The Murder That Never Was

by Andrea Kane

  “Yes,” Shannon managed, trying hard not to break down. “Do you think they’re here to kill me?”

  “I think they’re here because they’re scared. You talked to the Chicago Police. They want to know what was said and how much the cops know. So they’re on high alert.”

  John’s gaze darted quickly around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. But the loud chatter and the even louder music ensured that they weren’t. “I’m not trying to alarm you,” he said. “I just want you to realize how serious this might be, and stay close beside me when we walk to my car. Again, act as if I’m your dad or your uncle. Chat about how much you’re enjoying spending time with Julie. Tell me how cool her gym is, and how Miles is helping you with your homework. We’ll be in the car in three minutes, and on our way.”

  Shannon couldn’t eat another bite. She pushed aside her brownie and picked up her latte with a trembling hand. “What if they follow us?”

  “Then we’ll know that I’m right. But they won’t get near you—not with me accompanying you. I don’t think they’ll even make an attempt.” John shot her a lighthearted smile. “I’m a pretty scary-looking guy when I want to be.”

  And I’m armed, he thought silently. They’ll see that, if need be.

  Shannon took a last gulp of latte—as if that alone would give her the guts she needed to pull this off—and set down the empty cup.

  “Should we go now?” she asked. “Or is it better if we stay awhile?”

  John glanced briefly toward the rear of the coffee shop, mentally gauging the path they’d take once they walked around back. He then looked back at Shannon. “Slowly, wrap up the rest of your brownie,” he instructed. “We’ll toss our cups and head out front, walking at a brisk pace around back. My car is a dark blue sedan, parked four rows back. The van is gray, and it’s two rows and several parking spaces closer to Starbucks. When I headed into the building, it was idling. Let’s see if it still is, and what they do when they see me escorting you out. Just take my lead. Walk with me to my car, talking the way I said, and get in. Don’t even glance their way. Lock your door manually. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  With shaking hands, Shannon wrapped her brownie up in four napkins. She could have asked for another pastry bag, but her legs felt like water, and just getting from here to Mr. Nickels’ car would take all her reserves. She’d have to rev herself up, force herself to be upbeat and chatty.

  Right now, that felt impossible.

  “Come on.” John’s big smile helped, as he rose and took the brownie from her. “I’ll carry this. I promise not to take a bite.”

  A small smile curved her lips. “I trust you.”

  “Good. Remember that.” He took her arm in a paternal fashion, guided her toward the door, and pushed it open. “So how’s that world history assignment going?” he asked as they began the endless walk around back of the building. “Comparing today’s family unit with the dynamics of the post-World War II family sounds pretty overwhelming to me.”

  Shannon looked up at him in surprise. “You have kids,” she murmured in surprise.

  “Besides you?” John replied quietly, reminding her of their play-acting roles. “Two in high school and one in college. I’m not just great at my job. I’m a super dad, too.” He squeezed her arm. “Now get back in character. Answer what I asked you.”

  Shannon blinked as she processed the fact that Mr. Nickels was a real person. He had a life. He even had kids. Somehow that made this a little easier.

  “Shannon?” he prompted her in a normal tone. “Please don’t tell me that your silence means you haven’t touched the assignment.”

  “I’m halfway through it,” Shannon improvised. “I’ve been doing a lot of online research so I can really impress my tutor, Ms. Cosner. Julie’s friend, Miles, is helping me. He’s a computer genius.”

  All that was true, which made this charade much easier. “Ms. Cosner wasn’t very happy with my decision to take a few weeks off from school. But she understood how messed up I was after my accident and the surgery.”

  Gently, John touched Shannon’s shoulder. “How’s the pain today?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes it hurts a lot. Sometimes it’s okay. I’ll get back on track with my physical therapy again soon, I promise.”

  “Good.” John nodded in approval. “In the meantime, your mother made your next cardiologist appointment.” Deep concern laced his tone. “Have you been taking your meds and eating healthfully? A brownie for breakfast doesn’t exactly thrill me.”

  “I always take my meds,” Shannon answered truthfully. “And the brownie was a one-time thing. Julie keeps on top of me about that. I eat the same good-for-me foods I did when I was training, plus I go through the exercise routine Dr. Schyler prescribed every day.” She swallowed. “He made it perfectly clear that it’s the only way I’m going to lead a normal life.”

  “I’m so sorry, honey.” John’s pained response wasn’t staged. It was real. “But we’ll tackle this as a family, and we’ll win.”

  He sounded so much like her own father that tears filled Shannon’s eyes. At this point, pretending was easy. “Thanks, Dad,” she managed. “I know we will.”

  “We’re almost there,” Mr. Nickels muttered, his words yanking Shannon back to reality. “And I don’t see anyone watching us on foot. So my guess is they’re both still in the van.” He guided her around the bend and toward the parking lot. “You’re doing great.

  “I want to hear about Julie’s gym while we drive,” he said aloud. “From what you told us on the phone, it sounds pretty amazing.”

  “It is.” The parking lot was busy, with lots of Starbucks patrons jumping in and out of their cars, arriving and departing. But Shannon spotted the gray van in her peripheral vision. It was still idling. She had to force herself not to peer inside to see if she recognized the thugs Mr. Nickels had described.

  “The car’s over here,” John said, pointing. “We can call Mom on our way home. She’d love that.”

  “Sure.” It was all Shannon could manage. Playing house was over. Now she was face-to-face with her worst fears. Other than idling, the van was totally devoid of activity. What were its occupants doing? What were they planning on doing?

  Abruptly, the reality of it hit. They didn’t want to watch her. They wanted to take her.

  She froze. “They’re here to kidnap me,” she said in a voice filled with paralyzed terror. “It’s the only way they’re going to get their answers.”

  John said nothing. He just gripped Shannon’s arm tightly and nearly dragged her the few remaining steps to the car.

  Thirty seconds later, she was in the passenger seat, door locked, and Mr. Nickels was sliding into the driver’s seat. He immediately pressed the lock button, and they were sealed inside.

  “Kidnapping is a possibility.” He didn’t insult Shannon by waving away her fears. He just responded in a straightforward but soothing tone. “We don’t know for sure. On the other hand, they could just be low-level lookout, rather than strong-armers, which means they might have no clue what they’re going to do next. Remember, not every criminal is a brain surgeon. In fact, few of them are.”

  That calmed her down a bit. “I guess.”

  “Regardless, our step one is complete,” Mr. Nickels said. “You did an A-plus job, Shannon.” He took out his cell phone and snapped a few pictures of the van. Then, he turned on the ignition, shifted the car into drive, and began heading out of the lot. “Let’s see what they do next.”

  The answer to that came quickly.

  As John reached the street and signaled right, the van shifted into drive and began creeping out of its spot, keeping a respectable distance between themselves and John’s car.

  “Okay, it looks as if we’re going to have company on the way home,” John told Shannon as he casually ad
justed the rearview mirror. “Don’t turn around. Just face front.” He made the turn and began cruising down the suburban street.

  “Lisa’s apartment is only a few blocks away.” Shannon was freaking out again. “What happens when we get there?”

  “The same thing that happened on our way out of Starbucks. I park. We walk. We chat. We go inside.”

  “What if they follow us? What if they try to grab me? What if we can’t get away?” Shannon tried to catch her breath.

  “I’ll take care of things, no matter what. They won’t lay a hand on you. I promise.” John studied Shannon in his peripheral vision. “Please, Shannon. You have to trust me. Don’t go to pieces on me now.”

  “I do. I won’t.” Shannon clasped her hands tightly in her lap and waited.

  Despite the pedestrian traffic, they reached the apartment in eight minutes. John took an assigned parking spot right beside the building.

  “Whose parking space is this?” Shannon asked.

  John shrugged. “Someone who’s not home.” He was watching the van pull into the lot behind them. “They’ve got more balls than I thought,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What?” Shannon hadn’t heard John’s words, but she did see the expression on his face. “Where are they?”

  “Behind us. Waiting.” He reached under his jacket and pulled his pistol out of its shoulder holster.

  Shannon glanced over and went sheet white. “You have a gun?” A pause. “Of course you do.”

  “Hopefully, I won’t need to use it,” John replied. “Remember, keep it together, wait for my signal, then walk beside me, and we’ll be safely inside in two minutes.” He paused, watching Shannon’s eyes, still fixed on the pistol. “It’s okay, Shannon. I’m coming around to get you now. Don’t unlock your side until I’m there.”

  Before he could yank open his car door, the van swerved around and rammed into the driver’s side, effectively trapping John inside.

  Realizing the game plan, John kept his eyes on the van’s occupants and ordered Shannon, “Keep your head down and your door locked.”

  Instantly, she complied.

  The van’s passenger door flew open, and the thug who’d been feeding the meter at Starbucks jumped out, whipping out his gun in an obvious attempt to blow John away and kidnap Shannon. The driver remained at the wheel, ready for a quick getaway.

  Neither happened.

  In a heartbeat, John lowered his window and aimed his pistol at the thug’s chest. The first shot would clearly be his—and it would be fatal.

  Seeing this, the would-be kidnapper panicked. He leapt back into the van and slammed the door.

  “Go, go!” he yelled to the driver.

  The guy at the wheel jolted into reverse. He screeched backwards, then slammed into drive and took off like a bat out of hell.

  John watched them until they disappeared from view. Then he turned to Shannon. “Are you okay?”

  Her head still down, she nodded.

  “They’re gone. Let’s get you inside ASAP.”

  He shoved at his car door until it opened, then raced around and ushered Shannon out of the car and into the apartment.

  Patrick was five minutes away when he heard from John. He listened closely, then immediately began scrutinizing the highway on the off-chance that the van was somewhere nearby.

  There was no sign of it.

  “Are you with Shannon?” he asked John. “Good. Wait for me. I’ll be right there and I’m coming up.”

  Shannon was still trembling when he arrived. John let him in. He’d obviously been guarding the door. Miles was in the kitchen, making Shannon a hot chocolate.

  She glanced up fearfully as Patrick entered. Quickly, he shut and locked the door behind him.

  “It’s just me, Shannon,” he said quietly. “I checked all around the apartment and the neighborhood. There’s no sign of them.”

  “But what if they come back?” she asked.

  “They won’t. Not after they saw Mr. Nickels and his pistol.”

  He and John exchanged a look as Miles returned with the hot chocolate—a look that Miles intercepted.

  “Hey, if you two need to go over details, I’m here with Shannon,” he said.

  “But you won’t leave?” Shannon pleaded.

  “We’re not going anywhere,” Patrick assured her. “I just want a full report on what happened.”

  He turned to John, and the two men walked into the living room, out of earshot.

  The first thing John did was to hand Patrick a slip of paper. “The license plate number, make, and model of the van,” he said. “I also took pictures of the perp who fed the meter and had the gun, and a bunch more of the van. The pictures won’t be stellar, but they’ll work. I’ll text them to you.”

  Patrick nodded, sliding the paper into his pocket.

  “I can give you a more detailed description of the perps. Like I told you on the phone, I only saw the armed one. Short, dark hair. Solid build. Thick eyebrows. Crooked nose, probably broken more than once. The bottom of a tattoo sticking out of his jacket. I couldn’t make out what it was of; there wasn’t enough of it visible. The driver never got out of the car, and I couldn’t see much, except that he was male with no visible hair, a high forehead, and narrow shoulders—which makes me think he was probably on the thin side.”

  Again, Patrick nodded. “My concern is that you pulled your gun on them, which means they know Shannon’s not here on some innocent visit. She’s carrying incriminating information, and she’s being protected from being hurt or killed.”

  John frowned. “If I’d had a choice…”

  “You didn’t. Clearly, they were planning on killing you and grabbing Shannon. That tells me their boss is worried enough to take risks.” Folding his arms across his chest, Patrick said, “I’m doubling security, and not just on Shannon. On Lisa and Miles, too. Whoever’s at the helm of this drug ring will realize that anything Shannon knows, they know, as well. They’ve all become targets now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chicago, Illinois

  The office building was contemporary and pristine—ten floors of white, chrome, and glass. The lobby was the same, accented with gleaming marble floors and white walls, with a granite reception desk, a blonde receptionist sitting behind it, and two uniformed security guards flanking it.

  Quite the place, Ryan thought as he walked over to one of the plush chairs that lined the wall between the lobby and the adjoining coffee shop. He’d grabbed a cup of black coffee first, selected this perfect seat facing the entranceway, and was now ready for his surveillance a good half hour before the business day began.

  He settled in, propping his iPad on his lap and angling himself to check out every person who entered the building. His earbuds were in place so that he and Marc could communicate.

  This new role of his was way cool.

  There were two reasons Marc had opted to send Ryan in today, rather than following his usual strategy of handling inside intel himself, with Ryan as the outside recipient.

  One was that—after a lot of tweaking for the pocket-protector look, and even more bitching and moaning about having to downplay his appearance in order to achieve the necessary stereotype—Ryan had pulled it off. Marc, on the other hand, smacked of the military and of the Bureau. Not a good combo in a place potentially filled with experienced gangsters.

  And the second reason for Ryan being the inside guy was that Marc knew that there was always the chance someone had been watching him when he walked into or out of Jim Robbins’ apartment the other night, when he’d grabbed a few personal items for Claire. The last thing FI needed was for him to be recognized and for the team to be made.

  Ryan was an unknown commodity. He was definitely the way to go. And since Ryan was convinced
that Marc always had all the fun, he was thrilled to play the role of James Bond.

  Now, he glanced up every minute or two, taking everything in as he pretended to be working on something uber-important on his iPad. Other people exited the coffee shop and sat down around him, all busily texting or talking on their cell phones. A few of them were beautiful women worth looking at, most of them Russian.

  Now was not the time for a pickup, and oddly, Ryan didn’t want one.

  His gaze shifted to his right. The magazine rack situated there was filled with Russian-language periodicals and newspapers. No doubt as to who they were catering to.

  It was eight twenty-five, and the building’s employees started to arrive for work. Ryan blew a cloud of steam off his coffee and watched them.

  There was definitely a stark contrast between the male and female populations. Most of the females were as stunning as the women sitting in the lobby. They looked like a stream of Russian fashion models—tall, straight-from-the-gym toned, hair done in the trendiest styles—definitely eye candy. The men, on the other hand, looked like Russian nerds or bruisers.

  Interestingly, all those fashion-model types walked to the rear of the lobby and took the far bank of elevators. Ryan gave a quick glance at the photo he’d taken of the building directory. It indicated that they were headed to the multi-level Russian software company.

  The businessmen and women were divided in their destinations. Some took the same bank of elevators as the Russian babes did, and some took the front bank of elevators. Those were obviously meant for people working for other companies in the building.