The Murder That Never Was

by Andrea Kane

  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.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  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.

&nbs
p; “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.

  Claire didn’t want to think anymore. He was here, she was hurting, and he could make it go away—for a little while.

  She closed the gap between them, pressing her fists against the hard wall of his chest, as if trying to push away the ghosts. “I don’t want chivalry. I want you. In bed. And I want that now.” She gripped his shirt and fitted her body to his. “Please,” she whispered.

  “Shit.” Ryan’s breath hissed out from between his teeth. He dragged Claire even closer, tangling his hands in her hair and tilting her
head back so he could ravage her mouth. “Are you sure?” he managed.

  “Very sure.”

  All words ceased.

  Ryan continued his onslaught, devouring Claire as he backed her into the bedroom, stripping her as he walked. The back of her legs hit the bed, and she tumbled down onto the mattress. While Ryan tore off his shirt and jeans, Claire wriggled out of her thong and tossed it aside. Ryan kicked off his boxer briefs and leaned over, pulling Claire higher up on the bed.

  Then he was on her, and in her, and their world became pure physical sensation.

  It wasn’t slow and sensual—not this time. It was hard, fast, and frantic.

  Claire cried out as Ryan pushed into her, once, twice, and then in a steady rhythm that made her back arch so she could take him deeper each time. Ryan made a raw, rough sound, his hands clenching into fists on either side of the pillow as his motions quickened.

  The rest was a wild, sweaty explosion of the senses.

  They both came with a vengeance, their bodies in that rare total sync that was theirs.

  Neither of them moved. They just lay there, collapsed into the mattress, dragging air into their lungs.

  Claire was abruptly jerked back to reality when she felt tears sliding down her cheeks and onto Ryan’s shoulder. She froze, more mortified than stunned. Yes, her feelings for Ryan were complicated. But she didn’t cry—not this way, like a weepy teenager. Not in front of anyone, much less Ryan. She sure as hell wouldn’t be doing an about-face to that rule after sex, no matter how shattering.

  No, the emotional tidal wave building up inside her had nothing to do with Ryan. It was the release of raw, pent-up feelings caused by unthinkable revelations… images…internalization…

  Fighting back the dam that was about to break, Claire knew the moment Ryan became aware of the moisture on his shoulder. He tensed up, turning his head so his lips were at her ear. “Everything all right?” he asked, sounding bewildered.