The Murder That Never Was (Forensic Instincts 5)

This was Shannon’s ace. “Because they follow protocol. I don’t. They’re digging around, even trying to figure out if there’s a tie between what happened to me and that shooting outside Julie’s apartment. I told them you were too stupid to plan something like this on your own, that we should forget you and get to whoever you’re working for. Who’s the brains, Jim? You’re just a dumb runner.”

“You little bitch…” He backhanded her across the face.

Shannon lurched backwards but grabbed hold of the hood of Jim’s car and steadied herself. The physical assault would aid her cause. But she needed something verbal. Something she could take to the police.

“I don’t hear any denials. So save your ass. Who are you working for? Or do you want to be put away for murder, too?”

“Fuck you, little girl. Now get the hell out of my face. And don’t come back unless you bring the cops with you.” Jim unlocked his car, jumped in, and paused to lower the window. “If I see your face around here again, I’ll make sure the people you’re so worried about shut you up for good.”

He grabbed the steering wheel and sped off.

Shannon just had time to leap out of his path to keep from being run down.

What he’d said was evidence. It had to be.

She’d send Julie a message, attaching a copy of the audio. Julie would know what to do.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Dr. Maxim Lubinov walked to the podium at the front of the Marriott Marquis ballroom, his steps punctuated by the applause of his colleagues. So many colleagues that even the most expansive conference rooms—dividers removed—wouldn’t hold them. They eagerly awaited Dr. Lubinov’s presentation. He was a foremost expert in microbiology, and his topic today was on scientific advances in increasing cell energy production.

In his midfifties, Dr. Lubinov was tall and lean, his blond hair and goatee specked with gray. Years ago, he’d studied as both a Harvard undergraduate and a medical sch

ool student, and had been a resident of the US ever since. So, he was very much Americanized, despite his obvious Russian roots—light blue eyes, craggy features, straight nose, and pale complexion, plus the slightest of accents.

He was a formidable man, and he glanced neither right nor left as he climbed the steps to the podium. Dmitry Gorev, his assistant, was waiting for him there, ready to support his efforts as needed.

Lubinov began with his customary air of professionalism. Polite but with a superior undertone. No one objected. He was more accomplished than everyone in the room combined. He knew it and they knew it. So a touch of arrogance was more than acceptable.

He began to speak. Notes were furiously typed into iPads as he presented thirty slides and the explanations that went with them. Cutting edge. Fascinating.

Forty-five minutes later, at the conclusion of the presentation, the audience was eager to probe Lubinov’s genius. He answered one question after another, until the moderator brought the Q&A portion of the presentation to a close. Several people rushed the stage, hoping to get one of their follow-up questions answered, but Dr. Lubinov had already gathered up his material, and he and Dmitry were heading toward the exit.

The limo was waiting directly outside, just as requested. The two men got in. Once safely inside the limo, Max let his true persona show.

Visibly irked, he turned in his seat. “Dmitry, what you just witnessed was a room full of idiots. Not one of them truly understood the significance of my research and how it would change human existence.”

Dmitry nodded his agreement—an agreement that was as genuine as his understanding of his employer’s intolerance. Why wouldn’t he be intolerant? He was a bona fide genius. Dmitry felt incredibly lucky to have been chosen as his assistant. There had been a long line of interviewees. Few of them had survived even the preliminary screening, much less the intensive two-hour interview that followed. Dmitry knew that his own Harvard pedigree and background in microbiology and stem cell research had weighed heavily in his favor. So had his sheer intellect. But there was something even more intrinsic that had gotten him this job.

He was the only one who could handle Maxim Lubinov.

Max was off the charts when it came to mood swings, extreme actions, and irrational behavior that bordered on frightening. At the same time, he was like the sun—the center of his own solar system, beaming out brilliant rays of knowledge, discovery, research, and expectations. Dmitry not only took all this in his stride, he knew how to filter it, to absorb what the end goal was, and to turn it into the reality Max demanded.

Dmitry wasn’t foolish enough to believe he’d ever fully understand his boss, nor was he unaware that he was always walking a fine line with danger. But he got Max, comprehended who he was and what he wanted to bring to this world.

So it was all worth it. Dmitry’s job was twenty-four seven. He worked like a well-compensated slave. But he loved what he did, even when fear crept into the picture.

As if on cue, Max’s private cell phone rang. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled it out.

“Yes?”

“It’s me.” Slava’s voice echoed from the other end—that cell phone echo that made it possible for Dmitry to hear. Slava was speaking in Russian. Dmitry was fluent in that, even though he was born in the US. His parents had emigrated from Russia and often spoke in their native tongue.

Slava continued. “The situation we were keeping an eye on just kicked us in the ass.” He proceeded to elaborate on what had transpired between Jim and Shannon at the training center.

“You’re sure?” Max also spoke in Russian.

“Alexei called me a few minutes ago. He and Vitaliy were at the Apex Center when it happened. Separate cars, like you asked. Alexei was following the kid, and Vitaliy was following Robbins. The kid and Robbins had it out. He slapped her—hard—then took off. He didn’t look like a man who had nothing to hide. The guys stayed on them. She took the bus, and Robbins took his car. They both went directly home.”