He punched in the dummy Hirsch pad code he’d been issued by FI and stepped inside.
“Good evening, Supervisory Special Agent Hutchinson,” Yoda greeted him politely.
“Hey, Yoda.” Hutch shrugged out of his jacket. “I need to see Casey right away.”
“Certainly. She’s on the second floor in the main conference room with Ryan.”
“Thanks.” Hutch loped up the stairs and knocked on the half-opened conference room door. “It’s me.”
“Come on in,” Casey called. She gave Hutch a half-smile as he walked in. He wasn’t fooled. Her chin was set, her brow was furrowed, and she was in work-solution mode.
Ryan was pacing around the room, arms clasped behind his back, looking as intense as Casey did. He paused to shoot Hutch a wave, then continued pacing.
“Grab a cup of coffee and join us,” Casey said.
Hutch nodded, heading over and pouring himself a cup of much-needed caffeine, then perched his hip against the credenza. He had a feeling this investigation of FI’s was getting more and more complex. Well, he wasn’t about to make things any easier.
“I ran everything you sent me,” he told Ryan without preamble. “It was pretty straightforward. Nothing, I’m sure, you didn’t pull off the web. The cobweb on your criminal’s shoulder indicates he’s a drug addict. The cat on his forearm is the mark of a thief. And the dagger through his neck is—no shocker—the sign of a murderer. The six drops of blood dripping from it mean he’s killed six people.”
“Yeah.” Ryan nodded. “That’s what I got online. Did you talk to your friend?”
“Sure did. He verified my suspicions. The KGB was known to use this particular Russian mob offshoot to do ‘special projects.’ In other words, you’re dealing with hard-core criminals here, not street gang members. These pigs go way back. They’ve done major time in prison. They’ve murdered people in cold blood. They’re scary, and the people they work for are even scarier. They’re well-connected, including now, through corrupt channels in the FSB.”
“Dammit,” Casey muttered.
Hutch could read her thoughts. She’d heard him loud and clear. She was well aware that the FSB—the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation—was the main successor agency to the former KGB. And she was beginning to realize just how shark-infested the waters were that her team was wading in.
“Are you going to tell me what this investigation is about or not?” Hutch demanded. “Because I know you, Case. Even though you feel ultimately responsible for the safety of your team, you feel equally responsible for resolving things for your clients. You have no intention of backing away. Well, I’m sure as hell not sitting around while you put your life in danger—again.”
Hutch’s emphasis was clear. While Casey was very protective when it came to the lives of her team, she sucked when it came to safeguarding her own life.
“Point taken,” she replied, chewing her lip as she weighed her options. “I’m caught between a rock and a hard place. You know I can’t divulge anything without talking to our clients. And they know less than you do about this whole organized crime thing. If they knew, they’d freak, and that would blow our entire investigation. We need them to keep it together.”
“You’re obliged to tell them everything,” Hutch reminded her.
“I realize that.” Casey dragged a frustrated hand through her hair. “And I will. Just not as explicitly as we’re discussing here. Our job is to solve their case and to keep them in one piece.” A brief pause. “I also have another responsibility, and that’s to watch your back. Which means keeping the things I share with you on the straight and narrow. I’m sure our clients would welcome you with open arms. But I have to make sure I don’t violate your ethics or your responsibility to the Bureau.”
A corner of Hutch’s mouth lifted. “I appreciate you looking out for me, sweetheart. But I’ve gone out on a limb before. When it comes to your safety, my loyalties seem to run a little murky.”
“A little?” Ryan looked distinctly amused. “I’d say a lot. But, hey, that works for me. I want you on board.”
“I’m waiting for some additional information from another source,” Casey said. “That should complete the picture. Once I have it, I’ll get our clients’ permission to bring you fully into the loop.”
“Get their permission now,” Hutch responded. “That way we’ll be good to go the minute your other source comes through.” He met Casey’s gaze with insightful certainty. “Aidan works as quickly as I do.”
Casey’s lips twitched. “Duly noted, Agent Hutchinson. I’ll call them now.”
Burlington, Vermont
Max was in a meeting with Dmitry discussing the accommodations and various regimens for their new training arrivals when the call came through.
The only reason Max even acknowledged the ring tone was because it came in on his private line. Only a few people had that number. And given that Slava was now orchestrating a major initiative, he had to be mindful of everything.
“Do you want me to answer it?” Dmitry asked.
Max glanced down at the phone, unsurprised to see that the number was blocked. No one who had this number wanted to be recognized. And Max was adamant that it stay just that way.
“I’ll take the call.” He punched on the phone and put it to his ear. “Yes?” he said, purposely not reverting to Russian until he knew who and what he was dealing with.
“Hello, Max.”
The voice at the other end spoke Russian, even though he also spoke perfect English, as well. It was Ilya Andropov, Max’s mole in the Ministry of Economic Development of the Russian Federation. Ilya was an essential asset, protecting the anonymity of Max’s ownership in RusChem. He reported back to Max on all inquiries that were made regarding the company, swiftly identifying any and all problems or potential infiltrations. In return, he was extremely well compensated—as well he should be.
Whatever this phone call was about, it was important.
“What is it, Ilya?” Max asked, switching to Russian himself.
“A red flag. It seems there have been some inquiries into RusChem. The inquirers were sent on a wild goose chase, but I wanted to advise you of the situation immediately.”
“Who made these inquiries?” Max demanded. “And what, specifically, did they pertain to?”
“I wasn’t privy to the information, although I haven’t given up trying. I do know that they were made anonymously. That means it’s someone with internal connections. I don’t think anything was divulged. That doesn’t mean the avenue wasn’t pursued.”
“Son of a bitch.” Max gritted his teeth. Whoever was in charge of protecting Shannon Barker was delving deep—and they had the connections to do so. “Find out whatever you can. I want to know every detail that transpires.”
He slammed down the phone.
“What is it?” Dmitry asked.
“RusChem. Someone’s probing into it. Ilya doesn’t know who, and he’s having trouble finding out.”
“Does Ilya know what it is that they’re looking for?” Dmitry asked.
“Not yet.” Max rose and began stalking around the room, trying to displace his agitation. “This is bad, Dmitry. It’s more than just a police investigation, and it extends way beyond the protection of one Olympic hopeful. This is being run by a well-connected adversary. And it’s a direct threat to my research—and to me.” A dark scowl. “From this point on, anyone is expendable.”
East Village, New York
It was nearly midnight, and Claire knew she’d procrastinated long enough. Burying her head in the sand was an unfamiliar reaction for her; one she disliked intensely. She wasn’t a coward, certainly not when it came to her gift. She’d long ago accepted that there were times to embrace it and times to rue its existence. But it was always her responsibility to use it as it was
needed.
And that time was now. FI’s clients were counting on her. FI was counting on her. And she wasn’t ducking this new and deeper aspect of her gift any longer. Whatever came of the next few minutes, she’d stay with it and stay strong.
Quietly, she settled herself on her thickly cushioned sofa, Jim Robbins’ hairbrush and training medal neatly laid out on the coffee table in front of her. Automatically, she folded her legs under her in lotus position, which always brought her a soothing sense of calm.
She glanced at the two objects and felt a stronger pull to the medal. Picking it up, she shut her eyes, holding it in a secure but not crushing grip. She couldn’t drag out the images; they had to come to her.
Unfortunately—or fortunately—it rarely took long for that to happen when it came to Jim Robbins. Even in death he seemed to reach out to her, and she somehow knew that his soul was neither dark nor light but more of a muddied gray. He’d been a foolish, greedy man, but he hadn’t been evil, and he certainly hadn’t deserved to die in such a violent manner.
Violent…agonizingly violent.
Poison.
That was the first certainty that crystalized in Claire’s mind. Along with it, she felt shooting pains rip through her gut, cutting off her very breath.
She refused to give in and release the medal. She was going with this, come hell or high water. The images were clear, and she was living inside them. Jim…writhing on the floor of an elegant room with a long, polished table. He was contorted in pain, animal groans emanating from his throat, foam frothing at his mouth. The torture went on and on, until with a final shudder that racked his body, he went still.
Death…death…
Claire gasped, fighting her way to the surface. She was drenched in sweat, shaking so violently she could hardly hold on to the medal. But she wasn’t letting go. Nor was she losing her focus.
Now she was outside Jim’s lifeless body, aware of his immediate surroundings as she hovered over him.
Gleaming hardwood floors. Burgundy velvet drapes hanging at the windows. And the mahogany table—it was a dining room. A dining room in the mansion she’d pictured. Mountains in the distance. Rippling water. Acres of untouched land. Green. Green. New England.
The awareness of the location popped into her head just as the vision vanished.
Another took its place.
Someone was standing in the dining room. He’d watched Jim die with a dark and hollow soul.
A man. Tall. Lean. Cast in shadows. Faceless. Nameless.
The leader. The killer.
Claire tried to force something more tangible, but it wouldn’t come. He was shrouded by anonymity, a cold-blooded monster, and he was central to FI’s investigation. Yet she couldn’t see him, couldn’t perceive more.
Except for one thing.
He’d kill again unless they stopped him. And it would be one of them who died.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Office of Forensic Instincts
No member of the Forensic Instincts team was surprised to see Hutch sitting at the conference table when they filed in. They’d all been briefed that Casey had spoken with their clients and that Lisa and Miles had been thrilled that FI could convince their FBI contact to play a more comprehensive role in their case. All of them, particularly Shannon, were badly shaken by the attempted kidnapping, and, extra security or not, they rarely ventured out of the apartment or the gym. The overwhelming fear and anxiety were wearing on them, and Casey could sense that a meltdown was imminent.
All the more reason to include Hutch in the mix.
“Hey, guys,” Hutch greeted the team.
They all responded in kind.
“Another play-by-the-rules guy—I feel less lonely already,” Patrick said, settling himself in his chair, coffee mug in hand. His banter was light, but his mouth was drawn, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was worried and exhausted from his long hours of safeguarding their clients—and less than optimistic about the odds of no further violent attempts being made. He took a belt of coffee. “Although somehow I doubt that either one of us will be playing within the confines of those rules.”
“I’d say that’s a safe bet.” Hutch spoke with his customary candor. “But, as usual, you guys make it impossible for me to mind my own business and stay honest.”
He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair, waiting patiently until everyone was caffeine-fixed and seated. Then he addressed the group.
“I want to set some ground rules, just so we’re clear, not only about this case, but about my overall role here. Yes, I’ve moved to the Big Apple, but I’m not a member of Forensic Instincts. I work for the FBI. That being said, I happen to be in love with Casey. So my loyalties are sometimes divided. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be compromising myself, or you and your commitment to client confidentiality, on a regular basis. That’s precisely why I rented Marc’s apartment rather than moving in here. Your firm and I need our separate space. I’m sure that, at times, we’ll call on each other for help. But I’m trying to keep some sort of line, however blurry, in the sand. I already know where Patrick, and obviously Casey, stands. I hope the rest of you are on board with this.”
“You’ll call on us?” Emma leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Does that mean we’ll be some kind of confidential informants on your cases?”
Hutch’s lips twitched. “You never know.”
“Well, I’m certainly cool with that.”
“No problems here,” Ryan said.
“Not with me, either.” Marc met Hutch’s gaze. “Aidan emailed me a few hours ago and said he’d be calling soon with solid information. Once he does, I’m sure we’ll need your help.”
“And you’ll have it.”
“I’m on board with everything Hutch said,” Claire put in. This time there was strength in her voice, and she was the old Claire again. But, rather than a lost, faraway look in her eyes, there was genuine fear. “I also have some new information of my own.”
Everyone looked at her.
“Last night I sat down with the training medal Marc brought me from Jim Robbins’ apartment. Once again, I got some clear images. They were nightmarish. I saw Jim Robbins poisoned to death. And I saw a veiled image of the killer as he watched him die. Robbins was killed in this man’s home—the manor I told you about last time. The death was prolonged and agonizing.” She shuddered.
“You saw the killer?” Casey was all over that one. “What did he look like? Is he Russian? Did you sense that he owns RusChem?”
“I wish I could answer those questions.” Claire sighed. “The truth is, I just don’t know. He was only a shadowy figure. I couldn’t make out any of his features. All I can tell you is that he’s tall and lean.”
“That’s not Slava,” Emma said at once. “He’s built like a Humvee.”
“True,” Marc concurred. “Anything else?”
“One new thing. This time, when I saw all that green acreage and the surrounding mountains, I got a general location. New England. I know it’s not much.”
“It’s more than we had before,” Casey replied.
“It makes sense.” That idea clicked with Hutch. “There are tons of rural places in New England where someone can stay invisible.” His forehead creased in a frown. “I just wish we could narrow it down further.”
“Hopefully we’ll get some help from Aidan on that.” Casey’s gaze was narrowed on Claire, and she studied the apprehension in her eyes. “There’s obviously more. What is it?”
Claire wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “The killer is feeling threatened. We’re making him feel threatened. He’s going to come after us. And right now…all my instincts are screaming that one of us is in danger of dying.”
A heavy silence greeted Claire’s ominous premonition. br />
“Shit,” Ryan muttered at last.
Along with that expletive, Marc’s cell phone rang.
“It’s Aidan,” he announced. He punched on the phone. “You have everything now? Good. We’re all here. I’ll put you on speakerphone.”
He pressed the speakerphone button and placed the iPhone in the center of the conference table. “You’re on, Aidan.”
“This one was tricky,” Aidan began. “I got what you needed, but my sources seem to feel that our probing didn’t go unnoticed.”
“So RusChem knows we’re checking into them?”
“Yup. I don’t think they know who’s doing the probing—not yet. But that’s only a matter of time. And given what I’m about to tell you, we’re all going to have to watch our backs.”
“Go on,” Casey said.
“RusChem’s owner is a scientific genius named Maxim Lubinov,” Aidan reported. “You can Google the guy to get his public persona, including a photo and bio. Harvard pedigree—college and medical school. He’s now a foremost expert in microbiology and stem cell research. He’s basically reclusive and doesn’t make many public appearances, but he did recently speak at the Marriott Marquis on scientific advances in increasing cell energy production. You can read the summary of his presentation yourselves.”
Ryan was already on his computer, calling up the readily available data.
“And his private persona?” Casey asked.
“Father’s a high-ranking military officer. I’m sure that’s provided his son with necessary contacts throughout the Russian Federation. Lubinov’s initial career was as a research scientist—a fact that’s conveniently missing from his bio because he pushed ethical boundaries to the point where he resigned before the company could fire him.”