And now she was on the warpath. She should be. But that didn’t change the fact that Max couldn’t allow her to prove anything more than an annoying gnat. If she went too far, she’d have to be swatted away.
But Shannon wasn’t Max’s immediate threat. That honor belonged to the son of a bitch who’d done this to her: Jim Robbins.
Well, Max would be rid of him tonight.
Putting that thought aside, Max walked through his biochemical facility, peering over shoulders, studying his techs’ progress. He’d handpicked each of them. They were all at the top of their classes at the University of Vermont Medical School. They’d all signed contracts with stringent confidentiality clauses. And they all had a pretty good idea that a mere lawsuit wasn’t the punishment for breaking their contracts.
Now, they all felt Max’s presence behind them. They were nervous as hell when he inspected their work, but that only made them try harder, work longer and more productively.
Max glanced to his right. A long aisle down from the biochemical stations were the actual stables themselves. Max owned three exquisite horses—two mares and a stallion—all of which were the initial candidates for his research. At the moment, two of his most trusted and noted veterinarians were in the stalls, monitoring the horses’ vitals after an early-evening workout. One of the vets glanced up and, spying Max, gave a pleased nod about what he was finding. Max nodded back. Lab work had been done earlier today, and the results had been excellent. In addition, the horses’ speed and pacing during the races held on Max’s private track showed increased energy and stamina, and their mental acuity showed just how much their intelligence had been enhanced.
Thanks to Max’s work, these horses could win the Triple Crown.
Satisfied, he left the barn complex and headed back to the manor. He had just enough time to change before dinner.
Seated in the backseat of the limo, Jim Robbins was both excited and nervous. As directed, he’d arranged to take off three days from work. That meant his trip would be a busy one, and big business would be discussed—business that could propel his career forward big-time.
The drive from Chicago had been endless—almost fifteen hours, heading east. But it was worth it. He’d been waiting for this invitation for ages. And after all his successes with top athletes, he believed he’d earned it.
Meeting Dr. Lubinov was an honor.
He leaned back in the luxurious leather vehicle, comfortable despite being blindfolded. The two Russian employees of Dr. Lubinov who were driving him had waited until the last leg of the trip to put the blindfold in place. Jim hadn’t been surprised. He’d heard that everyone who visited the estate was subject to the same procedure. Dr. Lubinov valued his privacy. He had no intention of allowing people to know where he lived or where he worked. And he wasn’t about to make an exception with Jim. No problem. Jim got that.
But a toast to his numerous successes wasn’t the only purpose of this meeting. Jim would have to be an idiot to think otherwise. And, dear God, he’d have to tread carefully.
With a hard swallow, he mentally walked through the dark side of what to expect. He’d be sternly reamed out for what happened to Shannon Barker. That was a given. But Lubinov didn’t know the whole truth, and Jim could never let him find out. Not if he wanted to live.
The truth was that he’d taken it upon himself to increase Shannon’s PED dosage over the past several weeks, just to get her to that about-to-be-attainable next level of achievement. He’d stockpiled just enough pills to get her through a month. Yeah, his plan had backfired big-time. But he’d covered his tracks well, so no one was privy to any of this. Consequently, the task at hand would be to attribute what had happened to a one-time fluke occurrence, probably based on Shannon’s body chemistry and perhaps Yuri pushing her too hard.
Jim would keep the subject on his many success stories and suck up whatever mental beating he had to. He’d shift the focus from himself to Shannon, elaborating on the trouble she’d been causing since her accident, and expressing concern that she was a threat to their entire project.
It wasn’t all that off-base. Since Shannon’s medical condition had been diagnosed, Jim had been browbeaten numerous times by Yuri and by Shannon’s parents. They weren’t about to let this drop. Then Shannon had confronted him herself. The little brat had actually come at him like a clawing cat, spewing all kinds of accusations. He’d leave out the part about smacking her. He should have controlled his reaction better. But none of that mattered, since no one had been around to witness it. Jim would simply lay out the facts to Dr. Lubinov. He was confident that his boss would have his associates pay Shannon a little visit—to do what, Jim didn’t want to know. But the problem would be solved, in whatever way Dr. Lubinov deemed necessary.
The ride became bumpy, and Jim could feel the sharp incline the limo was now traveling. He straightened in his seat.
They were on a mountainous path. That was new. And that had to mean they were almost there.
Jim couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER TEN
Offices of Forensic Instincts
6:30 p.m.
The entire FI team—Casey, Marc, Ryan, Claire, Patrick, and Emma—walked into the office’s main conference room on the second floor and took their seats at the sweeping oval table. It was a surprise to no one that Casey had gotten them all together; it had been a couple of days since they’d had a full-scale meeting to discuss the Worster case—which was moving along at a rapid clip—together with whatever else was pending or up for discussion.
The fact that this meeting was called for a Friday evening didn’t cause anyone to bat an eye. This was status quo—it was Casey’s expectation that everyone be available whenever necessary.
Casey seated herself at the head of the table, Hero stretched out at her feet, his body language conveying that he was aware and alert. She leaned over to scratch his ears, then turned back to sip at her cup of coffee.
Marc and Ryan exchanged glances. So did the rest of the team. Casey was super Type A. She never procrastinated; their meetings always began with a bang. This time was pronouncedly different. She was definitely distracted, or maybe preoccupied was a better word. Whichever it was, it was oddly out of character for her.
“Case?” Given Marc’s role as Casey’s right-hand, and the longest-standing member of Forensic Instincts, it was a given that he’d be the one to speak up. “You okay?”
Casey’s head came up, and her faraway look disappeared. “Fine. I just wanted to catch us all up on the Worster case and to fill you in on another matter.” She glanced quizzically from Marc to Patrick Lynch, FI’s top-notch investigator.
A retired FBI agent, Patrick was the team’s father figure, and, all too often, its voice of reason. The team had a tendency to walk a fine line between legal and illegal and usually ended up toppling onto the side of the latter. Patrick inserted himself to keep them on the straight and narrow—most of the time. There were occasions when even he broke the rules, particularly when a life was in danger.
Now he waited for what he knew Casey was about to ask him.
Sure enough, her next question was: “How many of the investors on Ryan’s list did you two catch up with?”
Patrick passed over his handwritten list of names and notes to Casey. Even though he’d adapted beautifully to the computer age, he still preferred to scribble down certain details. “I’ve interviewed eight.”
“And I’ve interviewed seven,” Marc replied, handing over his printed list.
“Only seven? You’re slowing down, guy,” Ryan noted with his usual good-natured sarcasm. “Too much prenuptial bliss.”
Marc shot him a look. So did Casey.
“Don’t start, Ryan,” she said, although her tone was gentler than her expression. “At least wait until the meeting is over before you give Marc a hard time.”
&nbs
p; “You got it, boss.” Ryan snapped off a salute.
With that, both Marc and Patrick reported their conversations with the potential criminal still threatening Mr. Worster.
“Patrick and I have already reviewed our combined lists,” Marc said. “In my opinion, two of my suspects and one of Patrick’s don’t ring true.”
Patrick nodded. “I agree.”
“Then let’s isolate those three and have Claire get involved,” Casey replied. “We’ll arrange for three separate circumstantial meetings. We’ll see what her instincts tell her.” A questioning look at Claire. “Does that work for you?”
Claire gave a half nod. “Yes, but I want to read the interviews first. That will help me get a basic feel for what I’m dealing with.”
“In the meantime, give me whatever you’ve got on those specific three subjects,” Ryan inserted. “I’ll dig into every facet of their lives and see what I turn up.”
“Good.” Casey gave the immediate go-ahead. “Because I had another meeting with Mr. Worster this afternoon. He’s still very jittery, and rightfully so. The threats keep coming. If the offender is serious about carrying out these threats, then he or she is a killer and must be stopped now. If he or she is a bullshit artist who gets off on issuing death threats, that’s a criminal offense, as well, albeit a less serious one. Either way, we’re dealing with someone who belongs behind bars.”
Pausing, Casey glanced around the table. “Any other updates?”
Emma averted her gaze, visibly uneasy.
It didn’t take Casey’s level of behavioral expertise to spot that cue. “Okay, Emma, spit it out,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“We’re trying to stop a potential murder.” Ryan jumped in before Emma could get herself into trouble by coming across as an immature girl who was less than a team player.
From there, Ryan—with Claire’s help—described the full situation with Miles Parker, Julie Forman, and the shooting death of Lisa Barnes. He explained what he had dug up and where he was going with it.
“I’ve got to find this Miles guy. He could be a killer.”
Casey’s brow was creased as she listened. “The problem is, we have no client. No one has approached us on this.”
“I know,” Ryan responded. “But I feel responsible at this point. I’m not neglecting my work on the Worster case—that comes first. However, this has gone way further than Emma’s emotional connection to the dead woman. Whatever’s going on, Miles and/or Julie could be in danger themselves. Or they could be planning something more. Or they could just be plain old getting away with murder. I don’t think we should turn our backs on that—not when all I’m doing is some online research.”
“Online research?” Casey’s lips twitched. “I shudder to think how many systems you’ve hacked your way into to get your data.” She waved away his oncoming protest. “Go for it. I agree with your approach and your goals.” She turned to Emma. “I’m sorry for the pain this has caused you. I wish you felt you could have come to me to talk it out and see if there was anything the team could do to help. However, in the future, I expect to be filled in on what’s going on before any actions are taken. This is a team, and I’m the team leader.”
“You’re right,” Emma said with hesitation. “I’m sorry, Casey. I just didn’t think of it as an FI case possibility—not when there was no client. But I should have told you about it and asked if there was anything we could do. I’m so grateful to Ryan and Claire for caring enough to jump in. I know that the rest of you would have done the same. My bad.”
“We’ll figure this out,” Casey told her. “Don’t worry.”
“I know we will.”
Casey turned back to her cup of coffee. She took another sip, that distracted expression back on her face.
“Okay, boss, what’s up?” Marc demanded. “You’ve clearly got something else on your mind. Let’s have it.”
No one was taken aback by Marc’s bluntness. Not at this point in the meeting. Still, they were relieved that he was the one who’d said it like it was. Any of the rest of them might be cleaning out their desks right now. Casey didn’t tolerate insubordination, unless it was being done one-on-one and in private.
Casey put aside her coffee—again. “Nothing is bugging me. I just have some news. It’s predominantly going to affect me, but I have a strong feeling that the team will benefit from it, as well.” A hint of a pause. “Hutch got an unbelievable opportunity from the Bureau. He’s leaving Quantico for a job in the field. He’ll now be squad supervisor of his new field office’s NCAVC. He’ll also be the BAU coordinator there, as well as the head of all the Violent Crimes squads.”
Marc’s brows shot up. “Impressive. It couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy.”
It was no secret that Marc thought the world of Hutch. They’d been friends at the BU, and Marc had been the one to introduce him to Casey—a success story that he took great pride in rubbing in.
“Which field office is he going to?” Patrick asked. “It must be one of the biggies for him to leave the BAU in Quantico.”
“I’d say so.” Casey glanced around the table, responding to the sea of curious expressions. “In two weeks, he’ll be working at the New York Field Office.”
“Yes!” Marc leaned forward to give Casey a high-five. “That’s awesome all ways around—personally, professionally—you name it. Hell, he can even come to my bachelor party.”
Claire stood up, walked around the table, and gave Casey a huge hug. “I’m so happy for you. I know you’re not planning out your and Hutch’s future—at least not yet—but I also know how much this long-distance relationship has taken out of you. All that stress will be eliminated. And good for Hutch—he’ll be doing all the things he loves best.”
“Including—” Ryan began with a lecherous grin.
“Don’t even think of going there,” Claire interrupted in a tone that made him stop mid-quip.
“You can thank Claire,” Casey informed Ryan. “She just saved your ass.” An innocent look. “Unless you’d rather thank her later? In your own personal way?”
“Oooh, snap,” Emma said with a grin. “Ryan, you’ve just been shot down by our brilliant leader.”
Ryan threw his hands up. “I surrender.” He grew serious. Brows drawn together, he gave Casey a cautious look. “Don’t rip me a new one, boss, but, since this will impact the team and our entire confidentiality system, I have to ask—will Hutch be moving in here?”
“It’s a fair question,” Casey replied, and it was clear she’d been prepared for someone to ask it. “I’ll be as honest as I can. Hutch is aware of the possible conflict of interest. Plus, he and I are taking it a step at a time. So he’ll be getting his own place, as soon as he can actually find one. Affordable housing in the City is next to nil. Hutch might have to stay here for a bit. Is that a problem for anyone?” She glanced around the table. “Seriously, I want you to be honest.”
The whole team shook their heads.
“Hutch is always a welcome addition,” Patrick said. “Plus it’s very refreshing to spend time with a law enforcement agent who actually follows the rules.”
A group chuckle ensued.
“Hey,” Marc said. “Why doesn’t Hutch take my place? Bensonhurst is pretty convenient to Federal Plaza.”
“Convenient isn’t an adjective I’d use to describe any Manhattan commutes,” Patrick muttered. “Give me my place in Hoboken anytime. One train ride and I’m home.”
“Okay, as convenient as possible,” Marc amended. “The point is, I’m virtually living at Maddy’s, moving my stuff in a little at a time. I never use my place.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “And I’d sublet it to Hutch at a great price.”
Casey was nodding enthusiastically. “I think Hutch will love that idea. Run it by him.”
?
??Are you kidding? I’m calling him the minute we walk out of here. Heavy-duty congratulations are in order.”
7:30 p.m.
Jim sat nervously at the long, polished teak dining room table, listening to the silence and toying with his food. Dr. Lubinov had welcomed him to his home, said he hoped Jim liked fish, and then led the way to the dining room. That had been the last word spoken.
Conversation was obviously not going to take place while they ate. That would come later. Okay, he could live with that.
He turned back to his meal, pretending to be fascinated by it.
Dr. Lubinov sat at the head of the table, calmly chewing each bite of salmon, pausing only to neatly cut and eat his asparagus. Jim had seen photos of his employer, so there was no major surprise with his appearance. His formal attire wasn’t a surprise, either. Everything about Dr. Lubinov—his public persona and his way of doing business—was sophisticated and formal. He wore a custom-made suit that probably cost more than Jim made in a month. His silk tie was perfectly knotted, and his white dress shirt was crisply pressed.
The only other person present was Dmitry Gorev, a young guy who’d been introduced as Dr. Lubinov’s assistant, and who looked very serious and just as intent on his dinner as Jim was.
The men who had driven Jim here had vanished the instant they’d escorted him into the foyer and removed his blindfold. Just as he’d remembered from before the blindfold, they looked like thugs. Well, Dr. Lubinov needed protection, given the significance and secrecy of his work. But Jim had to admit that he’d heaved a sigh of relief when it’d become clear that they were not going to be dinner guests.
The meal seemed to go on forever.