The Murder That Never Was: A Forensic Instincts Novel

by Andrea Kane

“Trust me,” she said with her customary frankness. “I’ve never lied to you, steered you wrong, or placated you—and I’m not doing any of that now. I’m helping my team put an end to this. Please, let us do our job. Once it’s over and you’re safe, I’ll personally tell you every single outstanding detail.”

  “Emma, you know how I feel about you.” Lisa shoved aside her empty plate and shook her head. “I trust you implicitly. But it’s our lives that are at stake. We have the right to know everything—now, not later.”

  “Leave it, Lis.” Miles surprised Emma by stepping in and helping her cause. He looked deeply pensive, staring at Emma as if focusing in on her thoughts and succeeding in reading them. “Forensic Instincts is afraid that, if we know the whos and the whats of the situation, we’ll jump in and do something stupid that could jeopardize their entire plan. And, given our mental states, they’re probably right.”

  He turned to meet Lisa’s frightened gaze. “Think about it.” He put a soothing hand on her arm. “Can you swear that if you knew who all the players were you’d just sit still and stay put? I know I couldn’t.”

  Lisa’s gaze faltered. “I… No,” she admitted. “I couldn’t make that promise.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and there were tears shimmering on her lashes when she opened them. “I just want this to be over.”

  “And it will be.” Emma was speaking to Lisa. But she was watching Shannon in her peripheral vision. The young girl was openly weeping, her body trembling with fear.

  Instinctively, Emma reached over and gripped Shannon’s hands. “Don’t be afraid, Shannon. No one will hurt you again. You’re safe here. And soon you’ll be able to stop living like a prisoner. I promise.”

  “I just want to go home.” Shannon’s choked words reminded them all that, despite her maturity and bravado, she was still a sixteen-year-old girl who had been pushed beyond her limits. “I miss my family. I miss my friends. I want to be normal again.” A sob escaped her. “As normal as I can be with the damage that’s been done to my body and the stuff I’ve gone through.”

  “You’ll go back to seeing that great therapist you said you were visiting right after your accident—the one Julie referred you to,” Lisa said, her attention shifting from her own unease to Shannon’s. “Dr. Hawke, right? She was helping you a lot. She’ll help you now. You’ll get through this. We all will.”

  “I guess.” Shannon took a huge shuddering breath.

  “We have a bond, Shannon, one that’s formed by going through a life crisis together.” Lisa reached over to tuck a hair behind Shannon’s ear, giving her a small smile. “That’s not going away. Miles and I are your friends for life.”

  Shannon managed a smile in return. She dashed away her tears and even finished the last of her fried rice.

  “Okay, enough drama. Subject closed.” Emma popped up and began clearing the table. “I came here today for two reasons—one, to fill you in, which I just did. And, two, to spend some fun time together.” She pointed at her backpack. “I brought some mindless DVDs with me. Plus I just downloaded some new apps on my iPad—games we can play against each other.” She arched a brow in Miles’ direction. “I expect you to cut us some slack. If you start winning every game, I’m taking away your iPad and tossing your iPhone out the window.”

  A broad grin spread across Miles’ face. “As long as you pre-acknowledge my superiority, I’ll agree to that.”

  Emma rolled her eyes, turning off the kitchen faucet. “You sound just like Ryan; it’s nauseating.” That made her remember Ryan’s offer. “By the way, while this big reveal is going on, Ryan said you could contact him with any questions you have. I guess he figures great minds should stick together.”

  Miles looked relieved and pleased. “Thanks, Emma—for the offer and the compliment. It’s good to know that Ryan’s got my back.”

  “We all do.” Emma picked up her backpack and dumped out the DVDs. “Okay, Shannon, you get first pick.”

  Across the street from the building, Slava stared at the apartment window, his eyes still blazing. If anything, his rage had intensified as the couple of hours had passed.

  It had taken him about ten minutes to figure out who the security detail was on Isabella. The guy had been following her and the Forman woman—a respectable distance away—as they arrived at the apartment building. And he’d been perched on a nearby bench ever since—talking on his cell phone, working on his tablet, scrolling through some fascinating material. All amateur bullshit to Slava. The guy reeked of law enforcement. When the time came, Slava would have to put him out of commission. Temporary, permanent—it didn’t matter. Whatever was quicker. Screw the interrogations. Screw his orders from Max. He was burning to get his hands around that fucking bitch’s throat.

  Her throat and a whole lot more.

  It was after three o’clock, and Emma remembered her promise to Casey. Be back at four. Gotcha, boss.

  With hugs all around, she shoved all the things she’d brought into her backpack, gave her promise to call the second things were over, and headed out.

  She said a quick good-bye to Patrick’s security detail, posted just inside and outside of the apartment, and left the building. She trekked through the parking lot, spotting Brian casually reading on the sidewalk bench. She had no doubt he was totally aware of her and of the time. He’d wait for her to cross the street and then follow her to the train station and back to the Forensic Instincts brownstone.

  Without so much as glancing in his direction, she looked to the left and to the right. The street was empty. No traffic. Great.

  She stepped into the road.

  Slava had turned the van’s ignition key the instant he’d spotted her leaving the building. Now he remained, hunched down, waiting for the exact moment he needed.

  There it was.

  Isabella was three-quarters of the way across the street. Her guard had risen to follow. Slava eased the van out of its alcove. The guy took one step. Then two. Then he was off the sidewalk and into the street. Three steps more and he was too far from the curb to jump back to safety.

  Slava floored the gas.

  He saw the stunned expression on the man’s face as the van plowed into him, sending his body crashing into the windshield and then careening off to the roadside, where he lay, unmoving.

  Isabella spun around, her backpack toppling to the sidewalk as her hands flew up to her face and she let out a voiceless scream.

  The rest happened in a burst of activity.

  Slava swerved the van over and leapt out. Grabbing Isabella around the waist, he clamped his big hand over her mouth. He flung her into the van, shoved her aside as he jumped back into the driver’s seat, and screeched off.

  He watched her struggle to a sitting position, his expression smug as he waited for her to see who her kidnapper was.

  Recognition was immediate.

  Her eyes found him, and they grew round with shock and fear.

  Slava’s smile was pure evil, his Russian accent thick. “Hello, Isabella. It is time for that date we never had.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Marc and Ryan were arguing over strategy, and Claire was fidgeting in her seat with some inner growing agitation when Patrick’s cell phone rang.

  “Yes, John,” he answered. Frowning, he covered his other ear with his palm. “Speak up. I can barely hear you, it’s so loud. What the hell is going on there?” A pause, and Patrick lurched off the chair, firing questions into the phone. “Mowed down? What’s his condition? What about… He took her? Did you get the van’s license plate? Is there anything left on the scene but the backpack?” Another pause. “I’m assuming Mountainside Hospital? I’m leaving now. I’ll meet you there. If there’s a medical assessment before I show up, find out when he’ll be up to talking.”

  All eyes were on Patrick as he slammed down his phone.

  “Slava Petrovich got to Emma,” he said, his expression grim. “He ran down Brian and took Emma right off the street. Brian’s in an ambula
nce on his way to the local hospital. And Emma is…gone.”

  “Oh my God.” Claire’s hands flew up to her face. “I knew it. I felt it.”

  “How do you know for certain it was Slava?” Ryan demanded.

  “John witnessed the scene from inside the apartment. He heard the screech of tires and got to the window in time to see a man matching Slava’s description grab Emma, shove her into a van, and speed off. Brian was bleeding in the road. John called 911 and got down to the street ASAP. Brian was breathing but unconscious. John is in the ambulance with him now. The EMTs are working on him. And Emma…” Patrick rubbed a palm over his jaw, looking as if he were going to be sick.

  “Shit.” Marc’s mind was racing. “Slava must have been scoping out the area near the apartment. Emma probably walked there from the gym with Lisa. Slava would have made Emma as Isabella the minute he saw her.”

  “And that will make him go crazy,” Claire whispered. “He won’t care about any orders he’s received. He won’t even care about Lisa and Miles anymore. He’ll be irrational. His rage will take over.” Tears had already formed in Claire’s eyes. She steepled her icy fingers together and looked directly at Casey. “Slava will torture her, Casey. He’ll…” Her voice trailed off. She and Casey had both been there. They knew what brutal assailants did to their victims. And a former KGB agent? God only knew what he was capable of.

  “We’re heading up to Vermont.” Casey was already on her feet, her customarily steady demeanor gone. Her voice was quavering, and her body language screamed fear. “We’re getting into Maxim Lubinov’s compound. Screw the legalities.”

  “Casey, wait.” Marc reached out and grabbed her arm. “Let’s take a rational breath. We don’t even know for sure that Slava took Emma to Burlington. He might be keeping her local while he reaches out to his boss. They might be discussing using her as a bargaining chip to get to whoever she’s working with—us.”

  “‘Might’ doesn’t cut it, Marc.”

  “I agree. That’s why we need to divide and conquer, not all jump in the van and race up to New England. Rescuing Emma is all that matters. We have to cover all our bases to do that.”

  He waited until Casey regained a modicum of control and gave him a tight nod. “What do you suggest? I’m not rational on this one,” she said.

  “Like I said, I suggest we divide up and close off Slava’s options.” Marc understood that Casey was asking him to run the show, something she rarely did. But he was her go-to guy, and she was a mess. Right now, she needed his level head.

  He naturally assumed the command and control that was pure Marc, the former Navy SEAL. “You, Claire, and Patrick will stay behind,” he instructed. “Your various skills are needed here.” He angled his head in Patrick’s direction. “You deal with the situation in Upper Montclair—the cops, John, Brian, the hospital—until you get some answers and, hopefully, find out if Slava is holding Emma nearby.”

  “Consider it done,” Patrick replied.

  “Bring Hero with you when you go to Upper Montclair,” Casey added. “He’ll be an asset.”

  Hero’s head came up, and he scrambled to his feet, as if knowing he was being called upon.

  Reflexively, Casey stroked his head. “He knows Emma’s scent. We have more than enough of her things for me to make scent pads. Whatever trail turns up, Hero will follow—with God’s help, directly to Emma.”

  “Excellent idea.” Patrick gave Hero the hand gesture to follow him. “I’ll make the scent pads. I’ll be in constant contact with all of you.”

  “Make sure of that,” Casey said. She watched them leave, her wheels turning and her leadership skills kicking in. She knew what Marc was about to say, and she knew he was right. So she said it for him.

  “I’m calling Hutch right now and getting the FBI ball rolling. We needed proof? Now we have it. And Claire…” A quick glance in her direction. “Do anything you can to pick up on Emma’s energy. Use it to figure out where she is.”

  Claire rose. “I’ll find a way. I have to. I need to go downstairs and get a few personal items out of her desk. Then I’ll hole up in my yoga room, where I have the serenity and clarity of mind to focus completely on Emma.” Emanating determination, Claire was off on her mission.

  “Am I missing anything?” Casey asked Marc.

  “Nope. We’re set.” He was now in SEAL mode. “Let’s go, Ryan. I’m getting my gear together, and we’re leaving for Vermont. Bring whatever techno-stuff is necessary. And I’m calling Aidan from the road. We need him on this.”

  Ryan was shutting down his computer and gathering up the equipment that went with it. “The rest of what I need is in my lair. I’ll grab it and meet you at the van.” He paused, visibly bugged by something.

  “What is it?” Casey demanded.

  “Don’t call Hutch. The last thing we need is a SWAT team bursting into Lubinov’s compound and screwing everything up. We can pull this one off fast and clean, without FBI interference.”

  “Forget it, Ryan,” Casey responded in a tone that told him it wasn’t happening his way. “I’m calling Hutch now. He can reach out to the appropriate field office and put them on standby. As soon as we have confirmation that Emma’s in Lubinov’s manor, SWAT can go in. I want you to work with them. No vigilante bullshit. I want Emma in one piece and Lubinov’s entire crime ring put away.”

  “And if we get there first and somehow figure out she’s inside—before the FBI’s red tape has allowed them to act?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Anyone standing in the lobby of the Best Western would have pegged Slava as an ardent lover rather than a kidnapper and a killer. He guided Emma along, keeping her slightly in front of him, one of his arms wrapped intimately around her shoulders, the other arm tucked subtly behind her, hidden from view. The sharp blade of his knife was pressed into the small of her back, ensuring that she didn’t make a sound.

  He kept up the charade until he’d maneuvered her up the stairs, down the hall, and safely into his hotel room. Once he’d double-locked the door, everything changed.

  He put down the knife. Whirling Emma around, he grabbed a handful of her hair and used it to yank her head back—so hard that tears came to her eyes and her mouth dropped open. Before she could cry out, Slava snatched one of the linen napkins folded near the takeout menu on the side table and crammed it into her mouth. With one huge hand, he locked her wrists behind her back and dragged her across the room to the bed. He backhanded her across the face, first once, then twice, sending her toppling onto the bed, red bruises already forming on her cheeks.

  Before she could recover, Slava had pushed her high enough up on the bed to accomplish his goal. He yanked off his belt and bound her wrist to one of the bedposts. He used a pillowcase to do the same to her other wrist. He spread her legs wide, shoving each foot between the bed frame and the bed, wedging them in so tightly that there was no wrenching them free.

  Emma was weeping now, choked sobs that were stifled by the gag. Her eyes were huge, filled with dread, and her breasts were rising and falling with the force of her breath. Her stare was on Slava, and there must have been a plea in her gaze, because his next words crushed it to bits.

  “Save your tears, dear Isabella.” His broken English was more than adequate for what he had in mind. His lips twisted into a cruel, triumphant smile as he stood back to admire his handiwork and revel in Emma’s primal fear. “We’ve just gotten started.”

  He walked over and retrieved his knife, returning to kneel between her legs. He leaned forward, holding the blade to her throat. Ever so slightly, he nicked the delicate skin there and was rewarded with a few drops of blood and a muffled whimper.

  He captured the blood with his fingertips, holding it up for Emma to see. Then he reached down to wipe the droplets across her lips, first her upper one and then her lower one.

  “Gag is coming out,” he said. “Taste blood. Answer questions. If you scream or talk, except to ans
wer me, I’ll slit your throat and you bleed to death. Nod if you understand.”

  Emma nodded.

  “Good.” He reached into her mouth and yanked out the gag.

  Emma winced as the gag was torn from her mouth. She stayed rigid and didn’t make a sound, unsure of what to do—or not to do—to avoid retaliation. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. So did the skin at her throat, where Slava had pricked it. She had never known white-hot panic like this. Then again, she fully realized what this animal had planned. What would come first? The torture? The rape? The murder would be last, after he’d dragged as much information out of her as he could.

  She should tell him nothing except to go fuck himself. She should spit in his face. She should be the ballsy girl she always was.

  She couldn’t do or be any of those things.

  She was so scared. Of all of it. Most of all, she didn’t want to die. Oh, God, she didn’t want to die.

  “Lick your lips,” Slava ordered her. “Taste blood.”

  Emma obeyed, gagging at the iodine flavor and praying for a miracle she knew wasn’t coming. Brian could be dead. No one knew where Slava had taken her. Even FI had no starting point from which to initiate a trace. They couldn’t find her.

  It was over.

  She flinched as Slava rose from between her legs, her gaze following him over to the nightstand, where he poured a glass of water and shoved it against her mouth. “Drink so you can talk.”

  Emma hesitated. She wasn’t sure she could get down the water, much less hold it down.

  “Drink or I hold your nose and pour it down your throat until you choke.”

  She had to do this.

  Closing her lips around the rim of the glass, Emma took a few tentative sips and finally what she prayed would be an acceptable swallow. She forced the water down past the lump in her throat. Then, she lay back and waited.

  “Good.” Slava set down the glass and returned to his kneeling position between her legs. His eyes were black with rage, their depths empty, devoid of humanity.

  “Your name,” he commanded. “Your real name.”