The Murder That Never Was: A Forensic Instincts Novel (28 page)

“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.”

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, cradling 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.”

“I know.” Emma rushed on to explain. “But, Casey, you didn’t hear Lisa’s voice. She’s not only about to shatter but she’s beginning to think we’re keeping things from her. Which, obviously, we are. I know it’s for all the right, necessary reasons, but Lisa wouldn’t understand that. We’ve got to tell her something. And we’ve got to keep her grounded, especially now with things coming to a head. The same goes for Shannon. Miles is different. He thinks like a computer. So he’ll be okay with us, as long as Ryan is in the IT driver’s seat.”

Emma paused only to suck in a breath before plunging on. “I figured this would give me time tonight to pick your brain and get your instructions on what to say and what not to say. You guys could keep working on your plan while I provide diversionary tactics with our clients. I’m sorry if I screwed up, but it was all I could think of when Lisa started grilling me.”

To Emma’s surprise, Casey began to laugh. “In some convoluted, Emma-like way, that actually makes sense and is a good idea,” she said. “Plus, you were really put on the spot, and you thought on your feet like a pro. You’re a handful, Emma Stirling, but I’m proud of you.”

Emma blinked. That was the last thing she’d expected. But she’d take it. Casey’s approval meant the world to her.

“I’d rather do this training session in person,” Casey continued. “We’re all here, so you’ll have comprehensive prep. Can you come back to the brownstone now? I realize you’re operating on empty.”

“No problem. I’ll just swallow my pasta, throw on my running gear, and jog over.”

Slava’s flight landed late, thanks to the usual delays at O’Hare. That fucking airport had one of the worst stopover ratings in the country, which sucked, since everyone and his brother flew in and out on a minute-by-minute basis. Plus, the weather had been foul, and the drenching rains had delayed the flights even further.

Normally, he would have been jumping out of his skin. But this time, he’d used the hours to think and to plan. He’d already contacted Alexei and Vitaliy and arranged to meet them in a deserted area of Newark down by the Passaic River at five a.m. Thanks to the positive tone he’d taken, the assholes assumed this was an important follow-up meeting that had to be held in private. Just as well. Their misconception would make Slava’s job that much easier. He’d just bring the physical tools he needed. He already had the skills. For years, he’d used them. But, at this point in his life, his role as a cleaner was only accessed on rare occasions, primarily because he wasn’t operating with the backing of the Russian government. If he were caught, he’d be on his own. So hiring others to do the killing was a far better option.

Still, he missed the days when he was the one doing the fieldwork.

He’d have his chance now. Once he’d finished his role as the cleaner, he’d take Alexei’s and Vitaliy’s newly repainted and re-license-plated van and be on his way. They sure as hell wouldn’t be needing it. He’d drive straight to Upper Montclair. He’d scope out the apartment and the gym, subtly and expertly, and see what kind of security was on his targets. He could smell an operative, be it CIA, FBI, police, or a spy, a mile away. The KGB had trained him in how to spot them and, if need be, how to neutralize them. He’d take photos and have Max run them. They’d know who they were dealing with in short time.

All threats would be eliminated.

All the lights in the Forensic Instincts brownstone were shining brightly as the team wrapped up their Emma prepping.

Scribbling furiously on her third sheet of paper, Emma finally finished taking notes. She put down her pen and sank back in the conference room chair, gazing around the table at the team. They all looked like hell. After countless hours of brainstorming—with countless more to come—they were physically exhausted and mentally spent, and yet they’d taken two hours with her to lay out her dos and don’ts.

“Wow. I feel like I’ve been prepped for battle,” she said, glancing down at her pages.

“That’s because you have,” Casey responded frankly. “We’re reaching the end goal here. Everything we do has to go as perfectly as possible, or lives could be lost.”

Claire shifted uneasily in her chair. “I can’t shake the feeling that that’s true,” she murmured. “And every time you bring it up, the aura gets stronger. I know we’re moving toward converging on Maxim Lubinov. He and his fortress conjure up an overwhelming sensation of death. Whatever plan we come up with has to be flawless.”

“That’s the goal.” Patrick rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the taut muscles that were screaming for a hot shower.

“We won’t be leaving this room until we do,” Marc added. He was holding up better than the others. His days as a SEAL had trained him for this kind of sleepless, pressure-filled work. His gaze was still alert, and his stance was still taut. A few forehead creases were the only signs he showed of the frustration he was feeling over not yet having come up with the ideal plan.

“I feel guilty going home to sleep,” Emma said.

“Don’t be.” Casey waved that thought away. “You need some rest. You have to be on all day tomorrow. And you have to inspire confidence in our clients. If you look like something the cat dragged in, they’re going to assume there’s trouble. They might take off, which would create a lot more of a mess out of all this.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agreed. “Casey’s right. You have to handle Lisa and Shannon and keep them calm. And remember what I said: tell them to have Miles call me with any questions, worries, or whatever that he has. I’ll make them go away.”

Emma nodded.

Claire reached over and took Emma’s hand. “Stop feeling guilty. You’re doing your job, the same way we are. Yours starts in the morning. Ours continues tonight. So preserve your strength. You’ll need it.”

“You can feel a little guilty if you want,” Ryan amended. He was indisputably the crankiest member of the FI team when he sacrificed his sleep. “The only two team members who get any shut-eye tonight are you and Hero.”

Hearing his name, Hero picked up his head and woofed.

“You said it, boy.” Ryan gave the bloodhound a sage nod.

“The difference is that, when Hero doesn’t sleep, he takes it like a man,” Marc noted dryly.

“Very funny.”

“Not meant to be.”

“Enough, guys.” Casey was in no mood for their ornery banter. Right now, she was totally focused on Emma. “Let me hear the overall premise you need to convey tomorrow,” she instructed her. “Make it frank and direct.”

Emma didn’t even glance at her notes. She just interlaced her fingers on the table and met Casey’s gaze.

“I’m explaining to Lisa that we now believe that Shannon was part of a big medical experiment involving numerous targets and designer PEDs. Shannon was just one of many. We’re on the brink of figuring out who’s at the helm and who that person has working for him or her, doing things like the attempted kidnapping, the surveillance, etc. It’ll only be a matter of days. Then it will all be over and they’ll be safe.”

“Good girl.” Casey gave her a supportive smile. “Concise. Optimistic. Honest. And with just enough new information to satisfy their need to feel included. You’ll do great.”

“Casey,” Patrick inserted, “if you can spare me for a few hours, I can personally drive Emma to Upper Montclair, keep an eye on her, and then drive her back.”

“No way.” Emma didn’t wait for Casey’s response. She just blurted out her words—and then thought better of it when she saw the expression on Casey’s face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking from Casey to Patrick. “That sounded awful. Patrick, you’re awesome. But, with all due respect, that idea is a mistake. Whoever’s watching our clients—seeing me roll up in a car with New York plates, driven by a guy who smacks of FBI, and who acts as my babysitter? I’m supposed to be a friend and a fellow gym rat. I’ve got to keep up that image, not raise red flags.”

“She’s not wrong, Patrick.” Ryan lent her some support. “Now that Lubinov knows we’re on to RusChem, he’s bound to have his best guys on the surveillance beat. Emma’s got to look like a regular person. If they suspect she’s a PI or any other kind of threat, she’ll be in more danger than she will be going this alone.”

Patrick frowned, clearly torn between instincts and logic.

“You can assign one of your security guys to watch me when I’m in Upper Montclair,” Emma suggested.