The Murder That Never Was: A Forensic Instincts Novel

by Andrea Kane

  He’d arrived at the brownstone to hear banging, clattering, and an enthusiastic “Yes!” echoing upstairs from Ryan’s lair. Okay, now his curiosity was piqued. He walked downstairs and knocked.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  “Door’s open,” Ryan called back.

  Marc stepped inside and was immediately whacked in the face by a TRX that was anchored to and hanging from the door. He ducked and then grimaced at the clutter that dominated the room.

  All the desk and computer surfaces were filled—printouts scattered all over them. Papers were strewn on the chairs and had overflowed onto the floor, where they remained, untouched. And another TRX was swinging from a post in the back of the lair. Ryan had clearly skipped the gym and done his workout in here.

  Taking up the most space of all were the mechanical gizmo parts thrown everywhere, literally swallowing up the rest of the room.

  “You’re working on something,” Marc said, weaving his way through the clutter to where Ryan was seated on a workbench.

  “Not just something,” Ryan replied. He stopped tinkering with his latest contraption and looked up with a broad grin, holding it up for Marc to admire.

  Marc eyed the thing. It was a ten-inch-long brown cylinder with two wires coming out of it.

  “Meet Otter,” Ryan said.

  “Okay, I give.” Marc took the bait. “What does this new invention do, and why is it called Otter? I don’t see any tail, fur, or feet.”

  Ryan gave an exasperated sigh, although he still looked both proud and smug. “Otter is my latest and greatest way to gather intelligence. As for his name, he’s modeled after a North American river otter pup—same size and body build. More importantly, otters are intelligent, highly curious, and handsome animals. We have a lot in common.”

  Rolling his eyes, Marc snorted. “Humble as ever.”

  “Just speaking the truth.”

  “Right. Go on.”

  “Anyway, Otter is brilliant in his intelligence gathering.” Ryan leaned forward in excitement. “Here’s the deal. We plant him in a company that has information we want to find out, especially when we need to sift through large amounts of data contained in a database.”

  “Like a cell phone company.”

  “Exactly.” Ryan pointed at the two wires. “This plug goes into a network connection, and this one goes into an outlet. The key is to find a place behind a desk or cabinet where no one will look. Otter will slowly but surely gather information, encrypt it, and relay it back to Yoda through a zigzag path across the Internet. No one will be able to connect the information leak to us. Amazing, huh?”

  “Wrong, Kemosabe.” It was Marc’s turn. “How did you plan on getting Otter inside the targeted company? I don’t see any legs, wheels, or tank treads.”

  A scowl. “I haven’t worked that part out yet.”

  “Well, you won’t work it out, because it can’t be done. That’s where the skills of a clandestine operative can’t be replaced by an electromechanical contraption. You need human skills to get past security. Human skills to scan the environment for an opportunistic place to locate…uh, Otter.” Marc bit back a smile as he said the name. “Human skills to improvise in real time, making split-second decisions that turn defeat into victory.”

  “I assume you’re referring to yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re not a whole lot humbler than I am,” Ryan pointed out. A gleam came into his eyes. “On the other hand, we do make a great team. We’ve pulled this kind of thing off together more than once.”

  “Sure have.” Marc’s brows drew together in thought. “I take it we’ll have to go to Chicago to plant Otter in the appropriate place?”

  “Yeah, and we can’t fly, not with all this electronic equipment that Homeland Security will not understand.”

  “Then we’ll drive. It should only take about twelve hours.” Marc was already heading for the door. “I’ll run this by Casey. How soon can you be ready to leave?”

  “As soon as the boss says yes.”

  Sitting in lotus position in her living room, eyes closed, Claire cradled Julie’s locket between her palms. Cradling. That was always the word that came to mind when she held this delicate piece of Julie’s past. The locket was a gift from her parents. She’d lost them three years ago in a car crash. A drunken driver had taken them away. She would have given anything to have them back. They’d been a close, loving family. The locket emanated tenderness and sadness. With their deaths, Julie felt very much alone.

  Claire sighed. In some ways, Julie was as lost as Lisa.

  Putting down the locket, Claire picked up a pair of small diamond studs. Again, a birthday gift from Julie’s parents. Julie had worn them now more than ever; she felt closer to them when she did.

  Abruptly, an image flashed through Claire’s mind, and she clutched the earrings more firmly, shut her eyes more tightly. Julie. At the gym. Wearing these. Sitting at her desk. Livid with anger. Claire was inside Julie’s head, feeling her turmoil, knowing its cause. Shannon’s health. The reason for its deterioration. The consequential demise of her hopes and dreams.

  Jim Robbins.

  All Julie’s thoughts converged into one. She wouldn’t let this go. She’d get into the Apex Center. She’d find a way past security. She’d dig up evidence on the son of a bitch, evidence that would get him thrown in jail, where he couldn’t do this again. Maybe he was already doing it with his other trainees. How many of them had he laced with this stuff? Son of a bitch. No one else could suffer like Shannon.

  Poor Shannon. Poor Shannon. Poor Shannon…

  Claire felt tears seep from beneath her closed eyelids, trickle down her cheeks. The emotions were intense—rage at Jim, compassion and protectiveness for Shannon.

  A modern building with several stories and large rooms of sophisticated equipment.

  The Apex Center.

  Claire could see it, walk inside it.

  Quickly, she snatched up another of Julie’s possessions, this time one that was all business. Her wallet. She’d had it on her when she’d gone to the Apex Center.

  She was inside the building. Claire could sense her presence. Closeted in Jim Robbins’ office. Rifling through his files. Finding papers of some kind—papers incriminating enough for her to make copies. She took them. She had them with her in a bag. Hurry home. Hurry home.

  Flashes of activity. A car. A tattooed man. A gun. Oh, God—the searing pain in her head as the bullet penetrated her skull. Life oozing out of her body. Pain. Blinding pain. Blackness. The coldness of death.

  Claire’s eyes flew open. She was gasping for air. Her entire body was in a cold sweat, and she was shaking uncontrollably.

  She could still see the scene playing out. The tattooed man snatched up the bag of papers. The killers drove off as rapidly as they’d arrived.

  Russian. That realization came to Claire in a flash of insight. They were Russian.

  She couldn’t see the shooter clearly, not yet. Nor could she make out his tattoos to the point where she could draw them.

  But she wasn’t letting go of this wallet until she could give Casey descriptions of both.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It had been only a few hours since they’d left New York, but Marc and Ryan were like two little boys as they fought over which radio station to play. Marc preferred classic rock like Whitesnake. Ryan preferred hard rock like Nickelback. If SiriusXM were tracking their station changes, the company would be afraid the satellite signal would crash, and they’d automatically terminate the account.

  “I’m the one at the wheel; I should have final say,” Marc pointed out.

  “Well, I’m the one doing the technical research…” Ryan held up his laptop. “So I need the right inspiration.”

  “Fine.” Marc turned the dial once more and was happy to hear Bon Jovi playing. “Good compromise?”

  “I can live with it. On a prayer.” Ryan grinned at his own cleverness.

&
nbsp; Marc rolled his eyes. “Done.” Happy to be finished with this bullshit battle, he turned the radio down a notch and switched his attention to the mission ahead of them.

  “I’m clear on my role once we get to Chicago, but how is Otter supposed to tell us the necessary information about cell phone calls?”

  “So glad you asked,” Ryan replied. “As you know, Shannon was able to provide me with Jim’s cell phone number. I checked. Jim used U.S. Cellular for cell phone service. I was able to grab the last month of cell phone records before their intrusion detection systems shut me down. From there, I found a few phone numbers of interest. Some of them were to other trainers in the area. Those guys generally had regular cell phones. Maybe they were friends, colleagues, or maybe they were drug dealers like Jim. That’s part of what your investigative skills will need to determine when we interview them. But one number in particular kept popping up—and with greater frequency right before Julie was murdered. I traced the number to a TracPhone. Nontechnical types and some senior citizens prefer TracPhones, but a disposable cell phone—a burner phone—is the communication tool of choice for criminals. Phones are purchased with cash and tossed when the minutes run out.”

  “Boy Genius, I was with the FBI, remember? I know what a burner phone is and how it’s purchased. In fact, I’m pretty sure everyone who watches TV crime shows knows that.”

  “Sorry.” Ryan had the decency to look sheepish.

  “Forget it. Let’s get back to your analysis. So Jim called his distributor’s TracPhone. How are we going to find out who this guy is?”

  “Otter.”

  Once again, Marc rolled his eyes. “So Otter is clairvoyant like your girlfriend?”

  Ryan shot him an irritated look. “Careful with your choice of words. Claire and I are…well, Claire and I. No label’s been assigned to it.”

  “Fine. Whatever. Go on.”

  “Otter’s not psychic, just curious.” Ryan stopped talking to glance out the window, his attention temporarily focused elsewhere. “Before I give you more than you can absorb in one shot, I need an Egg McMuffin and a large cup of coffee. Pull off at the next exit. The golden arches I just saw made me hungry.”

  “No health food today?”

  “Not unless you know of a health food restaurant right off the highway with a drive-through window. I’ll have to make do.” A grin. “Plus, your body needs an Egg McMuffin every once in a while.”

  “You don’t have to twist my arm. I’m starving. And I need some coffee, too.” Marc pulled into the right-hand lane, cruising until the exit ramp appeared and those familiar golden arches rose through the trees, beckoning hungry travelers.

  They zipped through the drive-through, grabbing their food and getting right back on the road, this time with Ryan at the wheel. He was the king of eating, talking, and driving, all at the same time.

  “To continue. Otter will navigate the digital rivers of Verizon’s Chicago network operations center, which TracPhone uses to handle its customers’ calls. He’ll find every cell tower that was ever involved in handling a call to or from that TracPhone number and send all the detailed information stealthily back to Yoda. Yoda will align the cell phone call information with cell tower log files using time stamps recorded down to microseconds.”

  “So how is this going to tell us who Mr. Anonymous is?” Marc interrupted to ask.

  Ryan raised a hand. “I’m getting to that part. Yoda will be able to triangulate a geographic ‘red zone’ from the cell tower data. You see, when a cell phone places a call, it contacts cell towers in the area. The idea is to use the one with the best signal strength. Usually, it’s the closest one to the subscriber. Sometimes it’s not, because of some natural or man-made obstacles—like a hill or a building that impacts the signal strength. By doing a ‘mashup’ of the cell tower locations—Google Earth for the terrain assessment and signal strength data on the TracPhone calls—Yoda should be able to narrow the location of the distributor to within a block or so.”

  He took a belt of coffee. “People are creatures of habit. They place the bulk of their cell phone calls from home, their office, or their favorite Starbucks. When the same tower handles cell phone calls at the same time of day, that can give us a clue as to where this guy hangs out. For example, if Yoda comes up with a location during the day in a business district, then we can guess that the distributor has an office in the area. At night, especially late at night, he’s probably home. I suspect this guy will be doing business out of his car and his apartment.”

  “Okay,” Marc said, processing all this information. “So we know that this scumbag lives within a block or two of some address. We can’t go door to door interviewing people. I don’t have my FBI credentials anymore, remember?”

  “No worries on that score,” Ryan assured him. “We won’t have to. Once Yoda figures out the area we’re interested in, Otter will switch gears and head in the opposite direction. He’ll focus on calls made using the same geographic pattern of cell towers but from another cell phone. In my experience analyzing communications in criminal networks, bad guys will protect themselves from discovery by using a burner phone to talk to people on the street. In this case, that’s what the distributor did with Jim. So if Jim were arrested, the cops would only have a disposable cell phone number and no leads back to the distributor.”

  “Dead end.”

  “Yup. But a distributor has multiple business relationships and, at some point, would be talking to someone higher up in the food chain. That person wouldn’t want the hassle of dealing with revolving phone numbers for all his distributors. He might have thirty people he needs to talk to on a regular basis, spread out all over the US. Imagine the chaos. The person above the distributor would only accept phone calls from known phone numbers.”

  “Got it.”

  “So, in a long-winded way, we’ll use the burner phone to find a location. We’ll use that location to find a regular cell phone number that is being used by the same person. Then we’ll go on to use that info to find who the distributor called. My hope is that someone at the top is not concerned about cell phone anonymity, but if they are, we can track them to within another block or two radius. Otter will keep plying the digital rivers of cell phone data and, with Yoda’s help and computation resources, build a map of the criminal network using their communications to uncover the players.”

  Marc snorted. “Between the government listening in to our cell phone conversations, surveillance cameras everywhere, people capturing conversations, pictures, and videos using smartphones, and tech prodigies like you designing, integrating, and hacking all this, there really is no place to hide any longer.”

  “That’s right. If you’ve got any secrets I don’t know about, I will soon.”

  Marc chuckled. “No such luck. You’ll have to play spy somewhere else. I’m as clean as a whistle—other than my work at FI, which is no secret to you. But it does sound like I underestimated Otter.”

  “You did. But I don’t expect you to get my level of genius.”

  “Just drive, Ryan,” Marc said and turned up the radio. “The sooner we get there, the better.”

  “Casey?” Claire poked her head around the conference room door. Even though Casey had her own office, the whole team knew that this was her favorite place to work.

  Sure enough, she was sitting at the oval table, typing information into her laptop, Hero relaxing at her feet.

  She and Hero both looked up at the sound of Claire’s voice. Hero wagged his tail, and Casey beckoned Claire in, a hopeful glint in her eyes. She knew that look on Claire’s face—and what it usually yielded.

  “You made some kind of sensory connection?”

  “More than one,” Claire replied. “You have time?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m losing my mind because of how slowly we’re moving forward. Sit.”

  Claire complied. “By the way, where’s Ryan? He’s not in his lair. And I need his input on a couple of drawings I made.” She
indicated the pieces of paper in her hand, which she now placed on the desk in front of her.

  “He and Marc are on their way to Chicago. They’re going to be there for a few days. Ryan’s got a new gadget that he says will yield detailed call information all stemming from Jim Robbins’ burner phone.” Casey gave Claire a wry grin. “As usual, I only half understood Ryan’s explanation, but you and I both know that he and Marc will come back with something significant.”

  Claire nodded. “Fine. Then we’ll muddle through my stuff without him.”

  She spread out the three sheets of paper, angling them toward Casey. “These are fairly accurate depictions of Julie’s killer’s tattoos. It took me a while to be able to visualize them, but I finally did. This one”—she pointed at the first sheet, which was a sketch of a bull—“is etched on the killer’s upper right arm. Next”—she pointed at the second drawing, which was birds flying over the horizon—“is on his upper left arm. And the last one”—she pushed the third drawing, a sketch of a sailing ship, toward Casey—“is on his right forearm.”

  “Wow.” Casey studied each drawing carefully, marveling at Claire’s detail. “Wow. That was quite a connection you made. And obviously, these particular symbols stand for specific things. I wish we knew what nationality we’re dealing with. That might narrow down our research.”

  “The killers are Russian. The symbols are, too. I was hoping Ryan could dig up a tie between whatever basic information we come up with to an actual gang or sect who wore this combination.” Claire blew out a breath, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “On the other hand, it could be a random combination of symbols, not tied to any one group.”