The Murder That Never Was: A Forensic Instincts Novel

by Andrea Kane

  “We’ve got to find out.” Casey was picking up her burner phone. “Only I’m not sure Ryan is our best source on this one. I’ll let him know what you picked up on when he checks in, but we need inside info—crime families, gangs.”

  “Hutch?” Claire guessed.

  “Yup.” Casey punched in a number. “I’m calling Lisa and getting her permission to bring Hutch in, at least on this peripheral level. He doesn’t need to know the case details. He just needs to offer us his expertise. And Hutch has seen everything.”

  She paused as Lisa answered, and then tersely explained that they had an FBI contact who might be able help them out without knowing names or case specifics. Sure enough, Lisa agreed.

  Casey hung up and used her own cell to call Hutch. She knew she’d probably get his voice mail, since he was busy orienting himself to his new job.

  “Hey,” he surprised her by answering, although his head was definitely elsewhere. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine. Sorry to bother you,” Casey replied. “Can I borrow you for a few minutes after work?”

  This time, he chuckled. “Sweetheart, you can borrow me for a lot longer than a few minutes.”

  Casey’s lips tugged into a smile. “Get your mind out of the gutter, SSA Hutchinson. What I need you for is work related.”

  An exaggerated sigh. “You sure know how to hurt a man’s ego.”

  “Your ego and your libido are in excellent shape. No worries on either score. And I do promise to give you as much time to address the latter as you—we—want. But first…”

  “I know. Help on a case. I’ll come by the brownstone around six thirty.”

  “Thank you,” she said gratefully. “Now go back to work. Make them wonder how they ever lived without you.”

  She hung up and turned to Claire. “He’ll be here. And he’ll zero in on what we need fast.”

  Quietly, Claire added, “I can also give you descriptions of the killer and the guy driving the car. The descriptions aren’t as detailed as the drawings, but I jotted down every physical characteristic that came to me.”

  Hearing the shaky note in her teammate’s voice, Casey looked up.

  “There’s something else,” Claire stated.

  It wasn’t a question. She could tell that some revelation had profoundly affected Claire.

  “It’s Julie,” Claire managed, her throat clogged with unshed tears. “I was inside her head. It’s like I was her. I know what she was thinking, what she did, and where she did it. And then…I felt her die. Every second of it.”

  “Oh, Claire, I’m sorry.” Casey covered Claire’s hand with hers. She knew how traumatic these kinds of connections were to her claircognizant teammate, how severely they impacted her. And how could they not? She’d lived inside other victims while they were being brutally raped, assaulted, or murdered. Casey couldn’t imagine the emotional toll that would take on a person, especially one as gentle as Claire.

  “Thank you,” Claire replied, swallowing hard and then shoving back her emotions in lieu of the facts. She told Casey about Julie’s distress over Shannon’s condition, her rage at Jim, and her determination to get evidence on him—leading to what she’d done.

  “So she was at Apex,” Casey murmured thoughtfully.

  A nod. “She easily got through security, since they’d seen her there before and they knew she was also Shannon’s trainer. She broke into Jim’s office and found the evidence she needed—a bunch of papers that she photocopied and took with her.”

  “The bag she was carrying when she got shot,” Casey said. “The one that Lisa said the killers took. The papers were inside there. That makes sense. Could you see exactly what the papers were? What was on them?”

  Claire pursed her lips in frustration. “Only glimpses. Athletes’ records. I keep getting flashes of dates and columns of information. Nothing I can bring into clear focus—yet. I need something of Jim Robbins’. That might help crystalize things for me.”

  “I know just the person to get that for us.” Casey was already pressing Marc’s number on her cell phone. “Hey,” she said a moment later. “As long as you’re en route to Chicago, can you make a brief stop at Robbins’ place and collect a couple of personal items for Claire to use?” A pause. “Yes, I know it’s a potential crime scene. You’ve got my go-ahead to do whatever’s necessary to get around that. Uh-huh. Great. Thanks.”

  Casey hung up, frowning when she saw the downcast expression on Claire’s face. “What’s wrong? I thought that having possessions belonging to Jim was your goal. Now you’ll have them.”

  Claire gave an offhanded shrug. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I appreciate what Marc’s doing. It’s just that my connections to the people involved seem to be strong today. I wish I had what I need now. I’m afraid that by the time Marc and Ryan get back, the visions will be gone.”

  “What about Shannon’s timer? Can you try again to get something off of that?”

  Claire reached into her pocket and extracted the timer. “I keep it with me. I haven’t tried connecting with it today, because I’ve been caught up with my images of Julie and my work on the tattoos. But, believe me, I’ve held this a dozen times. I just sense coldness. Stillness. My instincts tell me Jim Robbins is dead. But that’s my reasoning talking, not my sensory awareness. If I actually saw something, felt something… It’s like there’s something blocking me from him. I know there’s a wealth of information tied to the bastard, but I just can’t get at it.”

  “Don’t force it.” Casey spoke from the experience of having worked with Claire through several big cases. “Let it go for now. You’re exhausted as it is. Maybe your psyche needs a break.”

  “What it needs is immediate gratification.” Sighing, Claire pushed the timer deep into her pocket. Her fingers lingered, and her breath caught in her throat. Inhaling and exhaling became nearly impossible. Sweat beaded up on her forehead, slid down her face.

  “What is it?” Casey asked in alarm.

  “Jim. Dead. Buried deep underground. Mounds of dirt separating us. He’s in a ditch. On the outskirts of some large piece of property. I can’t see him. Feel him. Black spots. I…can’t…breathe.” Claire swayed in her chair, falling back against it.

  Leaping up, Casey reached into Claire’s pocket and pulled out her hand, snatching the timer from her perspiring fingers. She then bolted for the fridge and grabbed an ice-cold bottle of water. She uncapped it as she ran back and then pressed it to Claire’s lips.

  “Drink.”

  By this time, Claire’s shallow breathing was starting to return to normal. She gripped the bottled water and took a few thirsty gulps. She then put it down on the table and leaned back in her seat again, trying to regain her equilibrium.

  “Are you okay?” Casey was gripping Claire’s hands, anxiety etched on her face.

  Claire nodded, squeezing her eyes shut and then opening them. “I’ll be fine. That was…very intense.” She reached for a nearby box of tissues and plucked one out. Pouring a bit of water on it, she pressed the tissue to her forehead, then dabbed at the rest of her face.

  Exhaling, she drank some more water, feeling as if she’d run a marathon.

  “Now I know why I couldn’t get past that barrier,” she said weakly. “Whoever killed Jim buried him so deep underground that I couldn’t penetrate it. And there was no human being to connect with, since all that’s under there is a dead body.” An agonized pause. “My God, I was connecting with a dead body.”

  “You visualized it?”

  “I was inside it. It was soulless. But if you mean the scene—yes, I visualized it. A bottomless grave. Acres of land. A big house—a manor.”

  “Do you know where this manor is?”

  Slowly, Claire shook her head. “It was very rural. I could hear water nearby—a lake or another small body of water. There’s probably more. But I’m not getting it now.”

  “That’s enough anyway.” Casey was shaking her head. “You came clos
e to passing out. You’re done for today. Go home. Take a bath. Do some yoga. Drink tea and go to bed.”

  “It’s the middle of the day,” Claire protested.

  “That’s irrelevant.” Casey pressed the intercom button. “Emma, could you get Claire an Uber? She’s not feeling well. She’s going home.”

  “Of course.” Emma didn’t ask any questions, not when she heard the anxious note in Casey’s voice.

  “Casey,” Claire murmured, “I can take the subway.”

  “And pass out on the floor of it? I don’t think so.” Casey came around to help Claire to her feet. “We’ll finish this tomorrow. And I’ll check up on you later. No work—rest.”

  As she guided Claire to the door, Casey glanced back at the table, where the three drawings were sitting.

  Claire had done her job.

  Now Casey had her work cut out for her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was after nine p.m., and darkness enveloped the greater Chicago area.

  Dressed as a janitor, Marc calmly lit a cigarette and leaned back against the outer brick wall of the U.S. Cellular office building. He appeared to be taking a long-awaited smoke break.

  Twenty minutes later, the steel door opened, revealing a disinterested-looking man pushing a large plastic cart filled with garbage bags. Marc glanced over and nodded at him, as if acknowledging the janitorial plight. The real janitor didn’t nod back. He steered his cart over to a large trash compactor and began to lazily empty bags of garbage into it.

  Marc waited until he had clear access and the other man’s back was to him. Then, he extinguished his cigarette and moved slowly forward, not making the slightest sound. Pulling on his gloves, Marc reached into his pocket for the chloroform-soaked rag that he’d placed inside a gallon-size Ziploc.

  In a heartbeat, he clasped the rag over the man’s mouth and nose, rendering him unconscious before the poor guy even knew what hit him. Rag secured back in the Ziploc, Marc dragged the limp janitor along, depositing him behind the trash compactor. He then reached inside his own jacket pocket and pulled out a flask. He opened the cap and spilled a small amount of booze on the man’s clothing.

  The odor of cheap whiskey permeated the air. Marc shoved the flask inside the guy’s pocket to complete the setup. If someone found him sleeping, they would smell the whiskey, find the flask, and never suspect an intrusion—just an intoxicated employee.

  Still in motion, Marc finished emptying the cart and then grabbed the ID card attached to the janitor’s breast pocket. He glanced down at the name. Okay, for the next thirty minutes, Marc would be Bill Hubert, janitor.

  With that, Marc pushed the trash cart over to the building entrance and retrieved the small gym bag he’d jammed against the building. He tossed it into the cart. He then held the ID card near the sensor and waited for the telltale click as the door unlocked, permitting him to enter the secure facility.

  Ryan’s instructions were clear. It didn’t matter where Otter was placed. The little drone just needed to have access to power and to the computer network. The ideal spot would be behind some heavy desk or credenza that no one would ever want to move.

  Marc pushed his cart from floor to floor and from office to office, looking for the perfect spot, stopping only to fill his cart with trash.

  He knew he’d struck pay dirt when he entered the office of one Henry Marley and was immediately accosted by a funky odor. A quick scan of the office told him that the décor matched the smell.

  The small room was littered with paper, files, unfinished food substances, and aging half-filled cups of coffee with cream that had started to turn. This guy was beyond a pig. He hadn’t cleaned this place up in a millennium—and the cleaning crew probably wouldn’t touch it, either. And who the hell blamed them? This shithole made Ryan’s lair look like something out of Good Housekeeping.

  On the back credenza was piled a career’s worth of files, magazines, and paper plates stained with pizza sauce. Fighting back a wave of nausea, Marc grabbed his gym bag and extracted his flashlight. He bent over, turning on his flashlight and peering around the corner. Bingo. Both a power outlet and a network connection.

  Carefully, Marc eased the credenza away from the wall, leaving enough space for his muscular arms to get behind it. His fingers maneuvered the special power and network cables Ryan had crafted securely into place. Both required only three-quarters inch clearance, making them break-resistant and stealthy. On the left-hand side of the credenza, with only a few inches of space between the end of the furniture and the side wall, was a gap big enough for his purposes. He pulled Otter out of his gym bag, plugged the cables from the wall into it, and then slid the peculiar device into place in the corner.

  He sent Ryan a text and waited.

  Thirty seconds later, Ryan responded: Otter is swimming.

  With that, Marc went on to complete the task. He pulled out a spray can of faux spider web. He squirted the stuff in the space between the furniture and the wall. If anyone bothered to venture near Otter, they would be greeted with the sensation of spider webs all over their hands. They’d take off like a bat out of hell while desperately trying to shake the nasty stuff off.

  Packing up his gear, Marc made his way back to the elevator and down to the service ramp, where he exited the building. He headed over to the trash compactor, grabbed his gym bag, and then emptied the garbage from the cart into the large receptacle. Checking in on the real Bill Hubert, he saw the man was still sleeping off his “binge.” Marc removed the flask from the janitor’s pocket and tossed it into the compactor. It wouldn’t be long before the poor man woke up with a vicious headache, remembering little and talking about nothing, lest he get fired for sleeping on the job or, worse, for drinking or doing drugs.

  Marc joined Ryan in the van. Sitting behind the wheel, Ryan barely glanced Marc’s way. He was already engrossed in studying what Otter was finding.

  As one would to a child playing with a toy at midnight, Marc took away Ryan’s iPad. “Drive back to the hotel,” he instructed, ignoring Ryan’s yelp of protest. “Once we’re off-site and safe in our room, you can have your precious tablet back.”

  Shooting Marc a nasty look, Ryan shoved the van into gear and eased away from the building and down the street.

  Burlington, Vermont

  Max was still feeling the surges of exhilaration from the outcome of the St. Thomas meeting. He now had a new crop of students who would study under his tutelage and who, one day, would represent the results of his scientific genius to the world.

  Striding through the cerebral testing center of his manor, Dmitry by his side, he paused outside one door, easing it open so the two of them could look inside.

  This evening, two of Max’s staff psychologists were administering tightly timed, high-level verbal, nonverbal, and cognitive abilities tests to Carolyn Rynebrook, a truly exceptional addition to Max’s program. She’d come to Max from Ithaca, New York, where she’d been attending Cornell as a premed student with sky-high grades. She was also an expert fencer and tennis player, with untapped levels of visual perception and precision. Max’s program and supplements would ensure that she’d combine those gifts and fulfill her potential—perhaps someday becoming the world-class surgeon she’d always dreamed of being.

  Max stood in the doorway and observed her for a while. Totally focused on her work. Cool under pressure. No hesitation in her answers. Excellent.

  He met the administering psychologist’s eye and nodded. Then, he left as quietly as he had arrived.

  “She’s nearly there,” Max told Dmitry with a self-satisfied nod.

  “Yes, you’re right,” his assistant concurred, awed, as always, by Max’s keen insight at choosing just the right candidates for just the right futures. “Your abilities are uncanny.”

  Max gave Dmitry one of his rare, if stiff, smiles. “I appreciate your awareness of what I’m accomplishing.”

  That rare smile vanished the minute his cell phone rang and he gl
anced down at the number. Slava. Max frowned. If the man who was his eyes and his cleaner was calling, it wasn’t for anything good.

  “A problem?” he asked in Russian.

  “Yes.” Slava also reverted to his native language. His English was merely passable. He could get by on it, but not comfortably. “We’ve got those two cops back in the mix now. They were looking for the Barker girl. They talked to her parents.”

  “So they know she took off for New Jersey—and to Julie Forman.”

  “Yeah. And they followed her out there.”

  Max’s head shot up. “When? And by plane or by car?”

  Slava barked out a laugh. “The PD doesn’t pay for airline travel. They drove. A dark blue Toyota RAV4. They left a few hours ago. But not before they interviewed the entire staff at Apex—for the second time. Then, they poked around Robbins’ apartment. And they weren’t the only ones. I saw another guy go in there, maybe for ten minutes. He looked more like a Fed than a cop.”

  “A Fed?” Max’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know? Did you see his ID?”

  “No, I wasn’t that close. But I’ve seen enough Feds in my time. The way he moved, the way he carried himself—I can’t swear to it. But there’s too much activity going on in general. It’s time for me to do something.”

  “I agree.” Max’s wheels were turning. “Fly Alexei and Vitaliy out to New Jersey and send them straight to Upper Montclair. Have them keep an eye on the Forman woman’s apartment and her gym. After the detectives show up and question the Barker girl, it’s time to act. Have them grab the kid. Instruct them not to kill her—yet. Have them take her to a warehouse, tied up and blindfolded. We need to know what she told the cops and how much she told Julie Forman. Once we know what we’re dealing with, we’ll know who you need to eliminate.”

  He turned to see Dmitry staring at him, visibly upset.

  “Something wrong, Dmitry?”

  “Is all that necessary?” Dmitry was probably the only person allowed to question Max’s actions, much less to speak up to him. “The Barker girl’s just a kid.”