by Andrea Kane
Surprisingly, Shannon perked up, rather than looking crestfallen. “Would what you’re doing work with my stuff, too?”
Quizzically, Claire gazed at her, shaking her head in non-comprehension. “What stuff? I’m not following.”
“If you can hold Julie’s things and get visions about her and who she was dealing with, maybe you could do the same thing with me. I’ve got something that was once very meaningful to me. And if you could tap into its energy…” Shannon dug around in her backpack and pulled out a stopwatch. “I was thinking of this.”
Claire gazed at it thoughtfully, sensing that it was significant—and was about to become more so. “You used it when you trained?”
“Yes.” Shannon pressed it into Claire’s hand.
Claire sucked in her breath. “Julie didn’t give this to you, did she?”
“No.” Slowly, Shannon shook her head. “Jim Robbins did.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
St. Thomas, Virgin Islands
The Living Room was Max’s favorite meeting room at the luxurious Ritz Carlton. The room had a breathtaking ocean view and looked out over the hotel’s exquisite courtyard. It was a vacationer’s dream.
Today, however, The Living Room had been transformed from a warmly decorated, crystal-chandeliered meeting area into something resembling the stage on American Idol. Inside the room, a raised dais of three people, with Max in the center, was situated way up front, below which sat an empty horseshoe-shaped table. Outside in the hallway was a stream of eager, nervous contestants.
The contestants—Max’s nationwide web of athletic trainers—were shifting or pacing anxiously, each one sizing up the competition and convincing themselves that he or she, along with one of their trainees, would be the winner. The prize: a primo position in Max’s elite cadre of trainers, accompanied by his or her chosen trainee, who’d be expected to be one of the next Olympians or future Einsteins. The two-person team would be transferred from the members’ individual homes to Max’s private, secret estate. Nondisclosure agreements would be signed. The trainers’ salaries and expense allowances would double, and if Max’s projections were to be believed, they would be part of the team that achieved what evolution had failed to do in two hundred thousand years: create a smarter, faster, stronger human being.
Each trainer had the chance to present three of their finest athletes. Their sales pitch would be punctuated by evaluative comments from the other two occupants of the dais: Dr. Leonid Eltsin, Max’s head physiologist, who would provide physical and medical assessments, and Dr. Galina Petrova, Max’s head psychologist in charge of the administration of the scathing battery of mental tests used to gauge each candidate’s progress, all of which helped her comprise the ultimate character and intelligence evaluations.
It normally took over a week to make this size evaluative meeting happen. Dmitry had trimmed the process down to five days—five days to summon all the nationwide trainers, to inform them to choose their three top contenders and book all their flights for this trip, to make the necessary hotel accommodations, and to have everything set up precisely as Max expected.
That was part of why Dmitry was where he was in Max’s hierarchy. There was little or nothing he couldn’t accomplish for his employer.
Now, he stepped inside the room and gave Max a questioning look.
Max nodded.
Holding open The Living Room door, Dmitry turned to speak to the first trainer—Dave Perkins—asking him to join them.
Dave wasn’t new to this process. He’d been here once before, at which time he and his athletes were not selected. That had really gotten him pissed off, not at Max but at himself, igniting his competitive spirit. Dave liked winning and had been training winning teams and individual athletes for over twenty years. Failure only drove him harder.
For the past few months, he had brutally and ruthlessly driven his athletes to the point of breaking while still adhering to Max’s strict limitations on the supplements provided. But Dave’s relentless pushing had paid off. Each candidate had improved his physical score from an average of ninety-one to an impressive ninety-five. Mental test scores had gone from eighty-nine to ninety-four.
He walked up to the lectern and nodded in deference to Max, and then to Doctors Leonid Eltsin and Galina Petrova. He steeled himself to look Max in the eye during his presentation. Even though he’d met his employer once before—on his first trip to St. Thomas—he was no less intimidated by the scientific genius’s mere presence.
Sucking in his breath, Dave presented his first, and most impressive, candidate, Daniel McCurd—a college junior who was head of the swim team, a track and field superstar, and a four-point-oh student. Dave described all of Daniel’s attributes in great detail and then motioned for the AV person to start the video. The visuals were quite impressive. Daniel was on a path to compete in the Ironman triathlon series and someday to win the Ford Ironman World Championship in Kona, Hawaii.
Max calmly turned to Dr. Eltsin and asked for his opinion. The physiologist pulled out a report and confirmed both the test results and the improvement over the past few months. Next it was Dr. Petrova’s turn. She pointed out that the candidate’s extreme stress levels had reduced his mental score from ninety-five to ninety-four. Dave grimaced. He knew that he was to blame for that drop in Daniel’s mental score. He’d been pushing him relentlessly on the physical front.
Max’s expression was completely unreadable. He looked at Dave, uttered a perfunctory “Thank you,” and then proceeded to turn his attention to the score sheet in front of him.
In the upper right-hand corner was a blank box. Max took his pen and made a simple mark—a large check. Dave and his candidate Daniel had made it to the next round.
Eight other trainers entered the room, one by one, and made similar presentations about their own candidates.
Once the entire process was complete, everyone was dismissed, and the painstaking, time-consuming assessment and elimination process began.
A day and a half later, the decisions had been made.
Everyone re-congregated, this time in one of the larger meeting rooms that would accommodate everyone. It was black, white, and austere. No beachfront views, no terrace, all business.
It was the first time all the attendees had been amassed as one. They scrutinized each other, wondering who might possibly have edged them out and who they themselves might have bested. And they were all wondering about Jim Robbins. Word travelled rapidly through their circuit. They’d all heard about Shannon Barker—about how close she was to becoming a champion and about what had happened to her. Whispered words had been exchanged about Jim’s potential misuse of the drugs. But no one dared speak their questions aloud—especially the one about what had happened to their fellow trainer.
The nervous tension in the room was palpable.
At the dais, Max cleared his throat, and the whole room snapped to attention. The announcements were about to be made.
“Before I begin, let me express my keen disappointment over the incident in Chicago and the gross misuse of my life’s work.” Max cut straight to the chase. He paused, his icy stare sweeping the room. “The situation has been dealt with. Jim Robbins is no longer with us.”
The underlying message hung in the air like a toxic gas.
“On to the business at hand,” Max continued, ignoring the terrified expressions on everyone’s faces. “We’ve seen some outstanding candidates. I’m extremely pleased. Here are my decisions.”
With that, Dave and two other trainers were asked to stand up and be recognized—which they did, beaming ear to ear amidst a round of polite but forced clapping. These three trainers would become part of the elite set of trainer-trainees working closely with Max and his scientists. The rest would go back to their respective cities and try their best to do better. Some athletes would be asked to find other trainers—and a few trainers who had tried and failed several times to join the elite ranks would be asked to find employment e
lsewhere.
Max felt his familiar rush at the meeting’s outcome. He was singularly responsible for honing the skills and maximizing the potential of all his candidates. And, someday, those candidates—and the rest of the world—would reward him for his success. He’d receive the Nobel Prize, his greatest dream. And he’d have the respect of every renowned scientist as he surpassed all their achievements.
He could see himself in Stockholm, receiving the gold medallion…
But not yet. Not until Max had a time-tested product and method, along with a long list of success stories. Then he’d be ready to publish and accept the accolades he deserved. And, oh, how the world would prosper from his work.
His formula would be sought after by every significant entity, both national and international. The militaries of the world. Corporations. Pharmaceutical and nutraceutical companies. They’d all be vying for it, even trying to steal it. He, and he alone, would dictate the terms. He’d retain ultimate control over the formula. Initially, the product would be in limited supply. He’d decide which endeavors and who were worthy enough to receive it. The quality, distribution, and pricing would all be under his control. No investors. No licensees. No one to tell him what to do. Only the needy and the greedy begging for his product.
A slow smile curved his lips.
Very soon, all this would be his.
Chicago, Illinois
Nineteenth Police District
Detective Paula Kline frowned in concentration as, yet again, she scanned the report the Montclair PD had emailed her after they’d met with Julie Forman. Something about the interview didn’t sit right. Julie Forman’s extreme agitation. The sudden appearance of Miles Parker, Lisa Barnes’ never-before-heard-from best friend. Stories so smoothly told. Actions that were questionable.
Added to that now was the disappearance of that Apex Center trainer, Jim Robbins, whose Olympic hopeful had also been training under Julie Forman.
All Paula’s professional warning bells were going off.
“Are you reading that Montclair PD interview again?” her partner, Detective Frank Bogart, asked. “Boy, you’re really fixated on this one, aren’t you? You’re like a dog with a bone.”
She shrugged. “I guess. I’m just not getting a good feeling about the whole thing. Doesn’t the series of coincidences raise any red flags to you?”
“Of course,” Frank said. “I’m not saying I disagree with you. This definitely feels off.”
“And is it tied to the Jim Robbins disappearance?” Paula asked. “Was he killed like Lisa, or did he take off like Julie? Either way, why?”
“We could ask the Montclair guys to check in on the Forman woman again and ask some questions about her teenage trainee—as well as if she herself had any personal contact with Jim Robbins.”
“I think that’s asking for more than just a favor. It’s asking the Montclair PD to do our job.” Paula was fiddling with her pen. “A cursory drop-by was one thing. But these cases are ours. Lisa Barnes was killed here in Chicago, and Robbins vanished from here, as well.”
“Yup,” Frank agreed thoughtfully. “So it’s you and me who need to interview Julie Forman. Problem is, the only way we’re going to get permission from the district commander to travel to New Jersey is if we can positively tie the two cases together.”
“Then that’s what we have to do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dawn was casting its first hazy light through the windows of the FI brownstone.
Upstairs on the fourth floor, Casey was sick of tossing and turning. She sat upright, raked a hand through her tangled red hair, and scooted up on the bed. She glanced to her side, smiling faintly as she saw that Hutch was still sleeping deeply beside her.
Good to know that she’d tired him out.
With that, she reached over to her computer stand and picked up her laptop, simultaneously switching on the nightstand lamp. She propped her back against the headboard and began reading through the reports her team had been inputting on a daily basis.
It had been a grueling week for them all. They’d been working their butts off as they raced the clock to get a solid lead on this damned PED case. During this time, they hadn’t risked another meeting with their clients; it was simply too dangerous. Casey had no doubt that Lisa’s gym, her apartment, and her excursions were being monitored. Ditto for Miles and Shannon. The three of them were still alive only because they’d done nothing to indicate to the killers that they were a real threat. Bad enough that Shannon had raced halfway across the country to be with “Julie”—an action that Casey was certain had raised a few red flags, not to mention causing a tightening of surveillance. But that wasn’t cause for three messy murders. However, if “Julie” and crew met up with a high-profile investigative team?
That would be suicide.
So it was imperative that distance be maintained.
Ryan had supplied enough burner phones to everyone to keep the lines of communication open between FI and its clients. Since then, he’d been sequestered in his lair, hacking into delicate systems and trying to compile intricate information. Casey could hear an occasional bang, clang, or swear word coming from down there, but she only smiled, knowing that Ryan was working on some contraption that would ultimately help them.
The key word there was ultimately. Not as soon as Casey wanted.
For her part, Emma had truly stepped up to the plate. She’d been talking to Lisa and Shannon several times a day, strengthening her bond with Lisa, and creating one with Shannon. Their chats kept Lisa focused and calm, and Shannon diverted and amused. Emma related really well to teenagers—partly because she was a master at endearing herself to people and partly because she was barely out of her teenage years herself. By making herself the emotional go-to, she was allowing the rest of the team to do their jobs without interruption.
Claire was the most frustrated of the bunch. She’d been spending hours in her yoga room, trying desperately to pick up some helpful energy from Julie’s personal items and, most of all, from Shannon’s stopwatch.
The watch was cold. Icy cold. That’s all she’d gotten, and that’s all she’d given to Casey.
But they both knew what that probably meant.
Seeing Claire’s intensifying frustration, Casey had curbed her own impatience. She knew that Claire had no control over her gift. Sometimes things came quickly, other times not. Unfortunately, this was one of those “not” times.
Patrick was keeping a watchful, if invisible, eye over their clients.
And Casey and Marc were strategizing over how to best use their skills to gain buried information out of their clients, given the limitations of phone contact, which made body language impossible to read. Even videoconferencing didn’t convey enough.
So as of now? They’d basically gained no ground.
Casey sighed, chewing her lip in irked frustration.
“Hey.” Hutch’s voice was gravelly with sleep. “I think I’m insulted. A night like last night and you’re awake, working, and irritable?”
“Hey back, and don’t be insulted.” Casey shut her laptop and set it aside. “I’m irritable a lot these days—other than when you’re casting your sexy spell over me. Our case is spinning in neutral. And you know how impatient I can get.”
“You? Impatient?” Hutch grinned. “Gee, I’ve never noticed.” His smile faded, and he propped himself up on one elbow. “Do you want to talk about it—even theoretically? Maybe I can toss in a helpful suggestion or two?”
Casey’s shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. “I’m not sure what I can say, and not just because the case is confidential. Because we’re dealing with a dangerous and volatile situation, and the bad guys aren’t showing enough of their hands for us to play, much less to win.”
Hutch digested that quietly. “I’ve been there. My suggestion? Sit down with Marc and start from Ground Zero. Lay out the facts and personalities from the beginning. You’ll find a thread that you missed when you were d
ealing with the case as a whole. And, even if that doesn’t happen, it’ll get your juices flowing. That’ll break through the wall you’re banging your heads against.”
“Good idea.” Casey couldn’t go into any more detail, so she dropped the subject, instead wriggling over and reaching for Hutch. “Let’s say good morning the right way,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck. “That’ll get my juices flowing, too.”
A low chuckle vibrated in Hutch’s chest. “Your wish is my command.” He pulled Casey over him, and all thoughts of work were silenced for a while.
Marc was in before eight. That wasn’t an accident.
After giving Maddy a quick see-you-later kiss, he’d gratefully left her alone, pausing only to grab an energy bar before he’d hurried out of the duplex.
So much for making love to his beautiful bride-to-be. He was heading for the gym to lift weights and work off some stress, and then to the office.
For Maddy’s mother was in town.
Maddy and Constance weren’t close—in fact, Maddy hadn’t even contacted her during those terrifying months when her life was in danger. But since she’d called to tell Connie she was marrying Marc, her mother had been like a kid in a candy store.
Maddy and her first husband, Conrad, had been married for several years and hadn’t been the kind of passionate love couple her mother wanted for her daughter. Therefore, all wedding plans had been tepid, at best. But now that she knew Maddy was marrying the love of her life? She was in wedding heaven.
She was also an early riser, and Maddy had spent the past hour on the phone with her, rolling her eyes and listening to the elaborate floral arrangements her mother had in mind for the reception.
Marc had listened until he couldn’t take it anymore. Thank heavens Maddy had talked that exclusive wedding planner into coming on board at the last minute, to manage the wedding and Maddy’s mother. A professional like that was worth every penny she got. Let her run the show. All Marc wanted was his ring on Maddy’s finger and hers on his. He wasn’t sure why flowers and table settings seemed to be dominating the process. And he wasn’t hanging around the duplex to find out.
