The Murder That Never Was: A Forensic Instincts Novel

by Andrea Kane

  Marc heard Aidan groan in the background. His own shoulders were shaking with laughter. “That was a good idea on your daddy’s part. So let’s not spoil things for him. Don’t tell him you know about the dress, and let it sleep in his closet until the wedding.”

  “Okay, but that’s still ten plus eight more days away. I counted on the calendar.”

  “Ten plus eight more is eighteen,” Marc responded to her glum little voice. “That’s less than twenty. Remember when it was lots longer?”

  “Uh-huh. But it’s still long.”

  “How about if you and Aunt Maddy make a special flower girl calendar tomorrow night? You can draw a picture on each day, and decorate it with glitter and sparkles. Then, Aunt Maddy can help you think of a flower girl job for each day, something to make the wedding even more special. Being a flower girl is really important.”

  “Yay!” The glumness evaporated as quickly as it had come. Abby’s voice was filled with joy, and Marc could almost see her jumping up and down. “Can we start before dinner?”

  “Of course we can. But you have to get some sleep now. Otherwise, you’ll be tired and Aunt Maddy will have to do the whole thing herself.”

  “Night, Uncle Marc. I love you.”

  The phone clunked to a table or a desk, and Abby was off, racing to her room. “Daddy, I want to sleep in my dress,” she called as she ran. “I’ll brush my teeth. Can you read me a story?”

  “Only if you take off the dress and put on your nightgown,” Aidan called back. “I’ll be in by the time you’re done.” He picked up the phone. “You’ve got five minutes,” he informed Marc.

  Marc didn’t waste one of them. “I need you to do some recon for us,” he said. He then swiftly filled Aidan in on what they knew and what they needed to know. “Can you do it?” he concluded.

  “Of course I can do it. Marines rule.” Aidan never got tired of their rivalry over the Marines versus the Navy SEALs.

  “How did I know that was coming?”

  “Because you’re pretty smart—for a SEAL.”

  “Daddy, are you coming?” Abby’s voice drifted down the hall from her bedroom. “I want to show you my purple glitter. I tried it on the wall and it looks really nice.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” Aidan told Marc between gritted teeth. “You’re getting a never-ending parade of strippers and lap dancers at your bachelor party.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Email me everything you’ve got. Bring the cup that has this Slava Petrovich’s DNA with you tomorrow night. I’ll have something for you within a few days. Now I’ve got to get some rags to wipe the wall with. Good night.”

  Office of Forensic Instincts

  Downstairs in his lair, Ryan munched on another handful of trail mix and studied his computer screen, waiting for his results. When they came, his lips curved into a self-satisfied smile, and he pumped the air with his fist.

  “Oh, yeah, Yoda. I’m good.”

  “I know that, Ryan,” Yoda replied. “You do exceptional work.”

  Ryan chuckled. “I’m so glad I programmed you with all the right answers.”

  He continued to stare at the screen, his ebullience fading as intense concentration replaced it. He clicked a few more times and delved deeper into his findings.

  He hated big companies—except when he loved big companies. Big companies had the resources to do big things. And, in the case of Facebook, that meant successfully working on using facial recognition software and technology for social media purposes. Precisely what Ryan had needed to work his magic. It would be Facebook-specific, precluding his extending the search to the broader Net, but that was okay by him. Facebook was ginormous.

  Armed with the photos John Nickels had taken at the Montclair Starbucks, Ryan had spent the past two hours deftly poking around, using Facebook’s capability to search for the two thugs who’d attempted to kidnap Shannon. Not that he believed they’d have Facebook profiles—that would be ridiculous, not to mention way too easy for him. But their girlfriends? Friends? Family members? Ryan had gone under the absolute assumption that any or all of them had Facebook profiles, and Ryan would be able to exploit the social media giant’s data for FI’s benefit.

  He’d started out by hacking into Facebook’s skunkworks and finding their facial recognition project. He’d then downloaded a copy of it, tweaked it for his own purposes, and let it loose against Facebook’s live database. His program hadn’t let him down. He’d just gotten an email with a URL pointing to the picture and the name of the Facebook profile in which it was found. One click and he’d seen the profile picture, along with the name associated with it.

  Thanks to a squishy family reunion photo posted by the sister of Thug Number One, Ryan had just identified him as Alexei Kozlov. Not only had the facial recognition software identified him but Kozlov’s bare arm was completely exposed in the photo. His tattoos were clear as a bell and exactly as Claire had described them.

  This was the scumbag who had not only attempted to snatch Shannon Barker but who had killed Julie Forman.

  Well, now the fucker would get his.

  On to Thug Number Two, which was a lot trickier. No one had actually seen him. John had gotten a half-visible shot of him through the van window. Ryan had enhanced and enhanced the photo until he got a telltale marker—a jagged scar on his right cheek. Also, his head was shaved. Nice—not thrilling, but nice. There’d still be no identifying him from this scratchy shot.

  But Ryan got lucky. In Alexei’s photo, his sister had named everyone present. Sure enough, right in there with the group clench was their dear friend, Vitaliy Bolshov, who looked just like the blurry picture John had taken, right down to his bald head and the jagged scar on his face.

  Vitaliy’s left arm was slung over the shoulder of one of Alexei’s cousins, and his right arm was gripping a slutty-looking woman who was pressed up against him and who he might as well be screwing on screen. The good news was that, thanks to Vitaliy’s arm-baring stance, Ryan could see that he had a few ominous-looking tattoos of his own. The better news was that Vitaliy’s girlfriend, Olga Dubova, was tagged, her name in blue, which meant she had a Facebook profile.

  Ryan lined up his cursor and clicked on Olga’s name.

  Up came her profile, complete with intimate poses of her and Vitaliy, some of them downright gross and some of them just what Ryan needed—camera-facing, clear-as-a-bell face shots.

  No doubt that Ryan had his man. He saved all the photos and the two profiles to his hard drive, with the intention of running these new tattoos by Hutch.

  With both killers identified, Ryan went for gold.

  “Let’s try one last thing, Yoda,” he said aloud. “Let’s see what we can come up with using Slava Petrovich’s photos. I’m sure he’s a hell of a lot smarter than the other two morons. But you never know. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll get lucky again.”

  This one was a bear. No girlfriends, friends, or family members with Facebook profiles linking to Slava.

  Ryan wasn’t about to give up. He picked out the best front-on shot of Slava he’d taken as Bruiser walked into the RusChem office building. Using that as a base, Ryan fine-tuned it until you could practically count the guy’s nose hairs. Then, he uploaded that into his program and let loose.

  Long minutes ticked by. And then it happened. A telltale bing. Ryan had an email. And the email had a link.

  Clicking on it, Ryan waited—and the photo came up.

  He’d hit the jackpot.

  The profile belonged to some girl named Delores Lamb. She was a twenty-eight-year-old paralegal at a Chicago law firm. Ryan focused on the specific photo he’d been directed to. Evidently, Delores and her friends had gone to a club for a TGIF night out. The picture showed them, gathered together in a group pose, while some bartender—given credit in the comment beneath the picture—had taken the shot.

  Ryan barely glanced at the group of women. What his gaze was narrowed on was the trio of lowlives si
tting together with their “dates” at a nearby table.

  In the background or not, Ryan could see with utter certainty that he was looking at Slava, Alexei, and Vitaliy—each one wrapped around a woman who had to be a prostitute, based on the cash Slava was shoving into their hands.

  He had his link. Slava Petrovich was connected to the two killers who’d murdered Julie Forman.

  Saving and printing everything, Ryan grabbed his cell phone.

  His chair was still swiveling as he raced out the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It was after eight that night when Hutch reached the FI brownstone. He was beat. He was really enjoying his job at the New York Field Office, but it was new and it was intense. So his days were swallowed up by briefings, phone calls, and observation of fieldwork. Today he’d also tracked down his buddy who worked the Eurasian Criminal Enterprise squad, and reviewed all the tattoos Casey had forwarded him—the original three and now the three new ones that Ryan had uncovered. There were no surprises to the conversation. The tattoos and what they represented were exactly as Hutch had researched them. It was what they implied that worried him.

  He punched in the dummy Hirsch pad code he’d been issued by FI and stepped inside.

  “Good evening, Supervisory Special Agent Hutchinson,” Yoda greeted him politely.

  “Hey, Yoda.” Hutch shrugged out of his jacket. “I need to see Casey right away.”

  “Certainly. She’s on the second floor in the main conference room with Ryan.”

  “Thanks.” Hutch loped up the stairs and knocked on the half-opened conference room door. “It’s me.”

  “Come on in,” Casey called. She gave Hutch a half-smile as he walked in. He wasn’t fooled. Her chin was set, her brow was furrowed, and she was in work-solution mode.

  Ryan was pacing around the room, arms clasped behind his back, looking as intense as Casey did. He paused to shoot Hutch a wave, then continued pacing.

  “Grab a cup of coffee and join us,” Casey said.

  Hutch nodded, heading over and pouring himself a cup of much-needed caffeine, then perched his hip against the credenza. He had a feeling this investigation of FI’s was getting more and more complex. Well, he wasn’t about to make things any easier.

  “I ran everything you sent me,” he told Ryan without preamble. “It was pretty straightforward. Nothing, I’m sure, you didn’t pull off the web. The cobweb on your criminal’s shoulder indicates he’s a drug addict. The cat on his forearm is the mark of a thief. And the dagger through his neck is—no shocker—the sign of a murderer. The six drops of blood dripping from it mean he’s killed six people.”

  “Yeah.” Ryan nodded. “That’s what I got online. Did you talk to your friend?”

  “Sure did. He verified my suspicions. The KGB was known to use this particular Russian mob offshoot to do ‘special projects.’ In other words, you’re dealing with hard-core criminals here, not street gang members. These pigs go way back. They’ve done major time in prison. They’ve murdered people in cold blood. They’re scary, and the people they work for are even scarier. They’re well-connected, including now, through corrupt channels in the FSB.”

  “Dammit,” Casey muttered.

  Hutch could read her thoughts. She’d heard him loud and clear. She was well aware that the FSB—the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation—was the main successor agency to the former KGB. And she was beginning to realize just how shark-infested the waters were that her team was wading in.

  “Are you going to tell me what this investigation is about or not?” Hutch demanded. “Because I know you, Case. Even though you feel ultimately responsible for the safety of your team, you feel equally responsible for resolving things for your clients. You have no intention of backing away. Well, I’m sure as hell not sitting around while you put your life in danger—again.”

  Hutch’s emphasis was clear. While Casey was very protective when it came to the lives of her team, she sucked when it came to safeguarding her own life.

  “Point taken,” she replied, chewing her lip as she weighed her options. “I’m caught between a rock and a hard place. You know I can’t divulge anything without talking to our clients. And they know less than you do about this whole organized crime thing. If they knew, they’d freak, and that would blow our entire investigation. We need them to keep it together.”

  “You’re obliged to tell them everything,” Hutch reminded her.

  “I realize that.” Casey dragged a frustrated hand through her hair. “And I will. Just not as explicitly as we’re discussing here. Our job is to solve their case and to keep them in one piece.” A brief pause. “I also have another responsibility, and that’s to watch your back. Which means keeping the things I share with you on the straight and narrow. I’m sure our clients would welcome you with open arms. But I have to make sure I don’t violate your ethics or your responsibility to the Bureau.”

  A corner of Hutch’s mouth lifted. “I appreciate you looking out for me, sweetheart. But I’ve gone out on a limb before. When it comes to your safety, my loyalties seem to run a little murky.”

  “A little?” Ryan looked distinctly amused. “I’d say a lot. But, hey, that works for me. I want you on board.”

  “I’m waiting for some additional information from another source,” Casey said. “That should complete the picture. Once I have it, I’ll get our clients’ permission to bring you fully into the loop.”

  “Get their permission now,” Hutch responded. “That way we’ll be good to go the minute your other source comes through.” He met Casey’s gaze with insightful certainty. “Aidan works as quickly as I do.”

  Casey’s lips twitched. “Duly noted, Agent Hutchinson. I’ll call them now.”

  Burlington, Vermont

  Max was in a meeting with Dmitry discussing the accommodations and various regimens for their new training arrivals when the call came through.

  The only reason Max even acknowledged the ring tone was because it came in on his private line. Only a few people had that number. And given that Slava was now orchestrating a major initiative, he had to be mindful of everything.

  “Do you want me to answer it?” Dmitry asked.

  Max glanced down at the phone, unsurprised to see that the number was blocked. No one who had this number wanted to be recognized. And Max was adamant that it stay just that way.

  “I’ll take the call.” He punched on the phone and put it to his ear. “Yes?” he said, purposely not reverting to Russian until he knew who and what he was dealing with.

  “Hello, Max.”

  The voice at the other end spoke Russian, even though he also spoke perfect English, as well. It was Ilya Andropov, Max’s mole in the Ministry of Economic Development of the Russian Federation. Ilya was an essential asset, protecting the anonymity of Max’s ownership in RusChem. He reported back to Max on all inquiries that were made regarding the company, swiftly identifying any and all problems or potential infiltrations. In return, he was extremely well compensated—as well he should be.

  Whatever this phone call was about, it was important.

  “What is it, Ilya?” Max asked, switching to Russian himself.

  “A red flag. It seems there have been some inquiries into RusChem. The inquirers were sent on a wild goose chase, but I wanted to advise you of the situation immediately.”

  “Who made these inquiries?” Max demanded. “And what, specifically, did they pertain to?”

  “I wasn’t privy to the information, although I haven’t given up trying. I do know that they were made anonymously. That means it’s someone with internal connections. I don’t think anything was divulged. That doesn’t mean the avenue wasn’t pursued.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Max gritted his teeth. Whoever was in charge of protecting Shannon Barker was delving deep—and they had the connections to do so. “Find out whatever you can. I want to know every detail that transpires.”

  He slammed down the phone.
/>   “What is it?” Dmitry asked.

  “RusChem. Someone’s probing into it. Ilya doesn’t know who, and he’s having trouble finding out.”

  “Does Ilya know what it is that they’re looking for?” Dmitry asked.

  “Not yet.” Max rose and began stalking around the room, trying to displace his agitation. “This is bad, Dmitry. It’s more than just a police investigation, and it extends way beyond the protection of one Olympic hopeful. This is being run by a well-connected adversary. And it’s a direct threat to my research—and to me.” A dark scowl. “From this point on, anyone is expendable.”

  East Village, New York

  It was nearly midnight, and Claire knew she’d procrastinated long enough. Burying her head in the sand was an unfamiliar reaction for her; one she disliked intensely. She wasn’t a coward, certainly not when it came to her gift. She’d long ago accepted that there were times to embrace it and times to rue its existence. But it was always her responsibility to use it as it was needed.

  And that time was now. FI’s clients were counting on her. FI was counting on her. And she wasn’t ducking this new and deeper aspect of her gift any longer. Whatever came of the next few minutes, she’d stay with it and stay strong.

  Quietly, she settled herself on her thickly cushioned sofa, Jim Robbins’ hairbrush and training medal neatly laid out on the coffee table in front of her. Automatically, she folded her legs under her in lotus position, which always brought her a soothing sense of calm.

  She glanced at the two objects and felt a stronger pull to the medal. Picking it up, she shut her eyes, holding it in a secure but not crushing grip. She couldn’t drag out the images; they had to come to her.