The Murder That Never Was

by Andrea Kane

  “Actually, we have some questions for your friend Julie about Jim Robbins. The same goes for Shannon. So could you please tell her we’re here?”

  Okay, so that was their angle. Not just to unnerve him and “Julie” but to dig into Jim Robbins’ disappearance. Well, the three of them were safe on that score. None of them knew anything about where Robbins was or if he was alive. As long as Shannon steered clear of the PED distribution, they’d be fine.

  “Sure.” Milo took a step in the opposite direction, then hesitated and turned back to the detectives. “Please go easy on Shannon. The poor kid just lost her whole future.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Parker,” Kline replied, shoving her hands into the pockets of her navy pantsuit. “We’re not here to upset her. We just want to ask her a few questions.”

  Nodding, Milo turned and walked to the back room. “Shannon?” Pausing in the doorway, he gave her a firm, keep-it-together stare. “The Chicago police are here. They want to talk to you.”

  Shannon was curled up on the bed, still wearing that deer-in-the-headlights look. Then again, what sixteen-year-old wouldn’t look scared shitless when they were about to be grilled by the cops?

  “Okay,” she said in a small voice. She stood up, tugging at the bottom of her T-shirt to ensure it reached her jeans and didn’t expose any skin. Then she followed Milo into the hallway.

  “Hello, Shannon.”

  Well, what do you know, Milo thought. Kline actually has a soft side to her.

  She smiled at the teenage girl and spoke in a conversational, rather than a confrontational, tone. “I’m Detective Kline, and this is Detective Bogart.”

  “Hi, Shannon,” Bogart said, also smiling.

  Shannon looked from one of them to the other. “Please don’t make me go home,” she burst out. “My parents know I’m here…with Julie. Just ask them.”

  “We did,” Bogart assured her. “They gave us permission to talk to you. And they’re fine about you spending time with Ms. Forman. So we’re not here to take you home.”

  “Then why are you here?” She spread out her hands, palms up in question.

  “We wanted to talk to you about Jim Robbins.”

  Shannon’s eyes widened. “Did you find him?”

  Good girl, Milo thought. Turn your panic into concern for Jim.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Bogart said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Shannon’s lips quivered, and her hand instinctively went to her shoulder. “I haven’t really seen anyone since the accident. My old life was over. I couldn’t deal with facing what might have been if I hadn’t…” Tears welled up in her eyes.

  Detective Kline stepped forward and squeezed Shannon’s hand reassuringly. “We understand. Just one more question. Do you know anyone who might want to hurt Jim?”

  “Hurt him?” Shannon stared. “Is that what you think happened?”

  “We honestly don’t know. He could have left town, but why would he?”

  “I can’t think of any reason. He was an awesome trainer. Everyone respected him. I don’t really know why he’d leave, or why anybody would do something to him.”

  “Did Julie Forman know him?” Detective Bogart asked.

  “Julie?” Shannon didn’t have to fake her confusion. “Yes, they saw each other at Apex—that’s the Olympic Center I trained in. Julie used to come and watch me practice. So she and Jim talked. But I think it was only about me and my future…my old future…” Tears slid down Shannon’s cheeks, and she wiped them away with the backs of her hands.

  Bogart shut his notebook. “I think we have everything we need. Thank you both for your time.”

  Casey was upstairs in her galley kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee and waiting for Hutch, when Lisa phoned. The call was expected, since three other calls had preceded it—the first two from Patrick, one telling Casey when the Chicago detectives showed up and the other when they left. The third call was from Miles, about thirty seconds later.

  Casey had been seriously concerned when Patrick told her what was going on. Even if Miles managed to get through an interrogation, Shannon wasn’t anywhere near equipped to do the same—especially not without warning or preparation.

  So Miles’ report had been a real relief. Not only had he and Shannon come through with flying colors but Casey now had a good handle on where the cops’ heads were. They were still uncomfortable with the Miles/Julie coincidences, but, more importantly, they were looking for leads on the Jim Robbins disappearance.

  After listening to Miles, Casey had spoken briefly to Shannon, giving her a big bravo and then instructing her to make an immediate and succinct call to Lisa. Lisa’s job would be even harder than theirs had been, given that she was not really Julie and had no knowledge whatsoever about Julie’s verbal exchanges with Jim. Therefore, it was imperative that she be prepped before the cops could show up at Excalibur—to know how and when Julie and Jim had interacted, how their conversations had pertained only to Shannon, and, therefore, how casually she’d known him. And obviously, just as Shannon had never mentioned her final run-in with Jim, Lisa knew full well not to mention Julie’s final findings in Jim’s office. All hints at the PED distribution were off-limits.

  Casey listened to Lisa’s recounting of her interview. Thankfully, she’d followed instructions to a tee and held it together. The detectives’ questions had gone in precisely the direction Casey had expected. And it sounded like Lisa’s and Shannon’s answers had been believably alike.

  So Detective Kline and Detective Bogart had walked away with whatever suspicions were still nagging at them, but without any facts.

  “I don’t understand,” Lisa said in that high, thin, nervous voice. “I thought the Montclair police might show up at Excalibur again, just to see if Milo and I were still here, to kind of check up on us. But an official visit from detectives who came here all the way from Chicago? Why?”

  “Because a man is missing.” Casey took a sip of her coffee. “The whole Miles-Lisa-Julie angle is a fishing expedition at this point. Kline and Bogart have done all the digging they can and turned up nothing. They were probably hoping that Miles would say something inflammatory to reignite their case—but he didn’t. So forget the Barnes murder. Now it’s all about locating Jim Robbins, or his remains.”

  “What if they do?”

  “We’ll worry about that if it happens. But I don’t believe it will. I believe we’ll uncover Robbins’ whereabouts long before they do.”

  The brownstone’s front door buzzer sounded, and Casey glanced down at her watch. It had to be Hutch.

  “Lisa, I have to run,” she said into the burner phone. “The FBI contact I told you about is at the door. I have a lot to review with him. I’ll check in with you later.” She paused. “We’re getting there. So try to relax.”

  “I will,” Lisa answered, this time sounding a little better and very relieved by the fact that another FI-caliber case solver might be on his way into the mix. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  Making her way down the four flights of steps, Casey heard Emma’s front-door greeting and Yoda’s simultaneous announcement: “Supervisory Special Agent Hutchinson has arrived.”

  “Hi, Emma. Hi, Yoda,” Hutch responded, having long since accustomed himself to Ryan’s omniscient creation.

  “Good evening,” Yoda responded. “The temperature in the brownstone is seventy-two degrees.”

  Hutch chuckled. Yoda always informed him of the indoor temperature, ever since the first time Hutch had commented that it was a cold night and he was keeping his coat on.

  “Not to worry, Yoda. I’m not wearing a jacket.”

  “A wise idea,” Yoda responded. “Emma often turns up the thermostat against my better judgement. I specifically keep it at the correct level.”

  E
mma made an irritated sound. “I sit near the door, Yoda. I’m the one who gets blasted with drafts.” She glanced up as Casey reached the bottom step. “Thank goodness. Maybe you can tell Yoda to stop pestering me.”

  “I don’t pester, Emma. I state facts.”

  Casey grinned. “Can’t argue with that one. But, Yoda, it’s fine. I can attest to the fact that Agent Hutchinson is warm enough.” She shot Hutch a teasing grin.

  “On that note, I’m going home.” Emma went back to her desk and gathered her things. “You two have fun.”

  “We’re working,” Casey responded with a frown. Emma was too young and too new at FI to overstep her bounds.

  Emma heard the note of disapproval in her boss’s voice and immediately dropped the subject. “Then good luck with your work. Night.” She headed out the door.

  Casey turned to Hutch. “Hey.” She smiled at him—that soft, intimate smile that no one else ever saw.

  “Hey back.” The look in his eyes said he’d rather take her to bed than to work, but he was resigned to the fact that he’d have to wait. “Where do you want to work?”

  “Let’s go up to my apartment. I have everything spread out in the kitchen, along with my humming laptop.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Hutch was studying Claire’s drawings, his forehead creased in concentration.

  “I haven’t worked the organized crime squads,” he said. “But a couple of my buddies have. These are definitely Russian gang symbols.”

  “I looked up the meanings,” Casey replied, pointing at her computer monitor. “The birds flying over the horizon are a symbol of freedom. The sailing ship on the shooter’s right forearm means he’s a roamer. And the bull is a sign of cruelty and rage.”

  “Not just cruelty and rage. The bull’s the symbol of a hitman, the guy who does all the dirty work.” Hutch angled his head toward Casey. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what this case is about? Confidentiality or not, it sounds too dangerous. You’re talking about major criminal enterprise here.”

  Casey sighed. “I wish I could. This case is snowballing into something much bigger than I ever anticipated. But all I can share with you is a theoretical overview. And not just because of FI’s confidentiality agreement, since I’m fairly sure our clients are desperate enough to have me expand the role of our discreet FBI agent to help solve this thing.”

  “Then let me guess. You’re going to be weaving in and out of what’s legal to get this case solved.” Hutch rubbed the back of his neck, scowling as he did. “That’s what worries me here, Case. And that’s not my ethical integrity talking. It’s my fear for your safety. If you’re dealing with the Russian mob, you’re in way over your heads. Marc is the only one of your team members who’s remotely trained to handle this.”

  Casey couldn’t deny what Hutch was saying. She played the situation out in her mind and came to a decision.

  “I’m going to take two steps toward containing this. First, I’m going to get our clients’ permission to more fully open up to you. I won’t tell you any of the details of our investigation that would compromise you or force you to cross a line. Second, I will tell you now that this whole Russian crime angle just came into the picture today. If it turns out to be a key factor in the puzzle, I’ll have Patrick arrange for security detail for each of us. I won’t put my team in danger.”

  “Not just your team. You.”

  Casey smiled, reaching out to entwine her fingers with Hutch’s. “I’m part of the team. So, yes, me, too. Don’t worry. You and I are finally creating an ‘us.’ It’s the wrong time to put my life in jeopardy.”

  That last part didn’t please Hutch at all. “There’s never a right time to put your life in jeopardy.”

  “I’ll remind you of that when it’s your ass on the line, Agent Hutchinson.”

  Hutch didn’t contradict Casey, but the look in his eyes was pure guard dog. “Touché. Then I guess we’ll have to keep each other in line.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Patrick was at his home watching TV with Adele when his phone rang.

  He glanced at the number and then answered the call ASAP. “Something happening, John?”

  John Nickels was one of the best and most trusted security guards Patrick hired to assist him. He had a solid bunch of guys he contacted on an ongoing basis. They consisted of retired FBI agents and police officers, all experts in their field, all selected by Patrick, all of whom reported directly to him.

  Tonight, John was the security detail watching Shannon, and Joseph Buzak, another of Patrick’s A-plus guys, was watching Lisa and Miles.

  “Shannon’s at the Upper Montclair Starbucks,” John said without preamble. “There’s additional activity in the area. Not the usual sedan that follows her around. A new van that smacks of more than just surveillance. I don’t know what they’ve got in there, but I’m getting a bad feeling.”

  Patrick’s spine straightened. “Then move in and have a cup of coffee with her. Keep her calm, keep her safe. I’m on my way.”

  Chicago, Illinois

  Ryan had parked on a side street where he could monitor Otter’s progress. Marc was perched beside him in the back of the van, watching as Ryan’s program superimposed the cell phone tower signal strength data on a Google map of the downtown Chicago business district. The program drew three intersecting circles on the map.

  “You might be a genius, but I know what that is,” Marc said. “A Venn diagram. I learned it in grade school. You were still in diapers.”

  Ryan rolled his eyes. “Except I’m doing this with formulas and algorithms, not chalk and erasers.” He continued to watch and concentrate.

  A few minutes later, he punched the air in mock salute, yelling, “Yes!” at the same time.

  That didn’t particularly impress Marc—not yet. He’d seen and heard this ritual many times from Ryan. Sometimes it was a major breakthrough, and other times it was just ego celebration.

  “So, what does your primal chest-thumping mean this time?”

  “It means I’ve tracked Jim’s key contact to within half a block, and, judging by the buildings I can see in Google Earth, it’s down to one building. Number one twenty-five South Wacker, near West Adams St. Let me see what Google has on the building.”

  Ryan entered some information. A few minutes later, he asked, “Hey, Marc, you speak Russian. What does all this stuff mean?”

  Marc leaned forward, read through the stuff, and started chuckling.

  “What’s so funny?” Ryan demanded.

  “Seems like this building has a Russian software company as a major tenant. They hire hot, young female software engineers straight from Russia and have them sell software projects to male engineers. It’s a simple but effective sales model. The building has other tenants, mostly Russian companies. The coffee bar in the lobby is standing room only in the morning. I guess girl watching is a universal sport.”

  A corner of Ryan’s mouth lifted. “A nice perk for us. Early-morning field trip tomorrow?”

  Starbucks

  Upper Montclair, New Jersey

  Shannon was sipping her vanilla latte and nibbling on her brownie, trying to relax on her first solo excursion outside the apartment. She’d begged for this little bit of space, wholeheartedly agreeing to have one of Patrick’s men watching her every move as she walked the bustling suburban streets of Upper Montclair. Being holed up in Lisa’s small apartment, besieged by her worsened panic—now that Julie wasn’t Julie and Upper Montclair wasn’t the safe haven she’d run to—was worse than being holed up in her house in Chicago. Lisa’s apartment was small, claustrophobic, and more than Shannon could bear. She was suffocating, and the isolation was only making things worse. She needed to breathe.

  The walk had helped. So had being a part of humanity agai
n.

  Setting down her drink, she took a bite of her brownie and glanced around. People watching was always cool and usually distracting. That helped, too. It also made her a little homesick. Quickly, she sent another reassuring text to her mom, promising her that everything was fine, including her health.

  She started when a tall, broad-shouldered man in his midfifties with thick graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard, dressed in a black sports jacket and slacks, sat down across from her, a cup of hot coffee in his hand. She knew who he was. John Nickels. Patrick Lynch had introduced him when he’d started being her security guard. But the two of them had never talked beyond that first meeting, and he always kept his distance.

  “Mr. Nickels?” she asked in confusion.

  “Hi, Shannon.” John gave her a paternal smile. “I need you to act like I’m your father or your uncle—someone close and caring, definitely not a predator who’s trying to pick up a sixteen-year-old girl.”

  Bewildered or not, Shannon giggled.

  “Good girl,” he said. “Now I want you to keep drinking your latte and munching on that delicious-looking brownie while you listen to what I’m saying, without looking scared. Remember that I’m here to protect you, and that keeping you safe is my number one priority. Nothing is going to happen to you while you’re under my protection.”

  “Okay.” Shannon paled a bit, but she stayed put and took another fierce bite of brownie. “Is someone watching us?”

  John frowned, torn between candor and making sure Shannon didn’t lose control, blow his cover, and endanger her life.

  “I think so, yes,” he replied carefully. “But you know you’re going to be all right with me.”

  A tiny nod was her response.

  It was reassuring enough to make him continue—not that there was any other choice. John had to get Shannon out of here and safely back to Lisa’s apartment.

  “There’s a van parked in the municipal lot behind us that looks suspicious to me,” he said. “It showed up shortly after you did. It hasn’t moved in an hour, and the only sign of activity I’ve seen, other than the fact that the car is still idling, is the burly thug who’s feeding the meter. He alone sets off warning bells in my head. I could be wrong, but my instincts say otherwise. Just to be on the safe side, you’re going to leave here with me and go directly back to the apartment. I’ll walk you inside and check out the place. Then I’ll stand outside the door, just in case. Mr. Lynch will be arriving shortly thereafter, and he’ll keep an eye on the building and make sure the van isn’t hanging around. If it is, he’ll take care of it. Does all that make sense?”