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“Find Aidan and fill him in,” Casey told Marc. “Anything we can get, from Hutch and/or Aidan, will be welcome. Especially if we’re dealing with a corporation that’s a front for killers.”
“Done.” Marc was all business again.
Up until now, Claire had remained quiet. Now, she folded her hands on the table and said, “While we’re on the subject of killers, Jim Robbins is dead. He’s buried someplace rural. There are acres of land, a manor, and a body of water nearby. It’s a very deep grave. I don’t know exactly where the location is yet.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed quizzically. Claire sounded disconnected, factual rather than empathetic—very un-Claire-like given that she was describing a murder. He glanced at Casey, whose expression was unreadable.
“That reminds me…” Marc reached into his case and pulled out two baggies: one with a man’s hairbrush in it and one with a training medal inside. “I got these from Jim Robbins’ apartment.” He passed them over to Claire. “They were as personal as I could find. Maybe they’ll help give you more details about Robbins.”
For a long moment, Claire just stared at the items, making no move to touch them or pick them up. “I’ll take them home with me after our meeting,” she said at last. “I need to be alone when I interact with them. My connection with Jim Robbins seems to be very strong. I’d rather not explore it in public.”
That did it. “Claire-voyant, what the hell is going on?” Ryan demanded. He was being totally unprofessional, and he knew it. He was also pushing Casey, who was scowling at him. But he couldn’t seem to help himself.
“You’re acting weird,” he pressed. “Something obviously happened when you figured out Jim Robbins was dead. What was it?”
Claire raised her head and met Ryan’s gaze. She didn’t look surprised. She looked weary and almost nakedly exposed. It twisted something inside Ryan to see her like that.
“I didn’t ‘figure out’ Jim Robbins was dead,” she responded in a robotic tone. “I lived it, not the murder, but the death itself. It was a first for me, and I’m a little shaken. I’ll get over it. It won’t keep me from delving further. I just need some personal space.” She eyed the objects Marc had brought. “These should help. Maybe I can get some background on Robbins, or motivation for why he was killed. Or even a more specific location for his body.”
Ryan’s brow was furrowed in confusion. But this time he took Casey’s cue and shut his mouth.
“Jim Robbins’ job at Apex hasn’t been filled, either,” Casey reported. “Shannon made a phone call to her friend Jessica. There’s an assistant trainer standing in for him who is set to stay on in the event that Jim doesn’t return. So far, she hasn’t offered either Jessica or Billy any supplements. My guess is that she won’t. Slava—or whoever runs RusChem—wants this channel permanently closed so it doesn’t lead back to him.”
Casey paused, shaking her head. “This whole scenario feels odd. We’ve got Russian mobsters, PED trafficking, and murder. That’s big-time stuff. Yet there’s an elite personal aspect to all this that just doesn’t fit. Handpicked trainers. Handpicked athletes. None of whom are replaced when they’re out of the picture.”
“Couldn’t whoever’s running this drug ring have shut down the Apex connection and taken it elsewhere?” Emma asked. “There are plenty of competitive athletes and trainers out there.”
“Not at the Olympic level,” Casey replied. “And that’s where they obviously want to be. Again, elitism. This is still conjecture on my part, but I’d say that this isn’t just about peddling drugs. It’s about who they’re peddling them to—subjects who can attain a grandiose goal. If personal recognition factors into this, that’s not your typical drug ring or your typical organized crime scenario.”
“Based on your theory, there’s another inconsistency.” Marc rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “After they killed off Julie Forman and Jim Robbins, we’re seeing more surveillance than action. They’re dancing around our clients. There should have been hits put out on them, not increased surveillance or kidnapping attempts. Drug rings wipe out threats; they don’t watch them. And they also don’t stand still. They branch out and grow. This one is very insular. It’s almost as if protecting their privacy trumps moneymaking. I see where you’re headed, and I agree with you. There’s something else going on here. We don’t have the answer yet.”
East Village, New York
Claire was sitting on her living room rug in lotus position, the two Ziplocs Marc had given her lying, untouched, beside her. She knew what she had to do—and she was working herself up to do it.
She was just about to reach for the first bag when her doorbell rang. A wave of relief swept through her. She didn’t care who it was. It meant a temporary reprieve.
She stood up and walked over to the door, peering through the peephole.
Ryan.
Turning the lock, she let him in. “Hi.”
“Hey.” He stepped inside the apartment.
“Aren’t you supposed to be hacking systems and figuring out who owns RusChem?” Claire asked.
Ryan nodded. “And I will—in a few hours. Marc and Casey are still talking to Aidan and Hutch.” He angled his head, openly scrutinizing her—not sexually but with puzzled concern. “You look like hell.”
“Thank you,” Claire said sarcastically, shutting the door behind him. “It’s good to see you, too.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” Claire walked into the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?” She was already pulling out a bottle of water. That was Ryan’s usual choice, at least in her place. He wasn’t exactly an herbal tea kind of guy.
She handed it to him.
He placed it on the counter.
