The Murder That Never Was: A Forensic Instincts Novel

by Andrea Kane

  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 bo
xer 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.

  Claire nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again. “Fine,” she managed to say in a thoroughly unconvincing tone. “It’s not what you think.” To her dismay, new tears began to slide from beneath her lids, and her whole body began to tremble.

  Ryan shoved himself up on his elbows, now clearly alarmed. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No. But you’d better go.”

  “Go?” He blinked, beads of sweat still dotting his forehead, his own body still shuddering in the wake of his climax. “Claire, what the hell is going on?”

  “I’m about to lose it,” she whispered. “And I don’t want you here when I do.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” He pushed his hips against hers, reminding her that their bodies were still intimately joined. “So let’s go for option two. Talk to me.”

  Talk to him? That was a first. Ryan wasn’t big on touchy-feely conversations. And he was the last person she could share this with. He had no faith in her gift—or, in this case, her curse.

  “I can’t. I’m too… You don’t understand…”

  “Maybe not.” Ryan’s knuckles caressed her cheek. “But I’ll try.”

  That did it.

  Claire began to openly sob, turning her face into the side of Ryan’s neck. “It won’t go away,” she wept.

  “What won’t?”

  “The aura of death…underground…buried…” The words were just tumbling out, uncensored, and Claire had no control over them. “I’m always inside the head and emotions of whoever I’m connecting with, experiencing what they’re experiencing. It drains me, horrifies me, affects me. But when the pain is gone, when they die, it’s over. The connection is severed.”

  “Okay.” Ryan didn’t come back with any jibes. He just listened.

  “Like with Julie.” Claire swallowed, still fighting for self-control, and still losing the fight. But at least she was somewhat coherent now. “I felt the impact of the bullet, the pain, the dying. But once she was gone, so was the vision. I’ve never actually felt a dead person before. But now I am. And the experience of death, it won’t go away. It’s living inside me. I’m living inside it. I can’t concentrate on anything else. I guess that just now when we…when I…”

  “Came apart in my arms?” Ryan supplied, trying to help Claire in the only way he knew how.

  It worked.

  “Yes.” Claire could feel Ryan’s gentle teasing flow through her, start to ease back the pain. Her crying slowed, then ceased. “It was like one giant release. The proverbial floodgates opened.”

  “That’s pure skill on my part,” Ryan said. “I’m the provider of giant releases.”

  Claire leaned back, her face still drenched with tears, blinking at Ryan’s audacious statement and smug expression. In spite of herself, she started to laugh. And the laughter felt good, oh so good.

  “You arrogant ass.” She punched his shoulder, touched by the lingering concern she saw on his face. “But, in all fairness, I guess I needed that. So I should be thanking you, huh?”

  “Definitely.” His body hardened inside hers, and his dark blue eyes got even darker.

  “Okay, you’re right,” Claire said with a straight face. “Thank you, Ryan. You were a great listener.”

  His crestfallen expression was priceless. “That’s not the kind of thanks I was hoping for.”

  “Really? I’m shocked.”

  Picking up on her humor, realizing she wanted exactly the kind of thanks he did, Ryan gave a relieved groan. He rolled onto his back, taking Claire with him. “Let’s do this again,” he murmured. “This time slow. I want you to feel me, only me, every second. No dark visions.” He took her mouth in a hot, devouring kiss, tangling his hands in her disheveled blonde hair. “And no crying this time. It sucks for my ego.”

  “Your ego is beyond fine.” Claire kissed her way down his throat and his chest, tasting the salt of his skin. She raised her head and met his smoldering gaze. “But instead of crying, how about if I just make you beg?”

  A chuckle vibrated through him as he stretched his arms over his head. “Go for it, Claire-voyant. I’m all yours.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Aidan answered his cell on the fifth ring, and, even then, he dropped it with a clatter to the floor. There were some groping sounds, and then Aidan’s voice.

  “You are a huge pain in the ass,” he informed Marc. He sounded like he’d been running a marathon, and definitely like it was a bad time.

  That could only mean one thing.

  Marc’s lips curved into a smile as he settled himself on his and Maddy’s living room sofa. “Busy?” he inquired.

  “Not funny.”

  “Gee, I haven’t even asked for the favor yet, and I’m already on your shit list.”

  “I don’t know what favor you’re talking about, but you’re sure as hell on my shit list.”

  “I’m guessing it’s not because you’re in bed with some new hottie.”

  “Yeah. Right. Abby has made sure I have no sex life. And, thanks to you, she’s found new ways to torment me.”

  “Thanks to me?” This time Marc chuckled.

  Abby was Aidan’s just-turned-four-year-old daughter—the daughter Aidan never even knew he had until Social Services placed her in his arms. She was the product of a torrid affair that had ended eight months before Abby was born. Right after Abby’s birth, her mother was killed in a car crash. Which left Aidan as her sole surviving parent.

  Taking on a baby meant throwing Aidan’s world into chaos. Who he was, what he did—a baby just didn’t factor into any of that. He was faced with two choices. Either man up and take care of his daughter or place her in the foster care system.

  To Aidan, a Marine to the core, there really was no choice to make. Reluctant or not, he’d accepted fatherhood with grave responsibility.

  And then he’d fallen in love with his precious little infant.

  The truth was, Marc was crazy about her, too. She had him wrapped around her little finger.

  “Abby? Your precious little princess? Driving you crazy?” he asked with mock surprise. “Well, now, that’s a surprise.”

  Marc’s sarcasm was well earned. While other little girls her age were having tea parties, Abby was climbing to the highest rung on the monkey bars in the park and swinging upside down, or using Aidan’s sensitive documents to line the cage of the gerbil she was hosting for her preschool class. She was a creative little tyrant, with a personality as bi
g as her mind.

  Just picturing his niece made Marc smile. “I’m still unclear as to how Abby’s tormenting you is my fault.”

  “Because she’s in the process of trying on her flower girl dress for the seventh time. I’ve counted, because each time she tries it on, she gets distracted by some must-do activity. And every one of those activities means ripping, staining, or somehow destroying that damned dress. Plus, every fifteen minutes, she wants to know when she gets to wear it. Three weeks doesn’t work for her. Couldn’t you and Madeline push up the wedding to, say, tomorrow?”

  Marc burst out laughing. “I’d love to, for Abby’s sake and for mine. But this wedding has taken on a life of its own. So I can’t help you there. What I can do is to grab Maddy and come over tomorrow night. Between the two of us, we’ll help Abby expend some energy and get you some peace. How’s that?”

  “In exchange for…?” Aidan’s mind was a steel trap. “I seem to recall you mentioning something about a favor.”

  “I had a feeling that would register at some point.” Marc reached for the beer he’d been drinking. “It’s work and it’s important. Will Abby let you talk?”

  “Only if she talks to you first.”

  “My pleasure. Put her on.”

  “Princess?” Aidan called out. “Uncle Marc wants to say hi.”

  “Is he here?” Marc heard Abby’s deceptively innocent little voice reply eagerly.

  “He and Aunt Maddy will be here tomorrow night. But he’s on the phone, and he wants to say good night to you.”

  Running footsteps, and then Abby was on the line.

  “Hi, Uncle Marc. Are you going to sleep now?” She sounded puzzled. “It’s so early.”

  Marc bit back his laughter. “I think it’s you who’s going to sleep, cutie pie.”

  “I’m not tired. I’m trying on my dress. Daddy says I’m ’stroying it. It’s only got three rips. One is big. I got it ’cause I wouldn’t let Daddy help me put it on. It’s pretty clean. But the magic marker won’t wash out.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Daddy doesn’t want you to know, but he bought me another dress to save for the wedding. It’s the same, only not ripped or dirty. Daddy hid it, but I know where it is. It’s on the top shelf of his closet in a pink bag with a zipper.”