by Andrea Kane
“What’s the company name?” Ryan asked, his fingers still flying.
Aidan supplied it but then said, “You won’t find much there, and I wouldn’t waste my time. What’s more important is that Lubinov used the opportunity to fly solo. He developed a series of health supplements and sold them to Osen Pharmaceuticals in a lucrative deal.”
“Osen Pharmaceuticals is huge,” Marc murmured. “Lubinov must have scored a bundle.”
“He did,” Aidan replied. “More important still is what he did with his newly acquired financial gains and stream of income.”
“He launched RusChem,” Casey guessed.
“Right. And he’s gone to great lengths to keep all details of the company under wraps, including who they are and what they do.”
“All this is a smoke screen for cashing in on some PED distribution?” Patrick asked, brows raised. “No way. This is much too elaborate a setup for just that.”
“You’re right,” Aidan agreed. “Lubinov’s goals are much loftier than cash for drugs. From what I was able to gather, he’s heading up some kind of grandiose research project involving über-PEDs. He’s secreted himself away at a private estate in Burlington, Vermont, where he converted a massive, twelve-thousand-foot home into a boutique sports medicine and training facility. His employees are few and unconditionally loyal. He says jump, and they say how high. Clearly, there’s a lot more going on in that mansion than I’m privy to. But he’s obviously on the verge of coming up with a breakthrough formula that he believes will rock the world.”
That important chunk of information sank in for a minute.
“Burlington,” Claire murmured. “That’s in the Green Mountains. And Lake Champlain is nearby. That’s the place I was seeing.”
“I’ll give you the coordinates, Ryan,” Aidan said.
“Good.” Ryan scribbled down the information Aidan provided him with.
“Hi, Aidan, it’s Hutch.” Hutch knew Aidan through his friendship with Marc, a friendship that dated back to Marc’s FBI days.
“Hey, I didn’t know they let you in,” Aidan returned dryly.
“Just lucky, I guess.” Hutch was simultaneously processing what Aidan was saying and pondering another, equally important offshoot of Lubinov’s work. “I’ve got a good handle on Maxim Lubinov. What I want to know is, where does Eurasian Criminal Enterprise fit into this? Is Lubinov hiring mob members to act as RusChem employees, as well as to eliminate any potential threat to his work?”
“Absolutely. He needs them for both. This way, his name isn’t associated with RusChem, and he doesn’t have to get his hands dirty protecting his interests. He’s got Slava Petrovich—that guy you asked me to look into—doing both. Petrovich is Lubinov’s cleaner, as well as his front man for RusChem. Petrovich hires the right people to kill off the wrong ones, and takes care of the bigger jobs himself.”
“Maxim Lubinov is a hands-on killer when he has to be,” Claire amended. “He’s poisoned someone himself.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that’s true,” Aidan replied. “Lubinov will do anything to protect his venture. If murder is necessary, so be it. He’s not a guy with a conscience.”
There was a brief pause and the sound of Aidan turning a page. “Getting back to Slava Petrovich, I checked with my former FSB contacts about his background. He’s one terrifying SOB. His nickname is Slava the Slayer, and he was known in the FSB for taking care of problems using whatever means necessary. No further explanation required. But, guys, this bastard is dangerous, and he has skills, so you’d better be careful.” A pause. “On the other hand, I don’t see how you can avoid tangling with him if you want to get to Lubinov. This is an ugly situation all ways around. Are you sure you don’t want to cut your losses on this one?”
“Not happening,” Casey replied firmly. “We’re going to stop Maxim Lubinov and secure our clients’ safety.”
“The hell you are,” Hutch shot back in a no-bullshit tone. “You and Forensic Instincts aren’t immortal. Nor are you expendable. You’re not becoming collateral damage.”
“Okay, this is where I hang up,” Aidan said. “I’ve given you everything I know. What you do with it is up to you. But, for the record, I agree with Hutch. Not to mention that Madeleine, and especially Abby, would kill me if anything happened to Marc.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Aidan,” Marc replied.
“Good. Because I’ve spent a hell of a lot of time with Ryan planning your bachelor party. You’re going to be there to endure every embarrassing minute.”
“Good-bye, leatherneck.” Marc’s middle finger was already on the cell phone button.
Hutch pulled over a laptop the minute Aidan hung up.
“I want to read Lubinov’s bio, the public details of his life, and the transcription of his conference speech firsthand. No offense, Ryan.”
“None taken. You’re the profiling expert. Do what you need to.” Ryan was staring at his own computer screen. “I’m concentrating on the coordinates Aidan gave me so I can zero in on Lubinov’s estate.”
The reasons for Ryan’s actions were obvious. Still, he stopped short of voicing them aloud. Hutch didn’t need to hear something compromising, even though he knew damned well what FI was planning.
His disapproving stare bored into Ryan, who just kept his gaze fixed on his computer screen. A weighty silence filled the room.
With a muttered oath, Hutch went back to his analysis.
The team exchanged glances. There was no doubt in their minds that Hutch was going to stand in their way. And maybe he was right to do so. This case had spiraled out of control. What they were now facing was really scary stuff, extending far beyond the scope of their expertise. Former KGB agents now employed by Organized Crime, a megalomaniac who killed on a whim… This was the stuff meant for the FBI. But how could they involve the Bureau when all the proof they had had been illegally obtained? What the hell were they going to do?
Abruptly, Hutch sat back in his chair. “Okay, you wanted my professional assessment, so here it is. Based on everything Aidan said and on what I’m reading here, my belief is that Lubinov suffers from narcissistic personality disorder.” Hutch ticked off the telltale traits on his fingers. “He’s arrogant, haughty, and consumed with his own importance. He expects to be treated in a superior fashion. He only respects those he feels are his equal, and that includes pretty much no one. He’s obsessed with his own brilliance and his indisputable path to success. He is unwilling to recognize the needs and feelings of anyone else and will take advantage of whoever he has to in order to achieve his goals.”
“Isn’t that like a megalomaniac?” Emma asked.
Hutch nodded, still deep in thought. “Megalomania is the term that was once used to describe this disorder.” He frowned, clearly not finished with his assessment. “But I think there’s more to Lubinov than just that. In my opinion—again, based on everything I’m hearing and reading—he’s also ruthless enough to have antisocial personality disorder.” Once again, Hutch elaborated. “He has a disregard for right or wrong. Rules and laws don’t apply to him; they’re for others. Based on Claire’s vision, there’s evidence of hostility, aggression, and violence—plus, he displays a total lack of empathy for others and lack of remorse about harming them.”
“A.k.a. wack job,” Emma muttered.
“No.” Hutch shook his head. “Understand that personality disorders are not mental illnesses. Lubinov isn’t crazy. He’s fully functional and can strategize and carry out whatever plans he devises.”
“In some ways, that makes him even more dangerous,” Casey noted aloud.
“You bet,” Marc said. His gaze was sober as it found Casey’s, and he spoke to her as only her right-hand man could. “I totally agree with what Hutch is saying. Which means I strongly suggest that, once Ryan figures out where Lubinov�
��s estate is, you squelch his urge to go all GI Joe on the place. Anything we might or might not contemplate doing will take the same level of strategizing and implementing as Lubinov is capable of.”
“Absolutely.” Casey didn’t bat a lash.
“Gee, why doesn’t that make me feel better?” Hutch asked.
Casey turned to him, decisiveness written all over her face. “You’ve been more than wonderful. Thank you so much for your help. It was invaluable. But you need to leave now.”
He arched a brow at her. “Why? So you can plan an illegal invasion of Maxim Lubinov’s compound—one that will put all your lives at risk? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Hutch, we’ve already put you in an untenable position,” Casey replied quietly. “Whatever we do from this point on, you can’t be involved.”
“She’s right, Hutch. This is where you get off.” Patrick’s words were few, but the look he gave Hutch conveyed it all. Hutch had given them the analysis they’d asked him for. He hadn’t crossed any indelible lines—not yet. All he had was supposition. If he walked away now, he’d be clean. If he hung around, he’d be blatantly violating his obligations to the Bureau.
“I’ll take things from here,” Patrick added, still holding Hutch’s gaze.
“Son of a bitch.” Hutch slammed his fist down on the desk. He read Patrick perfectly. He knew—and hated—the fact that he was right. He also knew that, no matter what he himself did now—and what he’d said earlier—ultimately, he wasn’t going to be able to keep his promises—not to Casey and not to the Bureau.
He pushed back his chair and rose. “I won’t sit in on this official meeting,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t be watching every move you make. If I get the slightest inkling that you’re about to do something stupid, or if I manage to dig up my own solid evidence, I’m bringing the FBI on board. I’ll give you the courtesy of letting you know, so you can alert your clients and cover your asses. But that’s where my promises end. We’re now talking about a criminal enterprise operation involving murder, mass production and distribution of illegal drugs, and the involvement of Eurasian organized crime.”
“We have no solid evidence, Hutch.” Casey was visibly displeased but not surprised. She couldn’t argue with his rationale; it was sound. “I brought you into this case on a minimal and confidential basis. Please don’t violate my trust. If we find solid proof, then we can talk about involving the FBI. Otherwise, this case belongs to Forensic Instincts.”
Hutch’s jaw set. “We’ll see.” Setting down his coffee mug, he shoved back his chair and strode out of the room.
The echo of the door shutting—hard—reverberated off the walls and made Hero pick up his head and growl.
“He’s right, Casey.” Patrick spoke up at once. “We all know we’re in way over our heads. I’m aware that we have no solid evidence. But we’d better get some fast, and then we’d better involve law enforcement.”
“Don’t you think I realize that?” Casey fired back. “But this case is far more complicated than Hutch is privy to. Up until now, keeping Lisa’s identity and everything she witnessed a secret was paramount to keeping her, Miles, and Shannon safe. That’s no longer enough. I get it. I also get that we’ve broken every law in the book to acquire the information we have. We have nothing legitimate to give to the FBI to elicit their help.” Casey turned up her palms in question. “So tell me how we’re going to come up with this magical evidence fast enough to stop Maxim Lubinov—before he and his Russian mob kill our clients?”
“Hey.” Ryan sat up straight, no longer hunched over his laptop. “We don’t need evidence. I know where Lubinov’s compound is.”
“Cut it out, Ryan,” Patrick replied sharply. “We do need evidence.”
“Well, we don’t have it. What we do have is the information I just dug up.”
“Fine,” Patrick countered. “So let’s arrange for an anonymous tip to the Bureau. They’ll send in SWAT teams to handle the job.”
“Yeah, and we’ll all go to jail,” Marc reminded him. “What Casey said is true. Our evidence was all illegally obtained. And this wouldn’t be a little anonymous call, like a tip-off to an impending bank robbery. The accusations made would require explanation and elaboration, things that only professionals—in this case us—would know. We’d be screwed.”
“Marc…” Patrick began.
“I don’t like it any more than you do, Patrick,” Marc cut him off. “But we’ve got to do this ourselves. Not like crazed superheroes.” He shot Ryan a pointed look. “But like seasoned pros. We need a well-thought-out plan and the perfect strategy with which to implement it.”
“Then let’s come up with one,” Casey said. “Now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Emma walked through Little Italy, finishing up the twenty-minute trek from Tribeca to her small but airy apartment on Mulberry Street in Chinatown. Hopefully, her two roommates wouldn’t be home. It wasn’t that they were a problem to live with; they weren’t. Nikki was a nursing student who spent most of her time at NYU. And Kelly was an editorial assistant at a small publishing house in Midtown. Both girls were a little on the boring side. But they were basically cool—and they made paying the rent feasible. So living with them was okay. Except for days like today, which had been so intense that all Emma wanted was some downtime alone.
And she wouldn’t get much.
The FI team was pulling an all-nighter to lock in on the right plan of attack. Each of them was getting a few hours off to shower, nap, and get their asses back to the office and to the brainstorming session. Casey had arranged it so their downtime was staggered. This way, the strategic wheels kept on turning.
As it turned out, Emma would never get her downtime—but not because of FI or her roomies.
Just as Emma opened the apartment door, she felt her pocket vibrate, signifying the ring of her burner phone. Feeling totally wrung out, she groaned, even as she wriggled the phone out of her pocket and answered it.
“Hello?”
“It’s Lisa.”
“Everything okay?”
“I guess.” Lisa sounded as if she were wound tight as a drum. “I just wanted to talk to you. I know Forensic Instincts is doing everything to solve our case, including asking more of your FBI contact. And I’m really grateful. But I’m still scared. And, frankly, I’m losing my mind. I feel like I’m in jail. So I need to know exactly what’s going on. My gut tells me I’m getting half answers.”
Emma shut the door, dropped her stuff on the hall table, and headed for the kitchen. She was suddenly very awake and very unhappy. Fielding Lisa’s questions was way out of her league—especially when her mouth always acted before her brain. How much could she say? How much would Casey permit her to say?
She was in deep shit.
“I wasn’t there when Casey talked to you, but I’m sure she was completely up front,” she tried, hoping that she was doing the proper amount of tightrope walking. “Casey is a straight shooter. She’s honest with our clients and protects them with everything she’s got. That’s why she’s leaving no stone unturned.”
“What stones? I don’t know any more than I did a week ago—except that Shannon was almost kidnapped and that Patrick’s men are practically living with us. What aren’t I being told?”
Emma was half tempted to put Lisa on hold and call Casey for advice. But that would only tip Lisa off to the fact that her fears were justified. No, Emma would have to do this on her own.
“There are no secrets, Lisa. What you’re probably sensing is that we have to protect our confidential informants and their sources.” Emma opened the refrigerator door and tried to buy herself some time to compose her answers. She had to rely on her street smarts. They were the best ammo in her arsenal.
“Listen, I just got home and I’m starved,” she announced, cra
dling the phone between her shoulder and her ear. “So, while we’re talking, you get to listen to my microwave reheat last night’s pasta. Then you get to hear me stuff it in my mouth.”
“No problem.” The normalcy of Emma’s conversation definitely took Lisa down a notch, just as Emma had hoped. Lisa, Miles, and Shannon were living like terrified trapped mice. A little normalcy was what was needed.
That gave Emma an idea—one that would give her the opportunity to develop the right game plan and one that would also give Lisa a much-needed diversion.
Popping her pasta in the microwave and setting the cook time for two minutes, Emma stepped out on the proverbial limb and prayed Casey wouldn’t kill her.
“How about if I come out there tomorrow?” she suggested. “I could spend a little time with you guys, clarify what Casey told you, and maybe even take a spin class.”
“That would be awesome.” No surprise that Lisa jumped at the chance. “Do you have time?”
“I’ll make time.” This part came easily, because it was fact. “Besides, I like spending time with you. We’re kind of kindred spirits.”
“Yes. We are.” Lisa’s entire mood was lighter. “What time can you get here?”
“How about ten-ish? I can go straight to the gym and meet you there. Then we’ll head back to the apartment so I can talk to Shannon.”
“That would be perfect. The poor kid needs some cheering up. If anyone can make her laugh, it’s you. And, frankly, I could use some of your perkiness about now. So I’ll see you at the gym around ten. And not to worry—I’ll set up a spin class just for you.”
Emma called Casey with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The minute she answered, Emma launched into the details of what had just happened and what her plans were for tomorrow.
“Oh, Emma.” Casey sounded more frustrated than angry. The team had been spinning in neutral for hours, and she was stressed to the hilt. “The last thing we need right now are more complications.”