The Murder That Never Was

  “I know.” Emma rushed on to explain. “But, Casey, you didn’t hear Lisa’s voice. She’s not only about to shatter but she’s beginning to think we’re keeping things from her. Which, obviously, we are. I know it’s for all the right, necessary reasons, but Lisa wouldn’t understand that. We’ve got to tell her something. And we’ve got to keep her grounded, especially now with things coming to a head. The same goes for Shannon. Miles is different. He thinks like a computer. So he’ll be okay with us, as long as Ryan is in the IT driver’s seat.”

  Emma paused only to suck in a breath before plunging on. “I figured this would give me time tonight to pick your brain and get your instructions on what to say and what not to say. You guys could keep working on your plan while I provide diversionary tactics with our clients. I’m sorry if I screwed up, but it was all I could think of when Lisa started grilling me.”

  To Emma’s surprise, Casey began to laugh. “In some convoluted, Emma-like way, that actually makes sense and is a good idea,” she said. “Plus, you were really put on the spot, and you thought on your feet like a pro. You’re a handful, Emma Stirling, but I’m proud of you.”

  Emma blinked. That was the last thing she’d expected. But she’d take it. Casey’s approval meant the world to her.

  “I’d rather do this training session in person,” Casey continued. “We’re all here, so you’ll have comprehensive prep. Can you come back to the brownstone now? I realize you’re operating on empty.”

  “No problem. I’ll just swallow my pasta, throw on my running gear, and jog over.”

  Slava’s flight landed late, thanks to the usual delays at O’Hare. That fucking airport had one of the worst stopover ratings in the country, which sucked, since everyone and his brother flew in and out on a minute-by-minute basis. Plus, the weather had been foul, and the drenching rains had delayed the flights even further.

  Normally, he would have been jumping out of his skin. But this time, he’d used the hours to think and to plan. He’d already contacted Alexei and Vitaliy and arranged to meet them in a deserted area of Newark down by the Passaic River at five a.m. Thanks to the positive tone he’d taken, the assholes assumed this was an important follow-up meeting that had to be held in private. Just as well. Their misconception would make Slava’s job that much easier. He’d just bring the physical tools he needed. He already had the skills. For years, he’d used them. But, at this point in his life, his role as a cleaner was only accessed on rare occasions, primarily because he wasn’t operating with the backing of the Russian government. If he were caught, he’d be on his own. So hiring others to do the killing was a far better option.

  Still, he missed the days when he was the one doing the fieldwork.

  He’d have his chance now. Once he’d finished his role as the cleaner, he’d take Alexei’s and Vitaliy’s newly repainted and re-license-plated van and be on his way. They sure as hell wouldn’t be needing it. He’d drive straight to Upper Montclair. He’d scope out the apartment and the gym, subtly and expertly, and see what kind of security was on his targets. He could smell an operative, be it CIA, FBI, police, or a spy, a mile away. The KGB had trained him in how to spot them and, if need be, how to neutralize them. He’d take photos and have Max run them. They’d know who they were dealing with in short time.

  All threats would be eliminated.

  All the lights in the Forensic Instincts brownstone were shining brightly as the team wrapped up their Emma prepping.

  Scribbling furiously on her third sheet of paper, Emma finally finished taking notes. She put down her pen and sank back in the conference room chair, gazing around the table at the team. They all looked like hell. After countless hours of brainstorming—with countless more to come—they were physically exhausted and mentally spent, and yet they’d taken two hours with her to lay out her dos and don’ts.

  “Wow. I feel like I’ve been prepped for battle,” she said, glancing down at her pages.

  “That’s because you have,” Casey responded frankly. “We’re reaching the end goal here. Everything we do has to go as perfectly as possible, or lives could be lost.”

  Claire shifted uneasily in her chair. “I can’t shake the feeling that that’s true,” she murmured. “And every time you bring it up, the aura gets stronger. I know we’re moving toward converging on Maxim Lubinov. He and his fortress conjure up an overwhelming sensation of death. Whatever plan we come up with has to be flawless.”

  “That’s the goal.” Patrick rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the taut muscles that were screaming for a hot shower.

  “We won’t be leaving this room until we do,” Marc added. He was holding up better than the others. His days as a SEAL had trained him for this kind of sleepless, pressure-filled work. His gaze was still alert, and his stance was still taut. A few forehead creases were the only signs he showed of the frustration he was feeling over not yet having come up with the ideal plan.

  “I feel guilty going home to sleep,” Emma said.

  “Don’t be.” Casey waved that thought away. “You need some rest. You have to be on all day tomorrow. And you have to inspire confidence in our clients. If you look like something the cat dragged in, they’re going to assume there’s trouble. They might take off, which would create a lot more of a mess out of all this.”

  “Yeah,” Ryan agreed. “Casey’s right. You have to handle Lisa and Shannon and keep them calm. And remember what I said: tell them to have Miles call me with any questions, worries, or whatever that he has. I’ll make them go away.”

  Emma nodded.

  Claire reached over and took Emma’s hand. “Stop feeling guilty. You’re doing your job, the same way we are. Yours starts in the morning. Ours continues tonight. So preserve your strength. You’ll need it.”

  “You can feel a little guilty if you want,” Ryan amended. He was indisputably the crankiest member of the FI team when he sacrificed his sleep. “The only two team members who get any shut-eye tonight are you and Hero.”

  Hearing his name, Hero picked up his head and woofed.

  “You said it, boy.” Ryan gave the bloodhound a sage nod.

  “The difference is that, when Hero doesn’t sleep, he takes it like a man,” Marc noted dryly.

  “Very funny.”

  “Not meant to be.”

  “Enough, guys.” Casey was in no mood for their ornery banter. Right now, she was totally focused on Emma. “Let me hear the overall premise you need to convey tomorrow,” she instructed her. “Make it frank and direct.”

  Emma didn’t even glance at her notes. She just interlaced her fingers on the table and met Casey’s gaze.

  “I’m explaining to Lisa that we now believe that Shannon was part of a big medical experiment involving numerous targets and designer PEDs. Shannon was just one of many. We’re on the brink of figuring out who’s at the helm and who that person has working for him or her, doing things like the attempted kidnapping, the surveillance, etc. It’ll only be a matter of days. Then it will all be over and they’ll be safe.”

  “Good girl.” Casey gave her a supportive smile. “Concise. Optimistic. Honest. And with just enough new information to satisfy their need to feel included. You’ll do great.”

  “Casey,” Patrick inserted, “if you can spare me for a few hours, I can personally drive Emma to Upper Montclair, keep an eye on her, and then drive her back.”

  “No way.” Emma didn’t wait for Casey’s response. She just blurted out her words—and then thought better of it when she saw the expression on Casey’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking from Casey to Patrick. “That sounded awful. Patrick, you’re awesome. But, with all due respect, that idea is a mistake. Whoever’s watching our clients—seeing me roll up in a car with New York plates, driven by a guy who smacks of FBI, and who acts as my babysitter? I’m supposed to be
a friend and a fellow gym rat. I’ve got to keep up that image, not raise red flags.”

  “She’s not wrong, Patrick.” Ryan lent her some support. “Now that Lubinov knows we’re on to RusChem, he’s bound to have his best guys on the surveillance beat. Emma’s got to look like a regular person. If they suspect she’s a PI or any other kind of threat, she’ll be in more danger than she will be going this alone.”

  Patrick frowned, clearly torn between instincts and logic.

  “You can assign one of your security guys to watch me when I’m in Upper Montclair,” Emma suggested.

  “I’ll do better than that.” Patrick leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. He wasn’t backing down. “I’ll have my guy ride the same trains as you. He’ll keep his distance. But he’ll also keep you in his sights.”

  “I like that idea.” Casey rose, going over to pour herself another cup of coffee. “That’s how we’ll do it.”

  “But…” Emma began.

  “No arguments.” Casey shot Emma a no-nonsense look as she returned to her chair at the head of the table. “You’re not winging this alone. It’s Patrick’s way or no way.”

  “Fine.” Emma slumped in her seat, but she didn’t push Casey any further.

  Casey resettled herself, taking two long sips of hot, black coffee, which shot the ongoing and essential burst of caffeine into her system. “And while we’re addressing the rules, remember, I want you back at the office by four o’clock, before the serious rush hour traffic begins. That’s more than enough time to spend with Lisa and Shannon. We need you here.”

  “I have to make a few calls,” Patrick told Emma. “But I’ll text you the name, specs, and photo of the security guy I assign to you. You’ll have the information within the hour. Memorize it—especially the photo—and call on him if anything seems off or if you feel like you’re being watched. No foolish heroics.”

  “I promise,” Emma replied. She might be irked by the restrictions, but the flipside was nice. She now had a new family who actually cared about her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Vitaliy and Alexei were cut up into pieces and dissolved in acid before Slava returned to his hotel to check out and head to Upper Montclair. No more sloppy bullshit burials, like the one he’d done with Jim Robbins. Max was too fucking worried about extreme, time-consuming measures translating into capture. The truth was that acid eliminated evidence. Exhumed bodies told secrets. But Max had no experience with this kind of thing. Beneath his self-imposed ruthless exterior, he was nothing more than an inventor. Slava was a born killer.

  The Passaic River had washed the last of Vitaliy’s and Alexei’s blood off his hands and arms. He’d yanked off his red-splattered T-shirt and soaked it in the river, as well. Then, he’d pulled on a casual sweater. His jeans were dark, so any trace of blood he’d missed would blend in with the denim and never be noticed.

  He’d climbed into the van and driven back to his hotel, where he’d carefully showered away any last vestiges of the murders. He packed the sweater, T-shirt, and jeans in a plastic bag, which he shoved into his suitcase, donning a store-bought business suit before checking out. He scowled down at himself. The clothing wasn’t his taste. Everything he wore was custom-made, with style and flair. But it was imperative that he blend in with the crowd. And wearing this boring gray thing with its equally boring striped tie would ensure that no one remembered him.

  He reached West Orange, New Jersey, as planned, making a few phone calls along the way to issue orders and ensure that his replacements for Alexei and Vitaliy were already stationed and doing active surveillance. Everything was in order. He’d expected no less. This time, he’d done the hiring. And the men he’d hired were skilled and hard-core. They didn’t make mistakes.

  He checked into the Best Western he’d preselected using a pseudonym and the corresponding fake credit card. The place was as close to Upper Montclair as he could get without upgrading to a fancier hotel. It was about twenty minutes away by car and was large enough and populated enough for him to fly under the radar. He normally preferred first-class accommodations, but he wasn’t here for a vacation.

  Traveling light—one suitcase and a suit bag—he got to his room and put out the Do Not Disturb sign before flipping the deadbolt. Carefully, he hung up his suit bag. His suitcase he simply tossed onto one of the double beds. He was tired and he was hungry. It was barely eight o’clock. His men were in place. He had time for a power nap and a big breakfast.

  Then it would be time to get to work.

  The train slowed and then finally pulled into the Upper Montclair station.

  Emma rose and slung her gym bag over her arm. She was relieved to be here but a little nervous about the job ahead. She was a hell of an actress, but this was the real deal, not some con job. Like Casey said, there were lives at stake.

  Patrick’s linebacker security guy, Brian Mason, had already closed his iPad, tucked it under his arm, and was ready to exit the train behind her. He’d been her shadow from the time she’d boarded the subway at Grand Street in Chinatown to the time she’d arrived at Penn Station and hopped the Montclair-Boonton line to Upper Montclair, to now, when she was about to disembark. He’d seated himself several rows back and diagonally across from her—a respectable distance away but one that could be spanned in a matter of seconds if need be. For the forty-plus minutes that they’d been on the train, he’d barely moved a muscle, ostensibly scrolling through something on his iPad throughout the trip. Emma wasn’t fooled. Every ounce of his attention had been focused on her. No one else would ever pick up on it; he was just that subtle.

  Patrick never hired anyone but the best.

  Emma stepped off the platform and gave a causal glance behind her to ensure that Brian was there. Of course, he was. She then began her short stroll, skirting around Bellevue Plaza until she hit the main drag and making her way the couple of blocks to Excalibur.

  Lisa was wrapping up an aerobics class when Emma walked in. Still, she spotted Emma immediately, and her whole face lit up. She couldn’t finish her group’s cooldown stretches fast enough.

  Emma grinned at her, then perched at the desk and waited. Brian was somewhere right outside the building. Idly, Emma wondered if he was wearing a Lycra outfit under his polo shirt and slacks, all prepped to burst into Excalibur and participate, if need be. The image almost made her dissolve into giggles. She knew he’d stay outside and watch the gym like a hawk. Still, the vision amused her enough to ease some of the tension from her body.

  While she waited, she looked around the bustling gym, taking in the extensive and pricy equipment, inviting décor, and diverse activities going on—not to mention the dozens of members filling the place. Lisa and Miles had gone all out with Julie’s inheritance. This place was incredible. Kudos to them.

  “Hey.” Lisa appeared at Emma’s side, greeting her as she wiped her face and neck with a towel. As casual as her motions were, the tension emanating from her body was palpable—as was her relief regarding Emma’s presence. There were stress lines etched across her forehead and dark circles under her eyes.

  “Hi,” Emma replied, giving her a quick hug. “I love your gym. It’s awesome.”

  “Thanks.” A hint of a smile. “We busted our asses to make it the go-to place in Upper Montclair. I’m proud of the outcome.” Lisa sucked in her breath. Clearly, the virtues of Excalibur were not the main thing on her mind right now. “Spin class starts in twenty minutes. Can we grab a couple of bottles of water and hang out in my office till then?”

  “Great.” Emma was glad to be getting Lisa alone for a while—but not for the same reasons Lisa had in mind. No heavy conversation. Not now. The poor woman was a wreck. It was time for some nonsensical girl talk, a little bit of information and words of reassurance, and the promise that they’d get into an in-depth update when they got back to the apartment, so that Miles and Shannon
could be in on the talk, as well.

  Mentally, Emma reviewed the notes she’d taken, along with Casey’s instructions. Provide enough details to ensure peace of mind. The process would be like peeling back the layers of an onion. Start with the topical stuff. Pare slowly down to the heavier-duty data. And stop when your eyes started watering. Never forget that this was a need-to-know mission. Nothing about Maxim Lubinov or RusChem or the magnitude of the threat to their lives could be mentioned. Only the broader, more general realities, accompanied by a slightly more in-depth explanation.

  Girding her loins, Emma took the bottle of water Lisa handed her and followed her into the back room that was her office.

  “Sit.” Lisa shut the door behind her and gestured at one of the soothing-toned aqua chairs positioned across from her desk. She took the adjacent chair, rather than using the one behind her desk. Clearly, she was opting to talk without the barrier of a large, solid object between them. It was hard enough to have a normal conversation with the combined sounds of blasting music and pounding feet emanating from outside her office walls. No point in adding distance and formality.

  Emma sat down, grinning as she sank into the buttery soft leather. “Wow. These are awesome. But comfort? In a gym? I thought we were supposed to suffer, nonstop.”

  Lisa managed a small smile. “Not at Excalibur. The experience is supposed to be adrenaline-pumping—and, yeah, somewhat body-pushing—but upbeat and addictive. My goal is always for clients to leave feeling great about themselves and the world.” Her smile vanished. “Maybe it’s my way of giving them a feeling I’m totally lacking these days.”

  Emma felt a pang of sympathy and of admiration. Talk about coping with a positive spin. “It’s going to be okay, Lisa.” With a quick glance around, she amended, “Julie.”

  Grimacing, Lisa uncapped her bottle and took a gulp of water. “At this point, I don’t even know who I am. I only know I’m caught in some terrifying trap, and I don’t know how to escape.”