The Murder That Never Was: A Forensic Instincts Novel

by Andrea Kane

  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 adjusted 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. N
ot 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.

  Those companies weren’t employing the hot Russian women.

  Marc interrupted Ryan’s observations as his voice came through the earbud.

  “Hey, seems like your program has tracked the cell phone to within our central zone,” he informed Ryan. “Our guy should be walking through the front door soon.”

  Ryan returned to his iPad, appeared to be reading, but instead was preparing to snap pictures of anyone entering.

  The first person who walked through the door was a definite dork. Ryan shuddered to think that, right now, he probably resembled him. He took the loser’s picture just in case, but that wasn’t their guy. Next came a tall, thirty-ish woman with long black hair and a curve-hugging pantsuit. Ryan gave her an A-minus, then took her picture. Probably just a formality. She didn’t fit Marc’s profile.

  Finally, in walked a tough Slavic guy in an expensive Italian business suit, who looked less like a business exec than he did like a bloodthirsty fighter in an underground cage-fighting match.

  Bingo.

  Ryan kept snapping pictures.

  As it turned out, he didn’t have to rush. Bruiser bought himself a cup of coffee and reentered the lobby, scanning the area. His eye settled on a long-legged brunette stunner who was smiling to herself as she texted someone. Seeing the chair beside her was empty, the big guy made his way over and claimed it.

  He leaned toward her and said something in Russian that had to be a come-on line, judging from his tone and body language. The woman laughed, tossing back her hair and responding in an equally friendly manner.

  Money talks, Ryan mused silently, as he took more photos. Bruiser looked like Boris to her Natasha, definitely not a hot stud who would turn a girl on. But he smacked of cash, and that was clearly enough. Good. That gave Ryan plenty of time to study the guy and take pictures. He’d learned enough from Casey to lock in on certain behavioral signs. Bruiser had an eye for the ladies, a big-ass ego, and an aggressiveness about him that Ryan guessed went from the bedroom to the boardroom.

  Eventually, the woman glanced at her watch and reluctantly stood up. She punched something quickly into her cell phone, speaking in rapid Russian as she did, and nodded her head toward the phone peeking out of Bruiser’s pocket. He plucked it out, glanced down at the screen, and a wide smile split his face.

  Okay, that was a no-brainer, Ryan thought. She just texted him her phone number.

  After that, she hurried off to—no surprise—the far bank of elevators.

  Bruiser rose, still smiling as he drank his coffee, and headed to the bank of elevators closest to where Ryan was seated. Ryan watched the elevator doors shut behind him, and the numerals as they ascended. Seventh floor and the elevator stopped. Once again, Ryan consulted his photo of the building directory. There were six companies on that floor.

  It was up to him and Marc to figure out which was the right one.

  Back at the hotel, Ryan and Marc set up shop to figure out who their mystery man was and where he worked. They did the initial checking on Marc’s computer, so they could keep Ryan’s open for all in-depth research.

  “Of the six companies on the seventh floor, four are Russian businesses,” Marc noted. “Those are the ones we concentrate on.”

  It didn’t take them long to zero in on the likely suspect.

  “RusChem,” Ryan said, pointing at Marc’s computer screen. “It’s a Russian-owned biochemical manufacturer, with a sole production facility in Akron, Ohio, and sales offices strategically positioned across the globe to service regional customers.”

  Marc nodded, reading rapidly and noting the key points of information.

  RusChem’s Chicago office was one of their three US sales locations, along with Los Angeles and New York. Internationally, they were represented in Frankfurt, Germany, Sao Paolo, Brazil, and Shanghai, China.

  The next section on the About Us page was even more interesting—and pertinent.

  RusChem manufactured enzymes, coenzymes, monoclonal/polyclonal antibodies, recombinant proteins, and high purity chemical reagents. Their customers included leading companies in the IVD, API, life science and nutraceutical markets.

  “This has to be the company we’re looking for,” Marc said. “Time to dig.”

  “I’m already on it.” Ryan was clicking as fast as his fingers could fly across the keyboard. His frown deepened as the long minutes turned into an hour.

  He leaned back, staring from his screen to Marc and back.

  “All information on RusChem points back to Moscow. But the ownership information is either buried in bureaucracy or intentionally hidden. I’ve tried it from every different angle. Nothing. This is going to take long hours and a lot of patience.”

  Marc acknowledged that thoughtfully. “My guess is that we’re going to find out that this supposedly legitimate company is nothing more than a front for criminal enterprise distributing PEDs throughout the world.”

  “Okay, but run by who? Marc, we’ve got a shitload of players here. Who factors in where?”

  Ticking off on his fingers, Marc replied, “Shannon was unknowingly taking PEDs. Jim Robbins was the conduit. Robbins was connected to—what did you call him?—Bruiser. Bruiser is connected to RusChem. That’s a hell of a lot of A equals B and B equals Cs. We need to figure out who Bruiser is. That’ll be the key to answering all our questions and ending the threat to our clients’ lives.”

  “Sounds simple.” Ryan scowled. “Now how the hell do you propose we do that? I can dig up dirt on anyone. But I need something to go on.”

  “Then let’s get you that something.” Marc picked up his cell phone and punched in Casey’s number.

  “Hey,” she answered. “I was just wondering how your spy cam operation was going.”

  Tersely, Marc recounted the situation. “I need Emma here now,” he concluded. “Put her on the next plane to O’Hare. And tell her to pack the shortest, sexiest
dress she owns.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Chicago, Illinois

  Slava was in one hell of a mood when he blasted into his office building the next morning. He didn’t do his usual lobby scanning of the beautiful women he’d like to screw. He just strode directly into the coffee shop, pitying whoever waited on him today if the asshole didn’t know that he took his coffee black. In Russia, he always drank black tea, but the black tea in this country sucked. If the server asked him if he wanted “room” in his cup, he’d probably choke the life out of the guy and enjoy doing it.

  He ordered his drink and loomed at the counter, waiting, his jaw clenched as he recalled the phone call to Max yesterday. The lunatic had gone ballistic when he’d heard about Alexei’s and Vitaliy’s screw-up. No argument about the fact that it had been a big one—one that was going to cost them their lives. Slava had already verbally castrated them, even as he decided who he’d move up to be their replacements once they were six feet under.

  But Max? The guy had reacted like a raging psychopath, screaming about his research being compromised, about killing everyone who threatened it, and about slitting the throats of his own people if need be. Half of it had been in English and half in Russian, but, more than once, Slava had heard his name shouted with an expletive attached to it.

  He didn’t take well to being threatened. And if Max didn’t calm down, it would be his throat that would be slit.

  Slava’s jaw clenched as he reached the counter and barked out a command for coffee. Fortunately, the coffee shop employee gave him the right drink, looking like a timid mouse as he did. Slava snatched the steaming cup from his hand, threw a crumpled five on the counter, and walked out. He stood in the lobby, loosening his tie and ignoring the scalding in his throat as he took a huge gulp of the hot liquid. A redheaded Russian woman with long, shapely legs gave him a coy smile. He ignored it. She wasn’t his current type, and he wasn’t in the mood.