The Murder That Never Was: A Forensic Instincts Novel Page 7

  She’d slipped out the back door of her house—the muffled noises of her departure drowned out by the TV show her parents were watching as they relaxed in the family room.

  Quickly, she’d headed for the bus stop. And now she was at her destination.

  The light sensors in the Apex Center’s parking lot had done their job, so the area was illuminated. There was no sign of Jim. But his car was parked in its usual spot. And Shannon wasn’t going anywhere until she confronted her former trainer. During her bus ride, she’d thought through her strategy. She wouldn’t go right for the jugular, because Jim would shut down and she’d accomplish zip. She’d keep him off guard. And then she’d go for it. It was time this meek little kitten grew some claws.

  Sure enough, twenty minutes later, Jim exited the building, whistling as he slung his gym bag over his shoulder and headed for his car.

  Shannon stepped out of the shadows, shoving her fists deep into the pockets of her jeans for courage—and to turn on the voice recording app on her cell phone. Then, she headed directly over, reaching Jim just as he dug out his car keys.

  “Hi, Jim.” A gentle hello. No venom. No cause to get him riled up—yet.

  He started when he saw her. He was definitely surprised and not at all happy.

  “Shannon. What are you doing here? I thought you were home recouping.”

  “I was. I have been. I’m going crazy. Besides, I really needed to talk to you.”

  “About?”

  Shannon feigned hurt. “And here I thought you’d be all sympathetic about my crashing and burning. Guess I was wrong. I was just a business investment to you.”

  Jim’s expression softened. He’d obviously reminded himself that Shannon was just a young girl whose life had been blown to bits and who couldn’t do anything damaging to him except cry on his shoulder.

  “That’s never been true,” he said in a tone filled with compassion. “You know how much care and effort I put into my trainees. You were amazing—a true contender for Olympic gold. What happened to you is a tragedy. I’m sorry if I didn’t visit you or send flowers or something. I got the feeling you needed your space.”

  “I did.” Shannon raised her gaze. “And I’ve used that time to think about how something like this could have happened.” A blip of a pause. “Jim, what was really in those natural supplements you gave me?”

  Exit compassion. Enter wariness. “You know what was in them.”

  “Do I? I only know what you told me, all of which I checked out on the Internet and which came back with glowing reviews.”

  “So? What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is you lied. They weren’t natural supplements. They were PEDs.”

  “What?” The attempted denial was pathetic. The blotches of color that darkened Jim’s face spoke the truth.

  That was all Shannon needed.

  “Admit it, Jim—admit it to my face.” Shannon dropped all pretense of being the teenager in distress. “You killed my future and screwed up my heart so I’ll never be normal or healthy again.”

  “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to,” he said, visibly restraining himself. “But like I said from the beginning, there were no PEDs—”

  “You lied.” Shannon’s eyes were blazing now. “I’m young, not stupid. There’s only one thing that could have done this to me—your phony supplements. And you. You did this. And I’m on my way to proving it.”

  “Proving it?” There was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  Jim closed in on her, any fear he might have had suddenly overshadowed by aggression. “To who—the cops? You have no proof.”

  “I was drug tested. There were tiny traces of whatever the hell you gave me,” Shannon lied. “Not a lot. But enough for them to keep the investigation alive.”

  “Then why haven’t I heard from them?”

  This was Shannon’s ace. “Because they follow protocol. I don’t. They’re digging around, even trying to figure out if there’s a tie between what happened to me and that shooting outside Julie’s apartment. I told them you were too stupid to plan something like this on your own, that we should forget you and get to whoever you’re working for. Who’s the brains, Jim? You’re just a dumb runner.”

  “You little bitch…” He backhanded her across the face.

  Shannon lurched backwards but grabbed hold of the hood of Jim’s car and steadied herself. The physical assault would aid her cause. But she needed something verbal. Something she could take to the police.

  “I don’t hear any denials. So save your ass. Who are you working for? Or do you want to be put away for murder, too?”

  “Fuck you, little girl. Now get the hell out of my face. And don’t come back unless you bring the cops with you.” Jim unlocked his car, jumped in, and paused to lower the window. “If I see your face around here again, I’ll make sure the people you’re so worried about shut you up for good.”

  He grabbed the steering wheel and sped off.

  Shannon just had time to leap out of his path to keep from being run down.

  What he’d said was evidence. It had to be.

  She’d send Julie a message, attaching a copy of the audio. Julie would know what to do.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dr. Maxim Lubinov walked to the podium at the front of the Marriott Marquis ballroom, his steps punctuated by the applause of his colleagues. So many colleagues that even the most expansive conference rooms—dividers removed—wouldn’t hold them. They eagerly awaited Dr. Lubinov’s presentation. He was a foremost expert in microbiology, and his topic today was on scientific advances in increasing cell energy production.

  In his midfifties, Dr. Lubinov was tall and lean, his blond hair and goatee specked with gray. Years ago, he’d studied as both a Harvard undergraduate and a medical school student, and had been a resident of the US ever since. So, he was very much Americanized, despite his obvious Russian roots—light blue eyes, craggy features, straight nose, and pale complexion, plus the slightest of accents.

  He was a formidable man, and he glanced neither right nor left as he climbed the steps to the podium. Dmitry Gorev, his assistant, was waiting for him there, ready to support his efforts as needed.

  Lubinov began with his customary air of professionalism. Polite but with a superior undertone. No one objected. He was more accomplished than everyone in the room combined. He knew it and they knew it. So a touch of arrogance was more than acceptable.

  He began to speak. Notes were furiously typed into iPads as he presented thirty slides and the explanations that went with them. Cutting edge. Fascinating.

  Forty-five minutes later, at the conclusion of the presentation, the audience was eager to probe Lubinov’s genius. He answered one question after another, until the moderator brought the Q&A portion of the presentation to a close. Several people rushed the stage, hoping to get one of their follow-up questions answered, but Dr. Lubinov had already gathered up his material, and he and Dmitry were heading toward the exit.

  The limo was waiting directly outside, just as requested. The two men got in. Once safely inside the limo, Max let his true persona show.

  Visibly irked, he turned in his seat. “Dmitry, what you just witnessed was a room full of idiots. Not one of them truly understood the significance of my research and how it would change human existence.”

  Dmitry nodded his agreement—an agreement that was as genuine as his understanding of his employer’s intolerance. Why wouldn’t he be intolerant? He was a bona fide genius. Dmitry felt incredibly lucky to have been chosen as his assistant. There had been a long line of interviewees. Few of them had survived even the preliminary screening, much less the intensive two-hour interview that followed. Dmitry knew that his own Harvard pedigree and background in microbiology and stem cell research had weighed heavily in his favor. So had his sheer intellect. But there was something even more intrinsic that had gotten him this job.

  He was the only one who could handle Maxim Lubinov.


  Max was off the charts when it came to mood swings, extreme actions, and irrational behavior that bordered on frightening. At the same time, he was like the sun—the center of his own solar system, beaming out brilliant rays of knowledge, discovery, research, and expectations. Dmitry not only took all this in his stride, he knew how to filter it, to absorb what the end goal was, and to turn it into the reality Max demanded.

  Dmitry wasn’t foolish enough to believe he’d ever fully understand his boss, nor was he unaware that he was always walking a fine line with danger. But he got Max, comprehended who he was and what he wanted to bring to this world.

  So it was all worth it. Dmitry’s job was twenty-four seven. He worked like a well-compensated slave. But he loved what he did, even when fear crept into the picture.

  As if on cue, Max’s private cell phone rang. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled it out.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me.” Slava’s voice echoed from the other end—that cell phone echo that made it possible for Dmitry to hear. Slava was speaking in Russian. Dmitry was fluent in that, even though he was born in the US. His parents had emigrated from Russia and often spoke in their native tongue.

  Slava continued. “The situation we were keeping an eye on just kicked us in the ass.” He proceeded to elaborate on what had transpired between Jim and Shannon at the training center.

  “You’re sure?” Max also spoke in Russian.

  “Alexei called me a few minutes ago. He and Vitaliy were at the Apex Center when it happened. Separate cars, like you asked. Alexei was following the kid, and Vitaliy was following Robbins. The kid and Robbins had it out. He slapped her—hard—then took off. He didn’t look like a man who had nothing to hide. The guys stayed on them. She took the bus, and Robbins took his car. They both went directly home.”

  “Fucking asshole.” Max’s eyes narrowed, anger blazing in them. “Let’s talk about the girl first. Is she a real threat?”

  “She’s a little girl throwing empty accusations around. She doesn’t know anything except that Jim was feeding her PEDs. She did go on a fishing expedition, demanding to know who he was working with. And he all but admitted he was working for someone, the stupid fool. But he didn’t give her any details. She’s suspicious but has nothing to go on.” A pause. “I’ll take care of her if you want me to.”

  “No.” Max cut him off. “We can’t kill both of them without raising red flags to the cops. And Robbins is the real problem. Bring him to the manor. Friday night. Seven o’clock. Tell him it’s time we met, that we’re having a drink to celebrate our growing success. Egocentric assholes like him will buy into that, no questions asked. He’ll probably buy a new suit for the occasion.”

  Slava chuckled. “Consider it done.”

  Dmitry shifted in his seat. He’d be expected to attend this supposed celebration.

  It was going to be deadly.

  Tribeca, New York

  Forensic Instincts

  Emma fidgeted in her chair, typing a few idle notes in the margins of their client’s latest interview.

  “You’re not being very productive, Emma,” a voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere said.

  She pulled her hands off the keyboard and rolled her eyes. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture today, Yoda. Besides, you’re not my Jiminy Cricket anymore, remember?”

  “I recognize that it’s been three months, two weeks, and six days since your three-month probationary period—cut short by Casey—ended. But I remain responsible for making sure every team member is working up to his or her full potential. Today you’re not.”

  Emma groaned, wishing that Yoda—Forensic Instincts’ extraordinary artificial intelligence system, created, of course, by Ryan—would go away and torture someone else. Not that he was wrong about her lack of productivity. Then again, Yoda wasn’t wrong about anything. He was a hundred percent brilliant, and so human-like it was startling. No surprise, given his inventor. As the team openly acknowledged, Ryan was a genius, and Yoda was omniscient.

  Ignoring Yoda’s admonishment, Emma picked up the four pages she’d printed on the murder of that Lisa Barnes girl in Chicago. Two of them were chat room bullshit from people who clearly didn’t know what—or who—they were talking about. She tore those up now and chucked them into her wastebasket. The other two pages were all that mattered—a pathetically naked obit and an equally sparse article below which was a driver’s license photo—probably the only picture of Lisa Barnes that was available. Emma had expanded the photo before printing it. She wasn’t sure why. She just felt a kinship with this woman, one that wouldn’t go away.

  Inexplicably, Emma’s eyes filled with tears. How weird. She never cried. This murder—the woman who reminded her of herself, the city it had happened in—all that had just hit her hard. She’d get over it. She just had to keep busy.

  She turned back to the computer and began working before Yoda could chastise her again.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” Claire was shrugging out of her jacket as she approached Emma’s desk. Clearly, she’d spotted Emma’s watery eyes. And, hey, if it had to be someone who caught a glimpse of the tiny crack in Emma’s emotional armor, it was okay that it was Claire. Nurturing, kind, compassionate Claire. If Emma wanted to confide in someone, Claire would be it.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “Just a little…” She wasn’t sure exactly how to elaborate. She wasn’t used to this kind of sharing. And how could she explain her connection to a dead stranger?

  She didn’t have to. Claire was already touching the pages Emma had just put down, almost as if she’d been drawn to them. “May I?” she asked.

  Emma nodded.

  “So much negative energy,” Claire murmured before she even read what she was picking up. “I feel chilled just touching these.” She scanned the article, absorbing all the details as she read them. Then she looked at Emma, understanding in her eyes. “That poor woman. First, a tragic life. Then, a tragic death. The foster care, the time on the streets—her background is similar to yours.”

  “Yes.” Emma acknowledged that without hesitation. Then her chin came up, and her expression grew defensive. “And people like us are always judged. This article says nothing except that she was a foster care kid turned street scum, with a juvie record. That, of course, meant she had to be a useless junkie who had this coming to her.”

  “I agree. What I just read was biased and unfeeling.”

  “Lisa Barnes didn’t have a family, but maybe she had friends, other people who cared about her,” Emma said. “Given how tiny this obit article is, half of them probably don’t know she’s dead—especially if they don’t live in Chicago. Just because I stay plugged into my roots doesn’t mean everyone does.” Emma bit her lip. “I almost brought this murder to the team and asked them to investigate. But I’m not a client, and no one has approached us, nor will they. So this can’t be an FI case. I’ve been trying to find out more about Lisa Barnes on my own. And I’ve come up with zip. Then again, I’m a rank amateur when it comes to investigative digging.”

  Before Claire could reply, Ryan blew by, en route to the stairs and his lair.

  He stopped when he saw the drawn expressions on both women’s faces.

  “Who died?” he asked, unfortunately saying the absolute worst wrong thing.

  “A twenty-nine-year-old woman with her whole life ahead of her,” Emma snapped. “That’s who.”

  Ryan startled. “What…?” He saw the warning in Claire’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Was she a friend of yours?”

  “No. A kindred spirit.”

  Nipping this in the bud, Claire explained the situation to Ryan, showing him the obit, the article, and the photo.

  “Pretty girl. Shitty break. I’m sorry, Emma.” Ryan was never at ease when it came to sentiment. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yeah. Figure out who did this and why.” Emma waved away her own request. “Sorry. That was ridiculous.
I’ll get over it. It just hit too close to home, I guess.”

  Ryan glanced at the two pages again. “I’m in the middle of the case we’re working on. But you know I’m too restless to do just one thing at a time. Do you want me to poke around and see what I can find out about this Lisa Barnes and why she might have been murdered?”

  Emma’s eyes widened. “You’d do that for me?”

  “We’re a team, remember?” Ryan reminded her. “I’ve bailed you out of worse binds than this.” He was referring to a near-sexual assault that had happened during their last case, one in which he’d played the hero. “This job is a piece of cake compared to that.”

  Emma’s lips curved, and she smiled for the first time in days. “Thank you very much.”

  “Thank me when I come up with something.” He held up the pages. “Can I take these to make copies?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll return yours later.” He loped off, descending the stairs to his techno-hideaway.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Upper Montclair, New Jersey

  The gym looked spectacular—helium balloons and streamers placed in strategic positions in the main room, hors d’oeuvres being passed around to the crowd of people coming in, a rented smoothie bar whose server was preparing free all-natural drinks for the occasion, and a huge Grand Opening sign hanging right outside the door. All this had cost Julie and Milo a pretty penny, but it would be worth it. One thing they’d learned: If you acted like you were rich, people bought into the idea that you were rich.

  The local media was there, too, taking pictures of Excalibur, chatting with Julie and her staff, and typing into their iPads about the excitement of a new, upscale gym in town. It wouldn’t exactly make national headlines, but it would be well-received by the residents of Upper Montclair.

  The day was everything Julie could have dreamed of and more. She was a little uneasy about the audio file Shannon had sent her. But, as Milo had pointed out, it did nothing but confirm what he’d already dug up—that Jim Robbins was a scumbag who was handing out PEDs and probably working for someone to do it. Milo and Julie would continue to keep the door open between Julie and Shannon, just to keep tabs on the situation. But, so far, they were all right.