The Murder That Never Was: A Forensic Instincts Novel (18 page)

“Do it,” Casey replied.

Seeing Ryan’s pen poised and waiting, along with his questioning gaze, Shannon gave him the number.

“Unless you need me, I’m on this now.” Ryan looked at Casey, who shook her head, gesturing for him to go.

“I’ll see you guys later,” he told their clients, then took off to do what he did best.

“Can you call your athlete friends now?” Claire asked Shannon.

“Sure.” Shannon scrolled through the contacts on her phone.

“Express concern for Jim,” Claire advised her. “That’ll be your easiest in.”

Nodding, Shannon called Billy first.

“Hey,” she said when he answered. “It’s Shannon… Yeah, I’m a mess, pretty much what you’d expect. I’m in New Jersey visiting a friend. I need to take my mind off things.” She drew in a breath. “I wanted to know if you’d heard any news about Jim. I’m worried about him.” She looked like she wanted to gag. “Nothing?” No surprise there. “How are you holding up?”

She paused, listening. “I’m feeling tired, too, and my energy level sucks. I miss the supplements Jim gave me—they gave me stamina, which would help me recover faster… You, too? How many were you taking—one or two a day? Yeah, same with me.” She gazed at Claire and mouthed the word:
two
. “And Jess? How’s she holding up?” Shannon nodded. “I thought I’d give her a call. Maybe I can cheer her up. I know I’m not really part of the Thriving Three anymore, but I still care.

“Thanks for saying that. And you know I’ll be cheering you and Jess on.” Billy’s next words brought an aching sadness to her eyes. “Okay, you go to practice. Text when you can.”

Shannon disconnected the call, bringing herself under control. “He feels depleted, but at least Jim didn’t bump up his dosage like he did mine. Billy didn’t say anything about Jessica, other than the fact that she’s depressed without Jim to train her. I’ll give her a call now.”

The call to Jessica yielded the same results. Although the other gymnast attributed her lethargy to Jim’s sudden disappearance, she did confirm that she’d been taking one supplement at night and one in the morning. She wished Shannon a speedy recovery and said they’d get together when Shannon got back to Chicago. Then she, too, ran off to meet the athlete’s ubiquitous call to practice.

Tears glistened on Shannon’s lashes, and she brushed them away with trembling fingers. “This makes me sick,” she said. “Jim was giving me four pills a day for the past month. He was using me as a guinea pig for his…employer. He screwed up my health and my whole life.” She took the tissue Casey handed her and blew her nose. “I still don’t understand why he chose me. He has so many trainees.”

“Because you showed the most promise,” Casey answered her. “I know it’s bittersweet to hear, but you were obviously Jim’s star pupil. He believed you’d be the one to bring home Olympic gold—soon, with the right PED boost. He gambled and he failed. And you’re the one who paid the price.” Casey’s lips thinned into a grim line.

Shannon wiped her eyes with the tissue. “How am I going to get past this? And now, I might be a murder target…”

“It’s okay, honey.” With deep compassion, Claire stroked Shannon’s arm. “I’m so sorry. I wish we could undo the damage Jim did to you. But I do know you will get past this and thrive. I can sense it just from touching you. It’s going to be all right.”

“Really?” Shannon asked hopefully.

“Really. As for being a target, our team’s not letting that happen. So put it out of your mind.” With that, Claire rose. “Let me help move this case along in my own way. I’ll be back shortly. Lisa provided me with Julie’s personal items—some of her clothes and things like family photos and a few pieces of jewelry. We also have her cell phone, checkbook, and several other things. I spent a good portion of last night using them to see if I picked up any of Julie’s feelings or discoveries. I got some fuzzy images. I want to see if I can crystalize them in my mind. But I’ll come back before you leave.”

Claire’s reassurance was purposeful. It was obvious that Shannon was attached to her. If it weren’t for time being of the essence, she would have put off her work until after Shannon left, just so she could be there for her. But if she could get anything to share with Shannon that would trigger some additional memories, it would be worth it.

Surprisingly, Shannon perked up, rather than looking crestfallen. “Would what you’re doing work with my stuff, too?”

Quizzically, Claire gazed at her, shaking her head in non-comprehension. “What stuff? I’m not following.”

“If you can hold Julie’s things and get visions about her and who she was dealing with, maybe you could do the same thing with me. I’ve got something that was once very meaningful to me. And if you could tap into its energy…” Shannon dug around in her backpack and pulled out a stopwatch. “I was thinking of this.”

Claire gazed at it thoughtfully, sensing that it was significant—and was about to become more so. “You used it when you trained?”

“Yes.” Shannon pressed it into Claire’s hand.

Claire sucked in her breath. “Julie didn’t give this to you, did she?”

“No.” Slowly, Shannon shook her head. “Jim Robbins did.”

St. Thomas, Virgin Islands

The Living Room was Max’s favorite meeting room at the luxurious Ritz Carlton. The room had a breathtaking ocean view and looked out over the hotel’s exquisite courtyard. It was a vacationer’s dream.

Today, however, The Living Room had been transformed from a warmly decorated, crystal-chandeliered meeting area into something resembling the stage on
American Idol
. Inside the room, a raised dais of three people, with Max in the center, was situated way up front, below which sat an empty horseshoe-shaped table. Outside in the hallway was a stream of eager, nervous contestants.

The contestants—Max’s nationwide web of athletic trainers—were shifting or pacing anxiously, each one sizing up the competition and convincing themselves that he or she, along with one of their trainees, would be the winner. The prize: a primo position in Max’s elite cadre of trainers, accompanied by his or her chosen trainee, who’d be expected to be one of the next Olympians or future Einsteins. The two-person team would be transferred from the members’ individual homes to Max’s private, secret estate. Nondisclosure agreements would be signed. The trainers’ salaries and expense allowances would double, and if Max’s projections were to be believed, they would be part of the team that achieved what evolution had failed to do in two hundred thousand years: create a smarter, faster, stronger human being.

Each trainer had the chance to present three of their finest athletes. Their sales pitch would be punctuated by evaluative comments from the other two occupants of the dais: Dr. Leonid Eltsin, Max’s head physiologist, who would provide physical and medical assessments, and Dr. Galina Petrova, Max’s head psychologist in charge of the administration of the scathing battery of mental tests used to gauge each candidate’s progress, all of which helped her comprise the ultimate character and intelligence evaluations.

It normally took over a week to make this size evaluative meeting happen. Dmitry had trimmed the process down to five days—five days to summon all the nationwide trainers, to inform them to choose their three top contenders and book all their flights for this trip, to make the necessary hotel accommodations, and to have everything set up precisely as Max expected.

That was part of why Dmitry was where he was in Max’s hierarchy. There was little or nothing he couldn’t accomplish for his employer.

Now, he stepped inside the room and gave Max a questioning look.

Max nodded.

Holding open The Living Room door, Dmitry turned to speak to the first trainer—Dave Perkins—asking him to join them.

Dave wasn’t new to this process. He’d been here once before, at which time he and his athletes were not selected. That had really gotten him pissed off, not at Max but at himself, igniting his competitive spirit. Dave liked winning and had been training winning teams and individual athletes for over twenty years. Failure only drove him harder.

For the past few months, he had brutally and ruthlessly driven his athletes to the point of breaking while still adhering to Max’s strict limitations on the supplements provided. But Dave’s relentless pushing had paid off. Each candidate had improved his physical score from an average of ninety-one to an impressive ninety-five. Mental test scores had gone from eighty-nine to ninety-four.

He walked up to the lectern and nodded in deference to Max, and then to Doctors Leonid Eltsin and Galina Petrova. He steeled himself to look Max in the eye during his presentation. Even though he’d met his employer once before—on his first trip to St. Thomas—he was no less intimidated by the scientific genius’s mere presence.

Sucking in his breath, Dave presented his first, and most impressive, candidate, Daniel McCurd—a college junior who was head of the swim team, a track and field superstar, and a four-point-oh student. Dave described all of Daniel’s attributes in great detail and then motioned for the AV person to start the video. The visuals were quite impressive. Daniel was on a path to compete in the Ironman triathlon series and someday to win the Ford Ironman World Championship in Kona, Hawaii.

Max calmly turned to Dr. Eltsin and asked for his opinion. The physiologist pulled out a report and confirmed both the test results and the improvement over the past few months. Next it was Dr. Petrova’s turn. She pointed out that the candidate’s extreme stress levels had reduced his mental score from ninety-five to ninety-four. Dave grimaced. He knew that he was to blame for that drop in Daniel’s mental score. He’d been pushing him relentlessly on the physical front.

Max’s expression was completely unreadable. He looked at Dave, uttered a perfunctory “Thank you,” and then proceeded to turn his attention to the score sheet in front of him.

In the upper right-hand corner was a blank box. Max took his pen and made a simple mark—a large check. Dave and his candidate Daniel had made it to the next round.

Eight other trainers entered the room, one by one, and made similar presentations about their own candidates.

Once the entire process was complete, everyone was dismissed, and the painstaking, time-consuming assessment and elimination process began.

A day and a half later, the decisions had been made.

Everyone re-congregated, this time in one of the larger meeting rooms that would accommodate everyone. It was black, white, and austere. No beachfront views, no terrace, all business.

It was the first time all the attendees had been amassed as one. They scrutinized each other, wondering who might possibly have edged them out and who they themselves might have bested. And they were all wondering about Jim Robbins. Word travelled rapidly through their circuit. They’d all heard about Shannon Barker—about how close she was to becoming a champion and about what had happened to her. Whispered words had been exchanged about Jim’s potential misuse of the drugs. But no one dared speak their questions aloud—especially the one about what had happened to their fellow trainer.

The nervous tension in the room was palpable.

At the dais, Max cleared his throat, and the whole room snapped to attention. The announcements were about to be made.

“Before I begin, let me express my keen disappointment over the incident in Chicago and the gross misuse of my life’s work.” Max cut straight to the chase. He paused, his icy stare sweeping the room. “The situation has been dealt with. Jim Robbins is no longer with us.”

The underlying message hung in the air like a toxic gas.

“On to the business at hand,” Max continued, ignoring the terrified expressions on everyone’s faces. “We’ve seen some outstanding candidates. I’m extremely pleased. Here are my decisions.”

With that, Dave and two other trainers were asked to stand up and be recognized—which they did, beaming ear to ear amidst a round of polite but forced clapping. These three trainers would become part of the elite set of trainer-trainees working closely with Max and his scientists. The rest would go back to their respective cities and try their best to do better. Some athletes would be asked to find other trainers—and a few trainers who had tried and failed several times to join the elite ranks would be asked to find employment elsewhere.

Max felt his familiar rush at the meeting’s outcome. He was singularly responsible for honing the skills and maximizing the potential of all his candidates. And, someday, those candidates—and the rest of the world—would reward him for his success. He’d receive the Nobel Prize, his greatest dream. And he’d have the respect of every renowned scientist as he surpassed all their achievements.

He could see himself in Stockholm, receiving the gold medallion…

But not yet. Not until Max had a time-tested product and method, along with a long list of success stories. Then he’d be ready to publish and accept the accolades he deserved. And, oh, how the world would prosper from his work.

His formula would be sought after by every significant entity, both national and international. The militaries of the world. Corporations. Pharmaceutical and nutraceutical companies. They’d all be vying for it, even trying to steal it. He, and he alone, would dictate the terms. He’d retain ultimate control over the formula. Initially, the product would be in limited supply. He’d decide which endeavors and who were worthy enough to receive it. The quality, distribution, and pricing would all be under his control. No investors. No licensees. No one to tell him what to do. Only the needy and the greedy begging for his product.

A slow smile curved his lips.

Very soon, all this would be his.

Chicago, Illinois

Nineteenth Police District

Detective Paula Kline frowned in concentration as, yet again, she scanned the report the Montclair PD had emailed her after they’d met with Julie Forman. Something about the interview didn’t sit right. Julie Forman’s extreme agitation. The sudden appearance of Miles Parker, Lisa Barnes’ never-before-heard-from best friend. Stories so smoothly told. Actions that were questionable.

Added to that now was the disappearance of that Apex Center trainer, Jim Robbins, whose Olympic hopeful had also been training under Julie Forman.

All Paula’s professional warning bells were going off.

“Are you reading that Montclair PD interview again?” her partner, Detective Frank Bogart, asked. “Boy, you’re really fixated on this one, aren’t you? You’re like a dog with a bone.”

She shrugged. “I guess. I’m just not getting a good feeling about the whole thing. Doesn’t the series of coincidences raise any red flags to you?”

“Of course,” Frank said. “I’m not saying I disagree with you. This definitely feels off.”

“And is it tied to the Jim Robbins disappearance?” Paula asked. “Was he killed like Lisa, or did he take off like Julie? Either way, why?”

“We could ask the Montclair guys to check in on the Forman woman again and ask some questions about her teenage trainee—as well as if she herself had any personal contact with Jim Robbins.”

“I think that’s asking for more than just a favor. It’s asking the Montclair PD to do our job.” Paula was fiddling with her pen. “A cursory drop-by was one thing. But these cases are ours. Lisa Barnes was killed here in Chicago, and Robbins vanished from here, as well.”

“Yup,” Frank agreed thoughtfully. “So it’s you and me who need to interview Julie Forman. Problem is, the only way we’re going to get permission from the district commander to travel to New Jersey is if we can positively tie the two cases together.”

“Then that’s what we have to do.”