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“Fucking asshole.” Max’s eyes narrowed, anger blazing in them. “Let’s talk about the girl first. Is she a real threat?”
“She’s a little girl throwing empty accusations around. She doesn’t know anything except that Jim was feeding her PEDs. She did go on a fishing expedition, demanding to know who he was working with. And he all but admitted he was working for someone, the stupid fool. But he didn’t give her any details. She’s suspicious but has nothing to go on.” A pause. “I’ll take care of her if you want me to.”
“No.” Max cut him off. “We can’t kill both of them without raising red flags to the cops. And Robbins is the real problem. Bring him to the manor. Friday night. Seven o’clock. Tell him it’s time we met, that we’re having a drink to celebrate our growing success. Egocentric assholes like him will buy into that, no questions asked. He’ll probably buy a new suit for the occasion.”
Slava chuckled. “Consider it done.”
Dmitry shifted in his seat. He’d be expected to attend this supposed celebration.
It was going to be deadly.
Tribeca, New York
Forensic Instincts
Emma fidgeted in her chair, typing a few idle notes in the margins of their client’s latest interview.
“You’re not being very productive, Emma,” a voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere said.
She pulled her hands off the keyboard and rolled her eyes. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture today, Yoda. Besides, you’re not my Jiminy Cricket anymore, remember?”
“I recognize that it’s been three months, two weeks, and six days since your three-month probationary period—cut short by Casey—ended. But I remain responsible for making sure every team member is working up to his or her full potential. Today you’re not.”
Emma groaned, wishing that Yoda—Forensic Instincts’ extraordinary artificial intelligence system, created, of course, by Ryan—would go away and torture someone else. Not that he was wrong about her lack of productivity. Then again, Yoda wasn’t wrong about anything. He was a hundred percent brilliant, and so human-like it was startling. No surprise, given his inventor. As the team openly acknowledged, Ryan was a genius, and Yoda was omniscient.
Ignoring Yoda’s admonishment, Emma picked up the four pages she’d printed on the murder of that Lisa Barnes girl in Chicago. Two of them were chat room bullshit from people who clearly didn’t know what—or who—they were talking about. She tore those up now and chucked them into her wastebasket. The other two pages were all that mattered—a pathetically naked obit and an equally sparse article below which was a driver’s license photo—probably the only picture of Lisa Barnes that was available. Emma had expanded the photo before printing it. She wasn’t sure why. She just felt a kinship with this woman, one that wouldn’t go away.
Inexplicably, Emma’s eyes filled with tears. How weird. She never cried. This murder—the woman who reminded her of herself, the city it had happened in—all that had just hit her hard. She’d get over it. She just had to keep busy.
She turned back to the computer and began working before Yoda could chastise her again.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Claire was shrugging out of her jacket as she approached Emma’s desk. Clearly, she’d spotted Emma’s watery eyes. And, hey, if it had to be someone who caught a glimpse of the tiny crack in Emma’s emotional armor, it was okay that it was Claire. Nurturing, kind, compassionate Claire. If Emma wanted to confide in someone, Claire would be it.
“I’m okay,” she said. “Just a little…” She wasn’t sure exactly how to elaborate. She wasn’t used to this kind of sharing. And how could she explain her connection to a dead stranger?
She didn’t have to. Claire was already touching the pages Emma had just put down, almost as if she’d been drawn to them. “May I?” she asked.
Emma n
odded.
“So much negative energy,” Claire murmured before she even read what she was picking up. “I feel chilled just touching these.” She scanned the article, absorbing all the details as she read them. Then she looked at Emma, understanding in her eyes. “That poor woman. First, a tragic life. Then, a tragic death. The foster care, the time on the streets—her background is similar to yours.”
“Yes.” Emma acknowledged that without hesitation. Then her chin came up, and her expression grew defensive. “And people like us are always judged. This article says nothing except that she was a foster care kid turned street scum, with a juvie record. That, of course, meant she had to be a useless junkie who had this coming to her.”
“I agree. What I just read was biased and unfeeling.”
“Lisa Barnes didn’t have a family, but maybe she had friends, other people who cared about her,” Emma said. “Given how tiny this obit article is, half of them probably don’t know she’s dead—especially if they don’t live in Chicago. Just because I stay plugged into my roots doesn’t mean everyone does.” Emma bit her lip. “I almost brought this murder to the team and asked them to investigate. But I’m not a client, and no one has approached us, nor will they. So this can’t be an FI case. I’ve been trying to find out more about Lisa Barnes on my own. And I’ve come up with zip. Then again, I’m a rank amateur when it comes to investigative digging.”
Before Claire could reply, Ryan blew by, en route to the stairs and his lair.
He stopped when he saw the drawn expressions on both women’s faces.
“Who died?” he asked, unfortunately saying the absolute worst wrong thing.
“A twenty-nine-year-old woman with her whole life ahead of her,” Emma snapped. “That’s who.”
Ryan startled. “What…?” He saw the warning in Claire’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Was she a friend of yours?”
