The Murder That Never Was (Forensic Instincts 5)

“This has to be the company we’re looking for,” Marc said. “Time to dig.”

“I’m already on it.” Ryan was clicking as fast as his fingers could fly across the keyboard. His frown deepened as the long minutes turned into an hour.

He leaned back, staring from his screen to Marc and back.

“All information on RusChem points back to Moscow. But the ownership information is either buried in bureaucracy or intentionally hidden. I’ve tried it from every different angle. Nothing. This is going to take long hours and a lot of patience.”

Marc acknowledged that thoughtfully. “My guess is that we’re going to find out that this supposedly legitimate company is nothing more than a front for criminal enterprise distributing PEDs throughout the world.”

“Okay, but run by who? Marc, we’ve got a shitload of players here. Who factors in where?”

Ticking off on his fingers, Marc replied, “Shannon was unknowingly taking PEDs. Jim Robbins was the conduit. Robbins was connected to—what did you call him?—Bruiser. Bruiser is connected to RusChem. That’s a hell of a lot of A equals B and B equals Cs. We need to figure out who Bruiser is. That’ll be the key to answering all our questions and ending the threat to our clients’ lives.”

“Sounds simple.” Ryan scowled. “Now how the hell do you propose we do that? I can dig up dirt on anyone. But I need something to go on.”

“Then let’s get you that something.” Marc picked up his cell phone and punched in Casey’s number.

“Hey,” she answered. “I was just wondering how your spy cam operation was going.”

Tersely, Marc recounted the situation. “I need Emma here now,” he concluded. “Put her on the next plane to O’Hare. And tell her to pack the shortest, sexiest dress she owns.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Chicago, Illinois

Slava was in one hell of a mood when he blasted into his office building the next morning. He didn’t do his usual lobby scanning of the beautiful women he’d like to screw. He just strode directly into the coffee shop, pitying whoever waited on him today if the asshole didn’t know that he took his coffee black. In Russia, he always drank black tea, but the black tea in this country sucked. If the server asked him if he wanted “room” in his cup, he’d probably choke the life out of the guy and enjoy doing it.

He ordered his drink and loomed at the counter, waiting, his jaw clenched as he recalled the phone call to Max yesterday. The lunatic had gone ballistic when he’d heard about Alexei’s and Vitaliy’s screw-up. No argument about the fact that it had been a big one—one that was going to cost them their lives. Slava had already verbally castrated them, even as he decided who he’d move up to be their replacements once they were six feet under.

But Max? The guy had reacted like a raging psychopath, screaming about his research being compromised, about killing everyone who threatened it, and about slitting the throats of his own people if need be. Half of it had been in English and half in Russian, but, more than once, Slava had heard his name shouted with an expletive attached to it.

He didn’t take well to being threatened. And if Max didn’t calm down, it would be his throat that would be slit.

Slava’s jaw clenched as he reached the counter and barked out a command for coffee. Fortunately, the coffee shop employee gave him the right drink, looking like a timid mouse as he did. Slava snatched the steaming cup from his hand, threw a crumpled five on the counter, and walked out. He stood in the lobby, loosening his tie and ignoring the scalding in his throat as he took a huge gulp of the hot liquid. A redheaded Russian woman with long, shapely legs gave him a coy smile. He ignored it. She wasn’t his current type, and he wasn’t in the mood.

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He half scanned the room and was about to veer toward the elevator when a flash of blonde hair caught his eye. It belonged to a beautiful young woman he’d never seen here before. She was seated directly across from him and was studying him as intently as he was her. Exquisite, he thought. Natural blonde hair, loose and just brushing her shoulders. Huge blue eyes like the sky. The face of an angel. The body of sin. She was wearing a tight black dress that hugged every inch of her and that barely covered the tops of her thighs. One shapely leg was crossed over the other—legs that were surprisingly long, given her diminutive size, and that looked even longer thanks to the four-inch heels on her designer shoes.

When she moistened her full red lips with her tongue and then smiled at him, gesturing toward the seat beside her, he was lost.

He re-knotted his tie and made his way over, stopping to lower himself into the chair she’d designated.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly, her voice as bewitching as the rest of her.

“You’re American,” he noted in a thick Russian accent.

“Is that a problem?”

“With a woman as beautiful as you? Never.”

She gave him a more melting smile, and he could feel his erection pounding against his clothes.

“I am Slava. And you are…?”

“Isabella.” She breathed the word in a soft, ethereal cloud.

“A lovely name.” He watched as she took a sip of her coffee, frowning as she looked down.