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And Casey, who’d already been briefed across the board, had her own information to impart.
“Damn.” Marc was skimming Patrick’s report. “This is a direct attack, no attempt at subterfuge. Something really scared these guys—probably the Chicago cops showing up.” He read on. “Talk about desperate,” he muttered. “This whole operation fell apart after they saw John pull his gun. The whole point was to leave with Shannon no matter what. They should have been prepared for anything.”
“Their desperation is what worries me the most,” Patrick said. “So I’ve doubled security on Shannon and on Lisa and Miles.” He glanced quizzically at Casey. “How much have you told Hutch?... Never mind,” he said, waving away his own question. “There’s no way we can ask him to run the license plates and do some facial recognition work for us.”
“I wish we could, but we can’t,” Marc agreed. “This isn’t an FBI case. It’s ours, and, as you better than anyone realize, it walks a very fine line between legal and illegal.”
“True.” Patrick frowned. He hated that reminder. Even after all this time as an FI team member, working outside the law was still like fingernails scraping across a chalkboard to him.
“I’ll take care of it, Patrick,” Ryan told him. “You don’t have to hear how.”
Patrick looked relieved.
“To answer your question,” Casey said, “I’ve told Hutch very little. But, at Lisa’s and Miles’ consent, he did some research on the tattoos Claire visualized on the shooter’s arm. He feels we’re dealing with Russian criminal enterprise.”
Ryan sat up straighter. “You mentioned the Russian part when we talked. But what tattoos?” he demanded, looking at Claire.
In a strained monotone, Claire fully explained what she’d picked up off Julie’s personal items. As she spoke, Casey emailed each team member photos of all the sketches Claire had drawn, plus the link to Hutch’s explorations.
“That fits with what Marc and I came up with.” Ryan’s gaze found Casey. “May I?”
“Go ahead,” she said with a nod.
Like a proud father, Ryan held up a picture of Otter and proceeded to describe his creation’s technical capabilities.
“Ryan,” Casey interrupted. “None of us understands a word of what you just said. I’m glad your new gizmo is doing its job. Please just get to the bottom line and tell the team what you found.”
Only slightly deflated, Ryan put down the photo and scanned his notes.
“We embedded Otter in U.S. Cellular’s downtown Chicago facility. Otter fed us precisely the data I needed to triangulate the primary location where Jim Robbins’ most frequent contacts received his calls. It turned out to be an office building where a Russian-backed software company had its operations. Several smaller companies, also Russian, rented space there as well. So Marc and I positioned ourselves in the lobby to spot just who Jim’s contact was. Once we connected our tracked cell phone to the right person, we had our man. We just had no idea who he was.”
“That’s where I came in.” Emma couldn’t contain herself anymore. “Seems this creeper has an eye for women, especially ones with headbands for skirts and Louboutins. So I brought my hottest bodycon dress, hopped a plane to Chi-Town, and put on an award-winning sex kitten act. I walked out with his name, and my coffee cup with his sweaty fingerprints. Now I’ll let Ryan finish the geek speak.”
Ryan ignored her sarcasm. “On the ride home, I made a few discreet ‘inquiries’ into our government agencies’ servers, which gave me what I needed to identify Bruiser as Slava Petrovich.” Once again, he glanced down at his notes. “He works for RusChem, a Russian biochemical manufacturer. They have a manufacturing plant here in the US and sales offices all over the world. Chicago is one of several sales offices in the US. I still have more investigative work to do into the company, its operations, and its management. All roads lead back to Moscow, but whoever owns the company is a big question mark.”
“Nice work.” Casey pursed her lips, her wheels turning. “But these findings I am going to mention to Hutch, at least the parts that don’t involve ‘talking to’ our government’s servers. I’m hoping he can discreetly see if RusChem is on anyone’s radar. He’s already aware that we’re dealing with organized crime here. And we know we’re dealing with killers. If RusChem is the mothership, it’s time to find out. I’d like to know if we’re walking into a potential buzz saw before it’s too late.”
“Let’s cover both convention and unconventional avenues,” Marc suggested quietly.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we also need lab results on the DNA evidence, plus as much unofficial info on RusChem as we can get,” Marc replied. “Hutch can only go so far. He has to work within boundaries. We know someone who doesn’t.”
“Aidan?” Casey guessed. She was referring to Marc’s older brother, who graduated from Annapolis three years ahead of Marc, and who was a former Marine—a hybrid intelligence officer and communications officer. Aidan was now a troubleshooter for Heckman Flax, the investment bank of all investment banks. He was in charge of all their trading platforms worldwide, and he travelled globally to put out fires on a moment’s notice.
His connections, both corporate and military, were beyond extensive, spanning the highest levels of business and political circles.
&nbs
p; “Yes, Aidan,” Marc confirmed. “If anyone can ferret out who controls RusChem, he can. I’ll also ask him to find out whatever he can on Slava Petrovich, including suggesting the right lab to run his DNA.”
“Is Aidan abroad now or home?” Casey asked.
Marc shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. What we need from him can be done from anywhere.”
“He was in Manhattan yesterday,” Ryan piped up. “We’re putting the finishing touches on your bachelor party. Ten days to go. You’re getting married in less than three weeks, remember?”
“Believe me, I remember.” That softer smile touched Marc’s lips—the one that always accompanied any mention of Madeleine. “I’m more than ready.”
