The Murder That Never Was: A Forensic Instincts Novel (26 page)

Claire didn’t want to think anymore. He was here, she was hurting, and he could make it go away—for a little while.

She closed the gap between them, pressing her fists against the hard wall of his chest, as if trying to push away the ghosts. “I don’t want chivalry. I want you. In bed. And I want that now.” She gripped his shirt and fitted her body to his. “Please,” she whispered.

“Shit.” Ryan’s breath hissed out from between his teeth. He dragged Claire even closer, tangling his hands in her hair and tilting her head back so he could ravage her mouth. “Are you sure?” he managed.

“Very sure.”

All words ceased.

Ryan continued his onslaught, devouring Claire as he backed her into the bedroom, stripping her as he walked. The back of her legs hit the bed, and she tumbled down onto the mattress. While Ryan tore off his shirt and jeans, Claire wriggled out of her thong and tossed it aside. Ryan kicked off his boxer briefs and leaned over, pulling Claire higher up on the bed.

Then he was on her, and in her, and their world became pure physical sensation.

It wasn’t slow and sensual—not this time. It was hard, fast, and frantic.

Claire cried out as Ryan pushed into her, once, twice, and then in a steady rhythm that made her back arch so she could take him deeper each time. Ryan made a raw, rough sound, his hands clenching into fists on either side of the pillow as his motions quickened.

The rest was a wild, sweaty explosion of the senses.

They both came with a vengeance, their bodies in that rare total sync that was theirs.

Neither of them moved. They just lay there, collapsed into the mattress, dragging air into their lungs.

Claire was abruptly jerked back to reality when she felt tears sliding down her cheeks and onto Ryan’s shoulder. She froze, more mortified than stunned. Yes, her feelings for Ryan were complicated. But she didn’t cry—not this way, like a weepy teenager. Not in front of anyone, much less Ryan. She sure as hell wouldn’t be doing an about-face to that rule after sex, no matter how shattering.

No, the emotional tidal wave building up inside her had nothing to do with Ryan. It was the release of raw, pent-up feelings caused by unthinkable revelations… images…internalization…

Fighting back the dam that was about to break, Claire knew the moment Ryan became aware of the moisture on his shoulder. He tensed up, turning his head so his lips were at her ear. “Everything all right?” he asked, sounding bewildered.

Claire nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again. “Fine,” she managed to say in a thoroughly unconvincing tone. “It’s not what you think.” To her dismay, new tears began to slide from beneath her lids, and her whole body began to tremble.

Ryan shoved himself up on his elbows, now clearly alarmed. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. But you’d better go.”

“Go?” He blinked, beads of sweat still dotting his forehead, his own body still shuddering in the wake of his climax. “Claire, what the hell is going on?”

“I’m about to lose it,” she whispered. “And I don’t want you here when I do.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He pushed his hips against hers, reminding her that their bodies were still intimately joined. “So let’s go for option two. Talk to me.”

Talk to him? That was a first. Ryan wasn’t big on touchy-feely conversations. And he was the last person she could share this with. He had no faith in her gift—or, in this case, her curse.

“I can’t. I’m too… You don’t understand…”

“Maybe not.” Ryan’s knuckles caressed her cheek. “But I’ll try.”

That did it.

Claire began to openly sob, turning her face into the side of Ryan’s neck. “It won’t go away,” she wept.

“What won’t?”

“The aura of death…underground…buried…” The words were just tumbling out, uncensored, and Claire had no control over them. “I’m always inside the head and emotions of whoever I’m connecting with, experiencing what they’re experiencing. It drains me, horrifies me, affects me. But when the pain is gone, when they die, it’s over. The connection is severed.”

“Okay.” Ryan didn’t come back with any jibes. He just listened.

“Like with Julie.” Claire swallowed, still fighting for self-control, and still losing the fight. But at least she was somewhat coherent now. “I felt the impact of the bullet, the pain, the dying. But once she was gone, so was the vision. I’ve never actually felt a dead person before. But now I am. And the experience of death, it won’t go away. It’s living inside me. I’m living inside it. I can’t concentrate on anything else. I guess that just now when we…when I…”

“Came apart in my arms?” Ryan supplied, trying to help Claire in the only way he knew how.

It worked.

“Yes.” Claire could feel Ryan’s gentle teasing flow through her, start to ease back the pain. Her crying slowed, then ceased. “It was like one giant release. The proverbial floodgates opened.”

“That’s pure skill on my part,” Ryan said. “I’m the provider of giant releases.”

Claire leaned back, her face still drenched with tears, blinking at Ryan’s audacious statement and smug expression. In spite of herself, she started to laugh. And the laughter felt good, oh so good.

“You arrogant ass.” She punched his shoulder, touched by the lingering concern she saw on his face. “But, in all fairness, I guess I needed that. So I should be thanking you, huh?”

“Definitely.” His body hardened inside hers, and his dark blue eyes got even darker.

“Okay, you’re right,” Claire said with a straight face. “Thank you, Ryan. You were a great listener.”

His crestfallen expression was priceless. “That’s not the kind of thanks I was hoping for.”

“Really? I’m shocked.”

Picking up on her humor, realizing she wanted exactly the kind of thanks he did, Ryan gave a relieved groan. He rolled onto his back, taking Claire with him. “Let’s do this again,” he murmured. “This time slow. I want you to feel me, only me, every second. No dark visions.” He took her mouth in a hot, devouring kiss, tangling his hands in her disheveled blonde hair. “And no crying this time. It sucks for my ego.”

“Your ego is beyond fine.” Claire kissed her way down his throat and his chest, tasting the salt of his skin. She raised her head and met his smoldering gaze. “But instead of crying, how about if I just make you beg?”

A chuckle vibrated through him as he stretched his arms over his head. “Go for it, Claire-voyant. I’m all yours.”

Aidan answered his cell on the fifth ring, and, even then, he dropped it with a clatter to the floor. There were some groping sounds, and then Aidan’s voice.

“You are a huge pain in the ass,” he informed Marc. He sounded like he’d been running a marathon, and definitely like it was a bad time.

That could only mean one thing.

Marc’s lips curved into a smile as he settled himself on his and Maddy’s living room sofa. “Busy?” he inquired.

“Not funny.”

“Gee, I haven’t even asked for the favor yet, and I’m already on your shit list.”

“I don’t know what favor you’re talking about, but you’re sure as hell on my shit list.”

“I’m guessing it’s not because you’re in bed with some new hottie.”

“Yeah. Right. Abby has made sure I have no sex life. And, thanks to you, she’s found new ways to torment me.”

“Thanks to me?” This time Marc chuckled.

Abby was Aidan’s just-turned-four-year-old daughter—the daughter Aidan never even knew he had until Social Services placed her in his arms. She was the product of a torrid affair that had ended eight months before Abby was born. Right after Abby’s birth, her mother was killed in a car crash. Which left Aidan as her sole surviving parent.

Taking on a baby meant throwing Aidan’s world into chaos. Who he was, what he did—a baby just didn’t factor into any of that. He was faced with two choices. Either man up and take care of his daughter or place her in the foster care system.

To Aidan, a Marine to the core, there really was no choice to make. Reluctant or not, he’d accepted fatherhood with grave responsibility.

And then he’d fallen in love with his precious little infant.

The truth was, Marc was crazy about her, too. She had him wrapped around her little finger.

“Abby? Your precious little princess? Driving you crazy?” he asked with mock surprise. “Well, now, that’s a surprise.”

Marc’s sarcasm was well earned. While other little girls her age were having tea parties, Abby was climbing to the highest rung on the monkey bars in the park and swinging upside down, or using Aidan’s sensitive documents to line the cage of the gerbil she was hosting for her preschool class. She was a creative little tyrant, with a personality as big as her mind.

Just picturing his niece made Marc smile. “I’m still unclear as to how Abby’s tormenting you is my fault.”

“Because she’s in the process of trying on her flower girl dress for the seventh time. I’ve counted, because each time she tries it on, she gets distracted by some must-do activity. And every one of those activities means ripping, staining, or somehow destroying that damned dress. Plus, every fifteen minutes, she wants to know when she gets to wear it. Three weeks doesn’t work for her. Couldn’t you and Madeline push up the wedding to, say, tomorrow?”

Marc burst out laughing. “I’d love to, for Abby’s sake and for mine. But this wedding has taken on a life of its own. So I can’t help you there. What I can do is to grab Maddy and come over tomorrow night. Between the two of us, we’ll help Abby expend some energy and get you some peace. How’s that?”

“In exchange for…?” Aidan’s mind was a steel trap. “I seem to recall you mentioning something about a favor.”

“I had a feeling that would register at some point.” Marc reached for the beer he’d been drinking. “It’s work and it’s important. Will Abby let you talk?”

“Only if she talks to you first.”

“My pleasure. Put her on.”

“Princess?” Aidan called out. “Uncle Marc wants to say hi.”

“Is he here?” Marc heard Abby’s deceptively innocent little voice reply eagerly.

“He and Aunt Maddy will be here tomorrow night. But he’s on the phone, and he wants to say good night to you.”

Running footsteps, and then Abby was on the line.

“Hi, Uncle Marc. Are you going to sleep now?” She sounded puzzled. “It’s so early.”

Marc bit back his laughter. “I think it’s you who’s going to sleep, cutie pie.”

“I’m not tired. I’m trying on my dress. Daddy says I’m ’stroying it. It’s only got three rips. One is big. I got it ’cause I wouldn’t let Daddy help me put it on. It’s pretty clean. But the magic marker won’t wash out.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Daddy doesn’t want you to know, but he bought me another dress to save for the wedding. It’s the same, only not ripped or dirty. Daddy hid it, but I know where it is. It’s on the top shelf of his closet in a pink bag with a zipper.”

Marc heard Aidan groan in the background. His own shoulders were shaking with laughter. “That was a good idea on your daddy’s part. So let’s not spoil things for him. Don’t tell him you know about the dress, and let it sleep in his closet until the wedding.”

“Okay, but that’s still ten plus eight more days away. I counted on the calendar.”

“Ten plus eight more is eighteen,” Marc responded to her glum little voice. “That’s less than twenty. Remember when it was lots longer?”

“Uh-huh. But it’s still long.”

“How about if you and Aunt Maddy make a special flower girl calendar tomorrow night? You can draw a picture on each day, and decorate it with glitter and sparkles. Then, Aunt Maddy can help you think of a flower girl job for each day, something to make the wedding even more special. Being a flower girl is really important.”

“Yay!” The glumness evaporated as quickly as it had come. Abby’s voice was filled with joy, and Marc could almost see her jumping up and down. “Can we start before dinner?”

“Of course we can. But you have to get some sleep now. Otherwise, you’ll be tired and Aunt Maddy will have to do the whole thing herself.”

“Night, Uncle Marc. I love you.”

The phone clunked to a table or a desk, and Abby was off, racing to her room. “Daddy, I want to sleep in my dress,” she called as she ran. “I’ll brush my teeth. Can you read me a story?”

“Only if you take off the dress and put on your nightgown,” Aidan called back. “I’ll be in by the time you’re done.” He picked up the phone. “You’ve got five minutes,” he informed Marc.

Marc didn’t waste one of them. “I need you to do some recon for us,” he said. He then swiftly filled Aidan in on what they knew and what they needed to know. “Can you do it?” he concluded.

“Of course I can do it. Marines rule.” Aidan never got tired of their rivalry over the Marines versus the Navy SEALs.

“How did I know that was coming?”

“Because you’re pretty smart—for a SEAL.”

“Daddy, are you coming?” Abby’s voice drifted down the hall from her bedroom. “I want to show you my purple glitter. I tried it on the wall and it looks really nice.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Aidan told Marc between gritted teeth. “You’re getting a never-ending parade of strippers and lap dancers at your bachelor party.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Email me everything you’ve got. Bring the cup that has this Slava Petrovich’s DNA with you tomorrow night. I’ll have something for you within a few days. Now I’ve got to get some rags to wipe the wall with. Good night.”

Office of Forensic Instincts

Downstairs in his lair, Ryan munched on another handful of trail mix and studied his computer screen, waiting for his results. When they came, his lips curved into a self-satisfied smile, and he pumped the air with his fist.

“Oh, yeah, Yoda. I’m good.”

“I know that, Ryan,” Yoda replied. “You do exceptional work.”

Ryan chuckled. “I’m so glad I programmed you with all the right answers.”

He continued to stare at the screen, his ebullience fading as intense concentration replaced it. He clicked a few more times and delved deeper into his findings.

He hated big companies—except when he loved big companies. Big companies had the resources to do big things. And, in the case of Facebook, that meant successfully working on using facial recognition software and technology for social media purposes. Precisely what Ryan had needed to work his magic. It would be Facebook-specific, precluding his extending the search to the broader Net, but that was okay by him. Facebook was ginormous.

Armed with the photos John Nickels had taken at the Montclair Starbucks, Ryan had spent the past two hours deftly poking around, using Facebook’s capability to search for the two thugs who’d attempted to kidnap Shannon. Not that he believed they’d have Facebook profiles—that would be ridiculous, not to mention way too easy for him. But their girlfriends? Friends? Family members? Ryan had gone under the absolute assumption that any or all of them had Facebook profiles, and Ryan would be able to exploit the social media giant’s data for FI’s benefit.

He’d started out by hacking into Facebook’s skunkworks and finding their facial recognition project. He’d then downloaded a copy of it, tweaked it for his own purposes, and let it loose against Facebook’s live database. His program hadn’t let him down. He’d just gotten an email with a URL pointing to the picture and the name of the Facebook profile in which it was found. One click and he’d seen the profile picture, along with the name associated with it.

Thanks to a squishy family reunion photo posted by the sister of Thug Number One, Ryan had just identified him as Alexei Kozlov. Not only had the facial recognition software identified him but Kozlov’s bare arm was completely exposed in the photo. His tattoos were clear as a bell and exactly as Claire had described them.

This was the scumbag who had not only attempted to snatch Shannon Barker but who had killed Julie Forman.

Well, now the fucker would get his.

On to Thug Number Two, which was a lot trickier. No one had actually seen him. John had gotten a half-visible shot of him through the van window. Ryan had enhanced and enhanced the photo until he got a telltale marker—a jagged scar on his right cheek. Also, his head was shaved. Nice—not thrilling, but nice. There’d still be no identifying him from this scratchy shot.

But Ryan got lucky. In Alexei’s photo, his sister had named everyone present. Sure enough, right in there with the group clench was their dear friend, Vitaliy Bolshov, who looked just like the blurry picture John had taken, right down to his bald head and the jagged scar on his face.

Vitaliy’s left arm was slung over the shoulder of one of Alexei’s cousins, and his right arm was gripping a slutty-looking woman who was pressed up against him and who he might as well be screwing on screen. The good news was that, thanks to Vitaliy’s arm-baring stance, Ryan could see that he had a few ominous-looking tattoos of his own. The better news was that Vitaliy’s girlfriend, Olga Dubova, was tagged, her name in blue, which meant she had a Facebook profile.

Ryan lined up his cursor and clicked on Olga’s name.

Up came her profile, complete with intimate poses of her and Vitaliy, some of them downright gross and some of them just what Ryan needed—camera-facing, clear-as-a-bell face shots.

No doubt that Ryan had his man. He saved all the photos and the two profiles to his hard drive, with the intention of running these new tattoos by Hutch.

With both killers identified, Ryan went for gold.

“Let’s try one last thing, Yoda,” he said aloud. “Let’s see what we can come up with using Slava Petrovich’s photos. I’m sure he’s a hell of a lot smarter than the other two morons. But you never know. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll get lucky again.”

This one was a bear. No girlfriends, friends, or family members with Facebook profiles linking to Slava.

Ryan wasn’t about to give up. He picked out the best front-on shot of Slava he’d taken as Bruiser walked into the RusChem office building. Using that as a base, Ryan fine-tuned it until you could practically count the guy’s nose hairs. Then, he uploaded that into his program and let loose.

Long minutes ticked by. And then it happened. A telltale bing. Ryan had an email. And the email had a link.

Clicking on it, Ryan waited—and the photo came up.

He’d hit the jackpot.

The profile belonged to some girl named Delores Lamb. She was a twenty-eight-year-old paralegal at a Chicago law firm. Ryan focused on the specific photo he’d been directed to. Evidently, Delores and her friends had gone to a club for a TGIF night out. The picture showed them, gathered together in a group pose, while some bartender—given credit in the comment beneath the picture—had taken the shot.

Ryan barely glanced at the group of women. What his gaze was narrowed on was the trio of lowlives sitting together with their “dates” at a nearby table.

In the background or not, Ryan could see with utter certainty that he was looking at Slava, Alexei, and Vitaliy—each one wrapped around a woman who had to be a prostitute, based on the cash Slava was shoving into their hands.

He had his link. Slava Petrovich was connected to the two killers who’d murdered Julie Forman.

Saving and printing everything, Ryan grabbed his cell phone.

His chair was still swiveling as he raced out the door.