The Murder That Never Was (Forensic Instincts 5)

It was nearly midnight, and Claire knew she’d procrastinated long enough. Burying her head in the sand was an unfamiliar reaction for her; one she disliked intensely. She wasn’t a coward, certainly not when it came to her gift. She’d long ago accepted that there were times to embrace it and times to rue its existence. But it was always her responsibility to use it as it was

needed.

And that time was now. FI’s clients were counting on her. FI was counting on her. And she wasn’t ducking this new and deeper aspect of her gift any longer. Whatever came of the next few minutes, she’d stay with it and stay strong.

Quietly, she settled herself on her thickly cushioned sofa, Jim Robbins’ hairbrush and training medal neatly laid out on the coffee table in front of her. Automatically, she folded her legs under her in lotus position, which always brought her a soothing sense of calm.

She glanced at the two objects and felt a stronger pull to the medal. Picking it up, she shut her eyes, holding it in a secure but not crushing grip. She couldn’t drag out the images; they had to come to her.

Unfortunately—or fortunately—it rarely took long for that to happen when it came to Jim Robbins. Even in death he seemed to reach out to her, and she somehow knew that his soul was neither dark nor light but more of a muddied gray. He’d been a foolish, greedy man, but he hadn’t been evil, and he certainly hadn’t deserved to die in such a violent manner.

Violent…agonizingly violent.

Poison.

That was the first certainty that crystalized in Claire’s mind. Along with it, she felt shooting pains rip through her gut, cutting off her very breath.

She refused to give in and release the medal. She was going with this, come hell or high water. The images were clear, and she was living inside them. Jim…writhing on the floor of an elegant room with a long, polished table. He was contorted in pain, animal groans emanating from his throat, foam frothing at his mouth. The torture went on and on, until with a final shudder that racked his body, he went still.

Death…death…

Claire gasped, fighting her way to the surface. She was drenched in sweat, shaking so violently she could hardly hold on to the medal. But she wasn’t letting go. Nor was she losing her focus.

Now she was outside Jim’s lifeless body, aware of his immediate surroundings as she hovered over him.

Gleaming hardwood floors. Burgundy velvet drapes hanging at the windows. And the mahogany table—it was a dining room. A dining room in the mansion she’d pictured. Mountains in the distance. Rippling water. Acres of untouched land. Green. Green. New England.

The awareness of the location popped into her head just as the vision vanished.

Another took its place.

Someone was standing in the dining room. He’d watched Jim die with a dark and hollow soul.

A man. Tall. Lean. Cast in shadows. Faceless. Nameless.

The leader. The killer.

Claire tried to force something more tangible, but it wouldn’t come. He was shrouded by anonymity, a cold-blooded monster, and he was central to FI’s investigation. Yet she couldn’t see him, couldn’t perceive more.

Except for one thing.

He’d kill again unless they stopped him. And it would be one of them who died.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Office of Forensic Instincts

No member of the Forensic Instincts team was surprised to see Hutch sitting at the conference table when they filed in. They’d all been briefed that Casey had spoken with their clients and that Lisa and Miles had been thrilled that FI could convince their FBI contact to play a more comprehensive role in their case. All of them, particularly Shannon, were badly shaken by the attempted kidnapping, and, extra security or not, they rarely ventured out of the apartment or the gym. The overwhelming fear and anxiety were wearing on them, and Casey could sense that a meltdown was imminent.

All the more reason to include Hutch in the mix.

“Hey, guys,” Hutch greeted the team.

They all responded in kind.

“Another play-by-the-rules guy—I feel less lonely already,” Patrick said, settling himself in his chair, coffee mug in hand. His banter was light, but his mouth was drawn, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was worried and exhausted from his long hours of safeguarding their clients—and less than optimistic about the odds of no further violent attempts being made. He took a belt of coffee. “Although somehow I doubt that either one of us will be playing within the confines of those rules.”

“I’d say that’s a safe bet.” Hutch spoke with his customary candor. “But, as usual, you guys make it impossible for me to mind my own business and stay honest.”