Finally, Dr. Lubinov folded his napkin and placed it on the table in front of him. As if on cue, an efficient maid entered the room and cleared the dishes away.
It was only then that Dr. Lubinov interlaced his fingers on the table, looked directly at Jim, and spoke. “Well, Mr. Robbins, I hope you enjoyed your meal.” The man’s English was perfect, with only a hint of an accent. “It isn’t often that I invite one of my employees to my home.”
“Your home is beautiful, and dinner was delicious.” Jim felt as if he had marbles in his mouth. The truth was, he hadn’t even glanced around the parts of the house he’d walked through, and he’d barely tasted his salmon. All he wanted was to hear what Dr. Lubinov had to say. “I feel honored to be here.”
“Good.” The doctor nodded, as if that was the expected answer. “It’s been brought to my attention that you’ve trained a half dozen of my finest subjects and done an excellent job of increasing their physical potential. I wanted to commend you for that, and to show my appreciation.”
“Thank you.” Jim felt a wave of gratitude. “That means a lot, coming from you. I so admire your work and all you’re trying to accomplish.”
Dr. Lubinov smiled, a patronizing smile, as if Jim didn’t have a clue what the potential of his work was. Well, he probably didn’t. But what he did know was all that mattered. He enjoyed his work. Even more, he enjoyed the money and notoriety he was getting for his “added” assignments. And getting praise like this from the master himself? Jim’s world was complete.
“Of course, there was that incident with the young gymnast, Shannon Barker,” Dr. Lubinov said, never changing expressions. “That was a very unfortunate event. It was the first and only black mark on my research.”
Jim swallowed, hard. He took the exact tactic that he’d planned.
“I was devastated by that,” he said. “Shannon was one of my shining stars. I don’t know if her physical constitution wasn’t up for our trials or if her manager was pushing her too hard.”
“Yuri Varennikov,” Dr. Lubinov supplied. “He’s known to be very hard on his Olympic trainees.”
“Exactly.” Jim’s relief was intensifying by the minute. He leaned forward, a conspiratorial look in his eyes. “I think you should know that both Yuri and Shannon’s parents, not to mention Shannon herself, have all been harassing me. They blame me for what happened. I’ve tried to appease them, but they’ve been relentless. Shannon actually confronted me in the parking lot the other day, spewing nonsense about my working for someone who’s supplying me with PEDs. I, of course, denied everything.”
“That was wise,” Dr. Lubinov said. “Their reaction is to be expected. Shannon’s life is effectively over.”
That caused Jim pause. What did that mean? Was Dr. Lubinov going to have Shannon killed?
He felt a pang of guilt and remorse.
He fought the pang off. It was either Shannon or him. And he wasn’t planning on dying, not even if it meant throwing an innocent teenager under the bus.
“She has no proof,” Jim said, at least trying to save Shannon’s life. “The police wouldn’t take her seriously, believe me. I just think that maybe you should keep an eye on her—just in case.”
“Indeed. I completely agree with that assessment.” Dr. Lubinov signaled to the maid, who hurried in with a bottle of Stolichnaya—a classic Russian vodka that Jim knew cost a pretty penny—and three shot glasses, already filled. She placed the bottle in front of Dr. Lubinov, then carefully placed the shot glasses on the table, one in front of each man, deferring first to her employer and last to their guest.
“Let’s put aside the past and toast to the future,” Dr. Lubinov said. Raising his glass, he nodded in Jim’s direction. “To you, Mr. Robbins. For all you’ve done. Na Zdorovie.”
With that, he put the glass to his lips, threw back his head, and drained the glass. Dmitry followed suit.
Quickly, Jim did the same, trying not to react to the burn of the pure alcohol as it blasted down his throat. He wasn’t a big drinker, and when he did have vodka, it was mixed with orange or cranberry juice. Still, he wasn’t about to insult his boss.
He set down the shot glass, wondering how he was going to turn down a refill without pissing off Dr. Lubinov.
To his surprise, the doctor didn’t offer him another.
That was good. Because the burning sensation in his throat began to spread through his body. It hurt—badly. And he felt lightheaded and sick. He unknotted his tie. He was so hot he couldn’t breathe. His heart began pounding, faster and faster…reaching the point where it felt like it was exploding out of his chest. He fought for air, ultimately sliding off the chair and onto the floor, gasping for air, pain searing through his body.
“The poison is slow-acting enough so I can say what I need to,” Dr. Lubinov said, pouring himself another shot with utter calm. “But don’t be fooled. Ultimately, your death will be horribly painful. As it should be.”
The reality of what Dr. Lubinov was saying sank in. “You poisoned me?” Jim was barely able to speak.
“Of course. Did you really think I would let you get away with tainting my life’s work with your filthy ambition and greed? Did you think I didn’t know that you doubled Shannon Barker’s dosage in the hopes of building a superstar overnight, rather than be prudent and move ahead on schedule? Did you think I didn’t know that you made a public spectacle of yourself in the parking lot, jeopardizing my work with your violent outburst? You’re a stupid, useless fool who I’m going to enjoy watching die.”
Jim was beginning to drool and foam at the mouth. The pain was agonizing and growing worse by the minute. His insides were burning…disintegrating. What an idiot he’d been. Oh, God…
Dmitry ran out of the room, barely making it to the bathroom before he vomited.
Max remained, rising from his chair to closely watch every dying moment. With a total lack of emotion, he nursed his vodka, studying Jim as he twisted and writhed on the floor.
It was only when Jim contorted and then went deadly still that Max nodded in satisfaction, put down his shot glass, and left the room.
Slava would dispose of the body later.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Once again, Ryan had lost track of the time. Part of that was Claire’s fault. She’d come into his lair a little after midnight, locked the door, and pulled him down onto the small rug in the corner of the hard-floored room. She’d seduced him shamelessly—what choice did he have but to give in?
His lips curved, remembering. For such a soft-spoken, perfect lady, Claire was anything but that in bed. Or on the floor. Or anywhere they happened to be when they tore each other’s clothes off. So, frankly, he didn’t care that it was three a.m. The half-hour interruption had been well worth the time spent away from his efforts to locate Miles and Julie.
But now it was serious business time. His progress had been moving along at a breakneck pace since Claire’s visit. Maybe she’d gotten his juices flowing. Maybe he was just so close he could taste it. Maybe…
Success.
Leaping to his feet, Ryan pumped the air with his fist, filled with self-congratulations and the taste of excitement to come.
Miles had been a worthy adversary, but the pupil had a lot to learn from the master. Ryan had set multiple traps for ScoobyDoo—traps that would triangulate and reveal the digital footprint of ScoobyDoo’s Internet activity. Any one trap would be insufficient to break the anonymity afforded by the darknet, but working in concert, Ryan could narrow the list down to a couple of IP addresses, and from that, to the most likely location.
The winner was Upper Montclair, New Jersey, which had turned up a seventy-three percent probability. Awesome that it was that close to Manhattan. No unrealistic time commitments, plane flights, or convincing Casey—which would never happen—to close in on his quarry.
It was field trip time. And he wasn’t going there alone, not when he had a badass Navy SEAL to ride shotgun.
Marc Devereaux’s cell phone rang.
Groaning, he untangled his limbs from Madeline’s and groped for the offensive object that was ringing on the night table beside his head. It had to be close to friggin’ four in the morning, and he and his beautiful fiancée had just fallen asleep—something they didn’t do much of when they were in bed together. The last thing he wanted was a conversation.
“You’d better answer that,” Maddy murmured, nestling her face against Marc’s shoulder. With great difficulty, she raised her head and glanced at her nightstand clock. “It’s after three thirty. It’s got to be work.”
“Yeah. Lucky me.” Marc took a quick look at the Caller ID. “It’s Ryan.”
“What a surprise.”
“Not a welcome one.” Marc punched on his phone. “This had better be good,” he said to his teammate.
A chuckle. “Are you and Madeline still burning up the sheets? Damn, you’re getting married in a month. The good stuff should be over by now.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Marc was in no mood for chitchat. “What’s going on?”
“I know you’re interviewing suspects in the Worster case.” Ryan got down to business, referring to the current FI case. “But Claire-voyant has to do her thing with the suspect list anyway before you start interrogating people. Can you disappear for a while tomorrow?”
“Does Casey know about this?”
“Not yet. But don’t worry. I’ll run it by her as we drive.”
“When we’re already halfway where we’re going, and she can’t say no.” Marc rubbed his eyes. “By tomorrow, I assume you mean today.”
“Yeah.” Ryan sounded a little sheepish. “I guess it’s late.”
“Only if you keep normal hours.” Marc folded his free arm behind his head. “Is this about those people you’re hunting down for Emma?”
“Uh-huh. I think I found Miles—or at least the town he’s in.”
“I’m not flying to Hawaii.”
“You don’t have to. He’s right here in the tri-state area—Upper Montclair, New Jersey.”
“Convenient,” Marc replied. “Okay, I’m in.” He closed his eyes. “Can you fill me in on the details when I show up at the brownstone—which will be late?”
“Sure. Go do your encore. We’ll talk in my lair whenever you show up.”
Marc pressed the end button and put down the phone.
“I’m awake now,” Maddy announced, propping herself up on one elbow. “What do you intend to do about it?”
With smoky eyes, Marc rolled her under him. “Get inside you and stay there.”
Chicago, Illinois
Nineteenth Police District
Detective Paula Kline juggled her cup of coffee as she sat down at her desk—a desk so cluttered she couldn’t find a spot for her cup. She’d promised herself a dozen times that she’d organize her file pile. It had never happened. And it wasn’t looking too good for the near future. Not with the caseload she had.
Her computer binged for the dozenth time in the past half hour. Yet another email, hopefully one that wouldn’t require more than ten minutes of the time she didn’t have.
She sat down and took a look.
Interesting. The Google alert she’d set up on Julie Forman had found something: a web page with her name on it. Paula followed the link in the email message, which took her to a newspaper called The Montclair Times. She scrolled down on the page and stopped when she saw the snippet on the opening of a new gym called Excalibur, owned and managed by none other than a Julie Forman. There was a small color photo of her, smiling and holding up a free weight.
“Hey, Frank?” Paula called out to her partner.
Detective Frank Bogart swiveled around in his chair. “If it’s a new case, forget it. I’m drowning as it is.”
“No, it’s actually a low-profile existing case.” Paula proceeded to tell him what she’d found. “We need a photo of Julie Forman to make sure it’s the same person we’re looking for.” She accomplished that the quickest way possible, signing on to Facebook and searching for Julie Forman.
There were several, but only one whose photo came close to what Paula was looking for. She clicked on that entry.
A page, photo, and brief bio came up.
“Yup,” Paula confirmed. “Same woman.”
“Well, what do you know.” Now, even Frank looked intrigued. “How do you want to handle it—the locals?”
“Uh-huh. Now we call the Montclair PD and ask them to pay a visit to Ms. Forman. Maybe she can help us close the Barnes case.”
Jersey City, New Jersey
Ryan exited the Holland Tunnel on the Jersey side of the Hudson River, just ten minutes from FI’s Tribeca office.
“Great, no traffic,” he said cheerfully, steering the Sprinter Van onto the highway.
“Not a surprise. It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday morning.” Marc was talking to Ryan but eyeing the odd-looking contraption in the console cup holder between them. It looked like a combination of a bumblebee and a helicopter—palm-sized, yellow with black stripes, bee’s wings, and helicopter rotor blades. The damn thing even had a face, complete with a shit-eating grin.
“At this rate, we should be in Upper Montclair in less than forty minutes,” Ryan continued.
“Uh-huh.” Marc was trying to figure out the weird little gizmo on his own, so he wouldn’t have to ask Ryan and listen to a long-winded, egocentric speech about his new, brilliant creation.
“I’m glad that Casey was cool with our doing this—although I think she was kind of pissed that I didn’t ask her first.”
“Did you doubt that?” Marc gave Ryan a you’re-kidding-me look. “But not to worry; she’ll get over it. Casey’s got a heart of gold. If we can help Emma, and potentially solve a murder, she’ll forgive you for playing hooky for half a day.”
“Yeah. Besides, this is gonna be a cool and productive trip.” Ryan glanced down at his new drone, after which his gaze shifted to the dashboard, where his gadget’s batteries were charging in a power pack plugged into the 12V outlet.
“Okay, I give up. What the hell is that?” Marc demanded, pointing at the insect contraption.
“That’s Bee.”
“Yeah, that much I figured. What is Bee? And don’t tell me it’s a flying pollinating insect.”
A chuckle. “Don’t you first want to know who is Bee? That’s as cool as what he does.”
Marc groaned and slid down in his seat. “I’m never going to get the short version of this. So go ahead. Hit me with an explanation of your toy and the brilliance of its creator.”
“Okay, I will.” Ryan looked as exuberant as a child talking about his first Hot Wheels. “Bee is Bumblebee the Autobot.”
When Ryan saw Marc’s blank expression, his own jaw dropped. “Autobots? The Transformers? The comic books, the TV series, the movies? Hello?”
“Okay, it’s some sci-fi thing. I get it.”
“Are you bullshitting me?” Ryan almost drove off the road. “The Transformers go way back—they’re even older than you are. What did you do as a kid?”
“You mean before TV was invented?” Marc sounded amused now. He was only eight years older than Ryan. “I played with GI Joe and dreamt of being a Navy SEAL.”
Ryan shook his head in utter disbelief. “I’m actually talking to someone who’s never heard of the Transformers. I’m in shock. Okay, I’ll sum it up for you. The Autobots are a faction of sentient robots from the planet Cybertron. Their leader is Optimus Prime, who, as an aside, Bumblebee hero-worships. The Autobots are the good guys; the Decepticons are the bad guys. Good versus evil, and all that neat stuff.
“Anyway, all the A
utobots can transform themselves into different vehicles. Bee can become an awesome yellow Chevy Camaro with black stripes. He’s one of the youngest and fastest Autobots. He’s small, but he’s full of energy and compassion for humans. He gets things done, and he’s a little whirlwind while he’s doing his job. Is that a perfect prototype for my drone, or what?”
Marc’s shoulders were shaking with laughter. “Every time I think you’ve outdone yourself, you prove me wrong. Where it comes to this stuff, you’re the most creative ten-year-old I’ve ever met.”
“A genius ten-year-old,” Ryan amended, not the least bit offended by the description. “Bee is going to kick some serious ass when we’re close to Miles Parker’s location. He can only cover about a five-hundred-foot radius. But once he’s in the zone, his speed, flight ability, and video-recording potential are going to find our guy for us. Wait till you see Bee in action. You’re not going to be able to hide how impressed you are.”
“I don’t doubt it.” The truth was, Marc was impressed. He always was by Ryan’s brilliant ability with robots and gadgets. With a twinkle in his eye, he looked down at the grinning bumblebee. “Welcome to the team, Bee.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Once the FI van reached Upper Montclair, Ryan spent a fair amount of time driving around the numerous smaller business districts looking for the Wi-Fi SSD that was linked to ScoobyDoo’s IP address: TheMysteryMachine—a fitting name, since that’s what the Scooby Doo van was called.
No luck.
That changed in a hurry.
As he headed east on Bellevue Avenue, a block past the intersection with Valley Road and almost where the business district turned residential, the signal strength meter in his Wi-Fi sniffer came alive.
“What does that mean?” Marc asked instantly.
“It means that TheMysteryMachine, a.k.a. Miles Parker, is nearby.” He made a turn, following the signal strength.