The Murder That Never Was: A Forensic Instincts Novel

by Andrea Kane

  “She’s a kid with the potential to destroy everything. I won’t let that happen.” Max stared directly at Dmitry, his gaze brittle. “You saw me kill a man who used my supplements for his own selfish reasons. He destroyed a young girl’s career, her entire life, in the process.”

  “And now you’re threatening to take that life,” Dmitry said.

  “Kidnapping is not murder. And neither of them would be my ideal choice. However, I will protect what I’m doing at all costs. Ultimately, it will benefit the world. A few casualties are a small price to pay.” A long pause. “I assume you can live with that?”

  Dmitry couldn’t help but nod. It might be ugly, but somehow it all made sense. “I can and I will.”

  “Good. Then we’re on the same page. Let’s go check on my stallion.”

  Hours later, on the bed in his room, Dmitry flung an arm across his eyes, as if that motion alone could block out the darkness of what might be. He admitted to himself what he was agreeing to, what he’d already tacitly agreed to—and witnessed firsthand as Jim Robbins lay writhing on the floor, dying before his eyes.

  It was called aiding and abetting. Dmitry could go to jail. But his loyalty to Max ran deeper than his fear. He knew this man, knew that he was driven by the promise of his work. Given the enormity of what he was going to accomplish, did that justify his actions?

  Dmitry had to believe that it did.

  Death was no stranger to Max, not with a father who was a high-ranking officer in the Russian Federation. Nor was it something to fear or avoid in lieu of the greater good. Max had learned that at his father’s knee.

  Dmitry was as close to a confidant as Max had. He’d felt honored when, over a drink, Max had shared his background with him.

  Max was the oldest of eight children, and the only one who burned with his father’s drive and sense of purpose. At a young age, he’d been accepted to an elite European boarding school in Switzerland, after which he’d graduated and come to the US on a student visa to Harvard. There, he’d further developed his scientific aptitude, concentrating in microbiology. Next came Harvard Medical School and then on to becoming a cutting-edge research scientist.

  Dmitry swallowed, remembering how Max had told him that, in his first and only job working for someone else, he’d pushed the boundaries beyond what the plebian world could tolerate and, subsequently, been fired. Dmitry had never questioned him about what those boundaries were and how far Max had pushed them. He’d just absorbed whatever information Max was willing to share, kept it to himself, and done his job.

  Of one thing Dmitry was certain, and that was that, once Max had been fired, he’d taken the route that he should have taken from the start: gone out on his own. It’d taken only a short period of time for him to develop a series of new and progressive health supplement formulations. There’d been a bidding war, and he’d sold his formulas to one of the world’s largest supplement companies for seven figures each, in addition to an ongoing stream of royalties.

  It was those financial gains plus the steady stream of income that had allowed him to start and flourish in his new and grandiose endeavor—to better the entire human race and to, one day, win a Nobel Prize.

  The scientific community knew him as a microbiology and stem cell genius.

  But Dmitry knew he was so much more. And, as a ray of Max’s powerful sun, he would do whatever he had to to be the right arm of this extraordinary man.

  Including being an accessory to murder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Upper Montclair, New Jersey

  Miles was sprawled on the living room sofa, talking on the phone with a Dell customer who didn’t know her ass from her elbow, and trying to troubleshoot her problem on his laptop.

  Same shit, different day.

  The doorbell rang. He ignored the sound, only to have it repeated an instant later.

  “Please hold for a second,” he said to the shrieking woman at the other end of the line. Muting the conversation from his side, he called out, “Working. Leave the package at the door.”

  Deliverymen were the closest thing to visitors he and Lisa ever got. Of course, that was by design.

  “Chicago Police,” a female voice replied with authority.

  Milo froze, obviously for too long, because the doorbell sounded again.

  The female cop kept her voice down, obviously so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. “We just want to ask you a few questions. That’s all.”

  They weren’t going away, that was for sure.

  Quickly, Milo pulled himself together, his mind racing a mile a minute. “Be right there,” he answered.

  He returned to his call only long enough to end it, first getting the customer’s number and promising her a same-day callback. Unfolding himself from the sofa, he rose and glanced over at the second bedroom, where Shannon’s music was playing as she dutifully did the homework her teachers had emailed her.

  In a few long strides, Milo was in her doorway.

  “Shannon,” he said, his tone causing her to snap up and stare at him.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, frightened even before she had her answer. She was skittish all the time, which wasn’t going to help their cause when answering to the cops.

  “The Chicago police are at the door.” Milo didn’t have time to ease into it or to soothe her fears—or his own. Conversation and personal interactions weren’t exactly his strong suits. How was he going to pull off an interrogation?

  “Listen to me,” he said over Shannon’s terrified gasp. “Stay in here unless I come and get you. If you have to talk to them, stick to basic, publically known facts. And, remember, it’s Julie who’s here, and Lisa who’s dead. Stick to that story no matter what. Don’t slip up.”

  “Oh my God.” All the color drained from Shannon’s face. “No wonder I have two missed calls and a voice mail from my parents. What do the police want? What do they know?”

  “I’m about to find out.” Milo glanced over his shoulder, expecting loud pounding at the front door to ensue. “I’ve got to let them in. Remember, stay put. Take deep breaths, and please, just don’t freak out on me.”

  He left the room, knowing full well that Shannon wasn’t about to keep it together. He could only pray the cops didn’t know she was there.

  He blew out a text to Lisa as he walked, letting her know what was going on and telling her to stay at the gym unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Sucking in his breath and then exhaling it, he opened the front door.

  “Detectives Kline and Bogart,” the female detective said, flashing her ID, which showed she was the Kline half of the partnership. She was around fortyish, tall and lean, with chin-length, light brown hair and sharp dark eyes. Her partner, Detective Bogart, was middle-aged, with thinning hair, a hard, solid build, and a more laid-back stance.

  Milo could definitely see who played good cop and who played bad.

  “May we come in?” Kline asked.

  “Of course.” Milo, doing what he hoped was a convincing job of looking puzzled, moved aside so they could step into the apartment.

  “I’m assuming you’re Miles Parker?” Bogart asked, taking a small pad and pen out of the inside pocket of his herringbone sports coat.

  The implication of that question registered. The Chicago and the Montclair police had obviously had a nice long talk about the interrogation that had taken place at Excalibur. Which begged the questions: what had they uncovered about him, and what conclusions had they drawn?

  Only one way to find out.

  “That’s me,” Milo replied.

  Kline’s gaze swept the apartment. “Are you here alone?”

  “Are you looking for Julie?” he answered, purposely sidestepping the question.

  “Both of you, actually. Oh, and Shannon Barker, too. According to her parents, she’s staying here with Ms. Forman.”

  Shit. Milo hadn’t expected them to have spoken with Shannon’s folks. So any attempt to keep her hidden had j
ust gone up in smoke.

  Clearly, these two had done their homework. He’d have to wing this and cross his fingers that Shannon didn’t fall apart, and that he didn’t contradict himself or look guilty.

  “Julie’s teaching a class at her gym.” Milo then jerked his thumb toward the rear of the apartment. “And Shannon’s in there, studying.” The best defense was a good offense. “She’s kind of a mess. But I’m guessing you know that.”

  Kline’s brows rose slightly. “Why would you assume that?”

  Milo went for it. “Because you came all the way here to question us, even though the local police already did. Maybe because Shannon followed Julie here, or maybe because, according to Shannon, her former Olympic trainer is missing. Maybe both.”

  Both detectives looked kind of surprised at his directness. Good. He’d actually surprised himself.

  “You forgot one thing on that list you just ticked off,” Kline said. “You. We didn’t even know you existed, and yet not only were you and Lisa Barnes joined at the hip, she introduced you to Julie Forman, for whom you researched and found Excalibur. Then, you travelled here with her as her pal and computer guy. That’s a long string of coincidences.”

  Milo forced himself to hide his discomfort. “Truth is stranger than fiction, I guess.”

  Kline didn’t look convinced enough to ease Milo’s worry. “We did thorough background checks on both you and Lisa Barnes,” she said in a tone that was a warning not to lie.

  Milo didn’t have to—not about this. “So you know that Lisa was the only real family I ever had. I couldn’t stay in Chicago, not without her.”

  “So you chose to join Julie Forman and start over.”

  “Why not? I’m sure you know what I do for a living—no roots required. Coming here as Julie’s tech guy was a no-brainer.”

  “Are you two involved?” Bogart interrupted to ask.

  “W-what?” Milo started. “No. Not like that.”

  “Then like what?”

  “I told you. I’m her tech guy. We set up the gym together. We share the apartment to save money. She’s got her room and I’ve got mine.”

  “Evidently not at the moment.” Kline swept her arm across the living room area. The guy’s clothes strewn around, the blankets crumpled up on the sofa cushions, the pillow with the indent shoved against them—all those things screamed the fact that Milo was using this as a bedroom.

  “Shannon’s staying in my room,” Milo replied. “So, yeah, I’m camping out here for now. But Julie’s in the master bedroom.” He indicated where that was. “And I’m not.”

  About that, Kline looked convinced. “Speaking of Julie, we’ll be heading over to Excalibur to chat with her after we leave here.”

  Milo couldn’t do anything but nod. “Fine. I’m just not sure either of us can tell you more than we’ve already told the Montclair police.”

  “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.”