we can’t,” Marc agreed. “This isn’t an FBI case. It’s ours, and, as you better than anyone realize, it walks a very fine line between legal and illegal.”

“True.” Patrick frowned. He hated that reminder. Even after all this time as an FI team member, working outside the law was still like fingernails scraping across a chalkboard to him.

“I’ll take care of it, Patrick,” Ryan told him. “You don’t have to hear how.”

Patrick looked relieved.

“To answer your question,” Casey said, “I’ve told Hutch very little. But, at Lisa’s and Miles’ consent, he did some research on the tattoos Claire visualized on the shooter’s arm. He feels we’re dealing with Russian criminal enterprise.”

Ryan sat up straighter. “You mentioned the Russian part when we talked. But what tattoos?” he demanded, looking at Claire.

In a strained monotone, Claire fully explained what she’d picked up off Julie’s personal items. As she spoke, Casey emailed each team member photos of all the sketches Claire had drawn, plus the link to Hutch’s explorations.

“That fits with what Marc and I came up with.” Ryan’s gaze found Casey. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” she said with a nod.

Like a proud father, Ryan held up a picture of Otter and proceeded to describe his creation’s technical capabilities.

“Ryan,” Casey interrupted. “None of us understands a word of what you just said. I’m glad your new gizmo is doing its job. Please just get to the bottom line and tell the team what you found.”

Only slightly deflated, Ryan put down the photo and scanned his notes.

“We embedded Otter in U.S. Cellular’s downtown Chicago facility. Otter fed us precisely the data I needed to triangulate the primary location where Jim Robbins’ most frequent contacts received his calls. It turned out to be an office building where a Russian-backed software company had its operations. Several smaller companies, also Russian, rented space there as well. So Marc and I positioned ourselves in the lobby to spot just who Jim’s contact was. Once we connected our tracked cell phone to the right person, we had our man. We just had no idea who he was.”

“That’s where I came in.” Emma couldn’t contain herself anymore. “Seems this creeper has an eye for women, especially ones with headbands for skirts and Louboutins. So I brought my hottest bodycon dress, hopped a plane to Chi-Town, and put on an award-winning sex kitten act. I walked out with his name, and my coffee cup with his sweaty fingerprints. Now I’ll let Ryan finish the geek speak.”

Ryan ignored her sarcasm. “On the ride home, I made a few discreet ‘inquiries’ into our government agencies’ servers, which gave me what I needed to identify Bruiser as Slava Petrovich.” Once again, he glanced down at his notes. “He works for RusChem, a Russian biochemical manufacturer. They have a manufacturing plant here in the US and sales offices all over the world. Chicago is one of several sales offices in the US. I still have more investigative work to do into the company, its operations, and its management. All roads lead back to Moscow, but whoever owns the company is a big question mark.”

“Nice work.” Casey pursed her lips, her wheels turning. “But these findings I am going to mention to Hutch, at least the parts that don’t involve ‘talking to’ our government’s servers. I’m hoping he can discreetly see if RusChem is on anyone’s radar. He’s already aware that we’re dealing with organized crime here. And we know we’re dealing with killers. If RusChem is the mothership, it’s time to find out. I’d like to know if we’re walking into a potential buzz saw before it’s too late.”

“Let’s cover both convention and unconventional avenues,” Marc suggested quietly.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we also need lab results on the DNA evidence, plus as much unofficial info on RusChem as we can get,” Marc replied. “Hutch can only go so far. He has to work within boundaries. We know someone who doesn’t.”

“Aidan?” Casey guessed. She was referring to Marc’s older brother, who graduated from Annapolis three years ahead of Marc, and who was a former Marine—a hybrid intelligence officer and communications officer. Aidan was now a troubleshooter for Heckman Flax, the investment bank of all investment banks. He was in charge of all their trading platforms worldwide, and he travelled globally to put out fires on a moment’s notice.

His connections, both corporate and military, were beyond extensive, spanning the highest levels of business and political circles.

“Yes, Aidan,” Marc confirmed. “If anyone can ferret out who controls RusChem, he can. I’ll also ask him to find out whatever he can on Slava Petrovich, including suggesting the right lab to run his DNA.”

“Is Aidan abroad now or home?” Casey asked.

Marc shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. What we need from him can be done from anywhere.”

“He was in Manhattan yesterday,” Ryan piped up. “We’re putting the finishing touches on your bachelor party. Ten days to go. You’re getting married in less than three weeks, remember?”

“Believe me, I remember.” That softer smile touched Marc’s lips—the one that always accompanied any mention of Madeleine. “I’m more than ready.”

“Find Aidan and fill him in,” Casey told Marc. “Anything we can get, from Hutch and/or Aidan, will be welcome. Especially if we’re dealing with a corporation that’s a front for killers.”

“Done.” Marc was all business again.

Up until now, Claire had remained quiet. Now, she folded her hands on the table and said, “While we’re on the subject of killers, Jim Robbins is dead. He’s buried someplace rural. There are acres of land, a manor, and a body of water nearby. It’s a very deep grave. I don’t know exactly where the location is yet.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed quizzically. Claire sounded disconnected, factual rather than empathetic—very un-Claire-like given that she was describing a murder. He glanced at Casey, whose expression was unreadable.

“That reminds me…” Marc reached into his case and pulled out two baggies: one with a man’s hairbrush in it and one with a training medal inside. “I got these from Jim Robbins’ apartment.” He passed them over to Claire. “They were as personal as I could find. Maybe they’ll help give you more details about Robbins.”

For a long moment, Claire just stared at the items, making no move to touch them or pick them up. “I’ll take them home with me after our meeting,” she said at last. “I need to be alone when I interact with them. My connection with Jim Robbins seems to be very strong. I’d rather not explore it in public.”

That did it. “Claire-voyant, what the hell is going on?” Ryan demanded. He was being totally unprofessional, and he knew it. He was also pushing Casey, who was scowling at him. But he couldn’t seem to help himself.

“You’re acting weird,” he pressed. “Something obviously happened when you figured out Jim Robbins was dead. What was it?”

Claire raised her head and met Ryan’s gaze. She didn’t look surprised. She looked weary and almost nakedly exposed. It twisted something inside Ryan to see her like that.

“I didn’t ‘figure out’ Jim Robbins was dead,” she responded in a robotic tone. “I lived it, not the murder, but the death itself. It was a first for me, and I’m a little shaken. I’ll get over it. It won’t keep me from delving further. I just need some personal space.” She eyed the objects Marc had brought. “These should help. Maybe I can get some background on Robbins, or motivation for why he was killed. Or even a more specific location for his body.”

Ryan’s brow was furrowed in confusion. But this time he took Casey’s cue and shut his mouth.

“Jim Robbins’ job at Apex hasn’t been filled, either,” Casey reported. “Shannon made a phone call to her friend Jessica. There’s an assistant trainer standing in for him who is set to stay on in the event that Jim doesn’t return. So far, she hasn’t offered either Jessica or Billy any supplements. My guess is that she won’t. Slava—or whoever runs RusChem—wants this channel permanently closed so it doesn’t lead back to him.”

Casey paused, shaking her head. “This whole scenario feels odd. We’ve got Russian mobsters, PED trafficking, and murder. That’s big-time stuff. Yet there’s an elite personal aspect to all this that just doesn’t fit. Handpicked trainers. Handpicked athletes. None of whom are replaced when they’re out of the picture.”

“Couldn’t whoever’s running this drug ring have shut down the Apex connection and taken it elsewhere?” Emma asked. “There are plenty of competitive athletes and trainers out there.”

“Not at the Olympic level,” Casey replied. “And that’s where they obviously want to be. Again, elitism. This is still conjecture on my part, but I’d say that this isn’t just about peddling drugs. It’s about who they’re peddling them to—subjects who can attain a grandiose goal. If personal recognition factors into this, that’s not your typical drug ring or your typical organized crime scenario.”

“Based on your theory, there’s another inconsistency.” Marc rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “After they killed off Julie Forman and Jim Robbins, we’re seeing more surveillance than action. They’re dancing around our clients. There should have been hits put out on them, not increased surveillance or kidnapping attempts. Drug rings wipe out threats; they don’t watch them. And they also don’t stand still. They branch out and grow. This one is very insular. It’s almost as if protecting their privacy trumps moneymaking. I see where you’re headed, and I agree with you. There’s something else going on here. We don’t have the answer yet.”

East Village, New York

Claire was sitting on her living room rug in lotus position, the two Ziplocs Marc had given her lying, untouched, beside her. She knew what she had to do—and she was working herself up to do it.

She was just about to reach for the first bag when her doorbell rang. A wave of relief swept through her. She didn’t care who it was. It meant a temporary reprieve.

She stood up and walked over to the door, peering through the peephole.

Ryan.

Turning the lock, she let him in. “Hi.”

“Hey.” He stepped inside the apartment.

“Aren’t you supposed to be hacking systems and figuring out who owns RusChem?” Claire asked.

Ryan nodded. “And I will—in a few hours. Marc and Casey are still talking to Aidan and Hutch.” He angled his head, openly scrutinizing her—not sexually but with puzzled concern. “You look like hell.”

“Thank you,” Claire said sarcastically, shutting the door behind him. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Claire walked into the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?” She was already pulling out a bottle of water. That was Ryan’s usual choice, at least in her place. He wasn’t exactly an herbal tea kind of guy.

She handed it to him.

He placed it on the counter.

“Thanks.” Instead of making himself comfortable, he was still watching her. “After you told us about your visions and the way you reacted to them, I decided to check on you.”

Claire gave a faint smile. “You just saw me at the office.”

“I meant personally check on you.”

Her brows rose slightly. “In bed or out?”

Ryan responded to her attempt at humor by giving her that drop-dead grin that defined the word sex. “Now that you mention it, both. The second would be more chivalrous, but the first would be mind-blowing.”

“Since when are you known for your chivalry?”

“I guess since now.”

That was a huge admission coming from Ryan McKay. Slowly, over the past few months, he’d changed, started to allow a bit of his soul to peek through. And, God help her, that change made him all the hotter.