The Murder That Never Was

  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 glanced 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.”

  “She’s a kid with the potential to destroy everything. I won’t let that happen.” Max stared directly at Dmitry, his gaze brittle. “You saw me kill a man who used my supplements for his own selfish reasons. He destroyed a young girl’s career, her entire life, in the process.”

  “And now you’re threatening to take that life,” Dmitry said.

  “Kidnapping is not murder. And neither of them would be my ideal choice. However, I will protect what I’m doing at all costs. Ultimately, it will benefit the world. A few casualties are a small price to pay.” A long pause. “I assume you can live with that?”

  Dmitry couldn’t help but nod. It might be ugly, but somehow it all made sense. “I can and I will.”

  “Good. Then we’re on the same page. Let’s go check on my stallion.”

  Hours later, on the bed in his room, Dmitry flung an arm across his eyes, as if that motion alone could block out the darkness of what might be. He admitted to himself what he was agreeing to, what he’d already tacitly agreed to—and witnessed firsthand as Jim Robbins lay writhing on the floor,
dying before his eyes.

  It was called aiding and abetting. Dmitry could go to jail. But his loyalty to Max ran deeper than his fear. He knew this man, knew that he was driven by the promise of his work. Given the enormity of what he was going to accomplish, did that justify his actions?

  Dmitry had to believe that it did.

  Death was no stranger to Max, not with a father who was a high-ranking officer in the Russian Federation. Nor was it something to fear or avoid in lieu of the greater good. Max had learned that at his father’s knee.

  Dmitry was as close to a confidant as Max had. He’d felt honored when, over a drink, Max had shared his background with him.

  Max was the oldest of eight children, and the only one who burned with his father’s drive and sense of purpose. At a young age, he’d been accepted to an elite European boarding school in Switzerland, after which he’d graduated and come to the US on a student visa to Harvard. There, he’d further developed his scientific aptitude, concentrating in microbiology. Next came Harvard Medical School and then on to becoming a cutting-edge research scientist.

  Dmitry swallowed, remembering how Max had told him that, in his first and only job working for someone else, he’d pushed the boundaries beyond what the plebian world could tolerate and, subsequently, been fired. Dmitry had never questioned him about what those boundaries were and how far Max had pushed them. He’d just absorbed whatever information Max was willing to share, kept it to himself, and done his job.

  Of one thing Dmitry was certain, and that was that, once Max had been fired, he’d taken the route that he should have taken from the start: gone out on his own. It’d taken only a short period of time for him to develop a series of new and progressive health supplement formulations. There’d been a bidding war, and he’d sold his formulas to one of the world’s largest supplement companies for seven figures each, in addition to an ongoing stream of royalties.

  It was those financial gains plus the steady stream of income that had allowed him to start and flourish in his new and grandiose endeavor—to better the entire human race and to, one day, win a Nobel Prize.

  The scientific community knew him as a microbiology and stem cell genius.

  But Dmitry knew he was so much more. And, as a ray of Max’s powerful sun, he would do whatever he had to to be the right arm of this extraordinary man.

  Including being an accessory to murder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Upper Montclair, New Jersey

  Miles was sprawled on the living room sofa, talking on the phone with a Dell customer who didn’t know her ass from her elbow, and trying to troubleshoot her problem on his laptop.

  Same shit, different day.

  The doorbell rang. He ignored the sound, only to have it repeated an instant later.

  “Please hold for a second,” he said to the shrieking woman at the other end of the line. Muting the conversation from his side, he called out, “Working. Leave the package at the door.”

  Deliverymen were the closest thing to visitors he and Lisa ever got. Of course, that was by design.

  “Chicago Police,” a female voice replied with authority.

  Milo froze, obviously for too long, because the doorbell sounded again.

  The female cop kept her voice down, obviously so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. “We just want to ask you a few questions. That’s all.”

  They weren’t going away, that was for sure.

  Quickly, Milo pulled himself together, his mind racing a mile a minute. “Be right there,” he answered.

  He returned to his call only long enough to end it, first getting the customer’s number and promising her a same-day callback. Unfolding himself from the sofa, he rose and glanced over at the second bedroom, where Shannon’s music was playing as she dutifully did the homework her teachers had emailed her.

  In a few long strides, Milo was in her doorway.

  “Shannon,” he said, his tone causing her to snap up and stare at him.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, frightened even before she had her answer. She was skittish all the time, which wasn’t going to help their cause when answering to the cops.

  “The Chicago police are at the door.” Milo didn’t have time to ease into it or to soothe her fears—or his own. Conversation and personal interactions weren’t exactly his strong suits. How was he going to pull off an interrogation?

  “Listen to me,” he said over Shannon’s terrified gasp. “Stay in here unless I come and get you. If you have to talk to them, stick to basic, publically known facts. And, remember, it’s Julie who’s here, and Lisa who’s dead. Stick to that story no matter what. Don’t slip up.”

  “Oh my God.” All the color drained from Shannon’s face. “No wonder I have two missed calls and a voice mail from my parents. What do the police want? What do they know?”

  “I’m about to find out.” Milo glanced over his shoulder, expecting loud pounding at the front door to ensue. “I’ve got to let them in. Remember, stay put. Take deep breaths, and please, just don’t freak out on me.”

  He left the room, knowing full well that Shannon wasn’t about to keep it together. He could only pray the cops didn’t know she was there.

  He blew out a text to Lisa as he walked, letting her know what was going on and telling her to stay at the gym unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Sucking in his breath and then exhaling it, he opened the front door.

  “Detectives Kline and Bogart,” the female detective said, flashing her ID, which showed she was the Kline half of the partnership. She was around fortyish, tall and lean, with chin-length, light brown hair and sharp dark eyes. Her partner, Detective Bogart, was middle-aged, with thinning hair, a hard, solid build, and a more laid-back stance.

  Milo could definitely see who played good cop and who played bad.

  “May we come in?” Kline asked.

  “Of course.” Milo, doing what he hoped was a convincing job of looking puzzled, moved aside so they could step into the apartment.

  “I’m assuming you’re Miles Parker?” Bogart asked, taking a small pad and pen out of the inside pocket of his herringbone sports coat.

  The implication of that question registered. The Chicago and the Montclair police had obviously had a nice long talk about the interrogation that had taken place at Excalibur. Which begged the questions: what had they uncovered about him, and what conclusions had they drawn?

  Only one way to find out.

  “That’s me,” Milo replied.

  Kline’s gaze swept the apartment. “Are you here alone?”

  “Are you looking for Julie?” he answered, purposely sidestepping the question.

  “Both of you, actually. Oh, and Shannon Barker, too. According to her parents, she’s staying here with Ms. Forman.”

  Shit. Milo hadn’t expected them to have spoken with Shannon’s folks. So any attempt to keep her hidden had just gone up in smoke.

  Clearly, these two had done their homework. He’d have to wing this and cross his fingers that Shannon didn’t fall apart, and that he didn’t contradict himself or look guilty.

  “Julie’s teaching a class at her gym.” Milo then jerked his thumb toward the rear of the apartment. “And Shannon’s in there, studying.” The best defense was a good offense. “She’s kind of a mess. But I’m guessing you know that.”

  Kline’s brows rose slightly. “Why would you assume that?”

  Milo went for it. “Because you came all the way here to question us, even though the local police already did. Maybe because Shannon followed Julie here, or maybe because, according to Shannon, her former Olympic trainer is missing. Maybe both.”

  Both detectives looked kind of surprised at his directness. Good. He’d actually surprised himself.

  “You forgot one thing on that lis
t you just ticked off,” Kline said. “You. We didn’t even know you existed, and yet not only were you and Lisa Barnes joined at the hip, she introduced you to Julie Forman, for whom you researched and found Excalibur. Then, you travelled here with her as her pal and computer guy. That’s a long string of coincidences.”

  Milo forced himself to hide his discomfort. “Truth is stranger than fiction, I guess.”

  Kline didn’t look convinced enough to ease Milo’s worry. “We did thorough background checks on both you and Lisa Barnes,” she said in a tone that was a warning not to lie.

  Milo didn’t have to—not about this. “So you know that Lisa was the only real family I ever had. I couldn’t stay in Chicago, not without her.”

  “So you chose to join Julie Forman and start over.”

  “Why not? I’m sure you know what I do for a living—no roots required. Coming here as Julie’s tech guy was a no-brainer.”

  “Are you two involved?” Bogart interrupted to ask.

  “W-what?” Milo started. “No. Not like that.”

  “Then like what?”

  “I told you. I’m her tech guy. We set up the gym together. We share the apartment to save money. She’s got her room and I’ve got mine.”

  “Evidently not at the moment.” Kline swept her arm across the living room area. The guy’s clothes strewn around, the blankets crumpled up on the sofa cushions, the pillow with the indent shoved against them—all those things screamed the fact that Milo was using this as a bedroom.

  “Shannon’s staying in my room,” Milo replied. “So, yeah, I’m camping out here for now. But Julie’s in the master bedroom.” He indicated where that was. “And I’m not.”

  About that, Kline looked convinced. “Speaking of Julie, we’ll be heading over to Excalibur to chat with her after we leave here.”

  Milo couldn’t do anything but nod. “Fine. I’m just not sure either of us can tell you more than we’ve already told the Montclair police.”