It was nine a.m.
The Tribeca brownstone that served as the headquarters of Forensic Instincts was crackling with energy as the team settled into the main conference room on the second floor.
The room was as impressive as the FI team members themselves. The decorating had been done by FI’s president, Casey Woods, and like Casey, it was pure class. Polished hardwood floors. A plush Oriental rug. A gleaming mahogany conference table and matching credenza with its JURA Professional coffee station and built-in fridge and wine cooler. French doors led to a terrace that overlooked a small but professionally landscaped garden.
Then came the crucial technology infrastructure, which was pure Ryan—light-years ahead of its time in both design and operation. Unlike the stunning furnishings, it was all hidden from view. Only the gigantic video wall was visible, covering the longest side of the room and allowing Ryan to assemble a dizzying array of information into a large single image or several smaller, simultaneous data feeds. Videoconferencing equipment, a sophisticated phone system, and a personalized virtual workstation available to each member of the group completed the elaborate system.
This room was the team’s central meeting point and think-tank location—the place where all new cases were discussed and all major developments reviewed. Casey had scheduled this morning’s meeting to do a quick wrap-up of their just-closed case and to start the selection process on their next one. Given their reputation and success rate, their pile of prospective cases was always sky-high, and it was up to them to choose the one that seemed the most pressing and the most suited to their skills and passions. There was always some debate among the members, but it was rare that they wholly disagreed about the ultimate selection. Some cases were just more urgent than others.
As always, Casey sat at the head of the table, with Hero, the bloodhound who was the team’s human-scent evidence dog, stretched out at her feet. Patrick Lynch, retired FBI and now FI’s security expert, sat beside his boss. He’d been predictably early, a quality he and Casey shared. Marc Devereaux, former Navy SEAL, former FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit, and Casey’s right hand on just about everything, was on-the-dot punctual. Emma Stirling, former pickpocket, now honest and reformed—unless FI required that she not be—showed up two minutes past nine.
There were two glaringly empty seats at the table.
“Where are Claire and Ryan?” Emma asked, her blue eyes wide with interest as she helped herself to a chocolate croissant from the breakfast tray. As the one-time personal assistant to the group, now graduated to full-fledged team member, she was the one who’d ordered the continental breakfast. So, of course, chocolate croissants were always on the menu.
Casey hid her smile. It was no surprise that their outspoken newbie was the one who blurted out the question that was on everyone’s mind. Everyone save Casey’s; Ryan and Claire had both called her and explained what was going on, getting her okay to do what they felt was necessary.
“Wow,” Emma continued, speculating aloud. “Did they do something cool like run off and elope?”
Marc nearly choked on his coffee as he snorted with laughter. “What movies have you been watching? We’re talking about no-commitments Ryan and always-level-headed Claire. They still pretend they’re not together.”
“I know, but they’ve never not been at a team meeting. Never. And since they’re both out…”
“Enough, Emma.” Casey gestured pointedly at the chair Emma should be occupying. “Ryan has a family situation. Claire is assisting him.”
“Is everyone okay?” Patrick’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t prying. That just wasn’t Patrick. But he was the father figure of the group, and often their grounding force. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
Casey interlaced her fingers in front of her. The FI team was like family. They all cared about each other. But up until now, the personal details of their lives had been in closed files reserved for her eyes only. Anything they chose to reveal was up to them. Given how close they’d all become, it was an antiquated arrangement, one she planned to address at this meeting. However, with regard to Ryan’s current situation, it was moot. When he’d called in, he’d given her the go-ahead to share. Plus, news of Rose Flaherty’s death would now be public information, and some unethical reporter was bound to dig up the name of the witness who found the body—and to identify her online. So Casey was about to give everyone a little more insight into Ryan McKay.
“An elderly antique dealer died under suspicious circumstances in her Greenwich Village shop yesterday,” she said. “The person who discovered her body was Ryan’s sister.”
Patrick’s brows rose. “Sister?”
“Yes. Her name is Fiona. She walked in on a bad scene—a dead body, lots of blood, lots of law enforcement. She was interviewed at length and left the precinct pretty freaked out. She went straight to Ryan. He’s helping her navigate further police questioning and sharing the news with their parents.”
“Which is where Claire comes in.” Marc nodded in comprehension. “I get it.”
“Well, I don’t.” Emma looked positively affronted. “Why didn’t I know that Ryan has a sister?”
“The same way you never knew I had a brother,” Marc said, reminding her about his older brother, Aidan, whose global skills Emma had now seen firsthand. “Our personal files are just that. Personal. Casey is the only one with access to that information.”
“Right.” Patrick looked amused. “Except for Ryan, who’s hacked into all our files and knows more about each of us than we do.”
“I stand corrected,” Marc acknowledged with an offhand shrug. “Some of us respect boundaries.”
“That’s true.” Casey used the opportunity to broach the subject on her mind. “However, we were strangers when I put that rule into place. Now, we’re family. There’s very little we don’t know about each other anyway. So I’m suggesting we ditch the secrecy about our personal lives.”
“I’m fine with that,” Marc said.
“As am I.” Patrick nodded.
“Well, my life’s an open book,” Emma muttered. “You all knew everything about me when I was hired.”
“Comments and evaluations are mine and mine alone,” Casey continued, “and I’ve ensured that those file addendums are encrypted and protected by two-factor authentication, the details of which no one has but me. That has been done, am I correct, Yoda?”
Yoda was Ryan’s homegrown AI system that ran everything at Forensic Instincts. Seemingly half human, Yoda kept track of all their cases—ongoing and closed, always at the ready when an authorized user would simply ask him to do some research or analysis.
In response to Casey’s question, an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling video screens began to glow. A long green line formed across each panel, pulsating from left to right, and Yoda’s voice replied, “Yes, Casey, you are correct. No one can bypass the encryption process, not even Ryan.”
“Good. Then I’ll run all this by Claire and Ryan and we can get rid of the archaic nonsense. In the meantime”—she interrupted Emma’s next question—“anyone who wants to know more about Ryan’s situation can ask him directly. He and Claire will be here for a few hours this afternoon. We can bring them up to speed on this morning’s case wrap-up.”
Patrick folded one leg across the other. “Do you still want to go ahead and select our next case? Or do you want to wait until we’re all together?”
“I’d rather wait,” Casey replied. The unwritten FI rule was that the entire team contributed to this process and made the ultimate decision. “I’ve read through all the case possibilities—which I’m sure you all have—and nothing is life-or-death. We can bandy around some ideas, but we’ll put off making any final decision until tomorrow.”
Everyone nodded in unison.
Casey’s fingers were poised over her keyboard. “Then let’s get started on our wrap-up.”
***
By the time Fiona had finished up at both the police precinct and at Glenna’s apartment, she was so drained that all she wanted to do was to sleep. As Ryan had predicted, Detective Alvarez had pressed her for any additional details she’d recalled about last night, providing Fiona only with the fact that this was now a homicide investigation. But no clue about the direction the investigation was taking, no information about when the ME would be releasing the body, and no answers about whether or not they’d discovered the name of Rose’s next of kin—assuming she had any.
Detective Alvarez had taken it a little easy on Fiona, seeing how pale she was and how pronounced the dark circles under her eyes were—not to mention the fact that she’d needed to bring her brother with her for emotional support—so the questions had been asked in a less intense manner than they had been during last night’s interview. Still, all they’d accomplished was to rehash what had already been discussed, and Fiona had left the Sixth Precinct totally frustrated. So had Ryan.
Fiona had gone to Glenna’s alone, after Ryan had advised her that he and Claire would pick her up at her townhouse around four so they could head up to the Bronx. They’d done rock, paper, scissors, and Ryan had lost, so it was his job to call their parents and announce their visit, if not its basis.
Glenna had been in even worse shape than Fiona had imagined.
She’d opened her apartment door, her eyes red-rimmed and her face splotchy from crying. Her hair was tied back, damp from a shower but with loose hairs dangling chaotically around her face in a way that mirrored the emotional mess she was. She looked dazed and faraway, as if she was shell-shocked. And why wouldn’t she be? After her lengthy interview with Detective Alvarez, she was only too aware of the fact that Rose’s death was being ruled a homicide. She was as horrified by that as Fiona was—and just as clueless as to why anyone would want to hurt such a gentle old woman.
By unspoken agreement, they’d avoided having a prolonged discussion on the subject. It simply hurt too much, and they had nothing but questions, no answers.
Instead, they’d talked about happy memories, each of them recalling their favorite Rose stories. It gave them some sense of peace to celebrate her life rather than dwell on her death. But eventually, the nuts and bolts needed to be addressed.
Glenna started out by filling Fiona in on the fact that Rose had no living relatives; her eighty-five-year-old sister had passed away in a Florida nursing facility two years ago. She’d told that to Detective Alvarez, who’d thanked her and said the NYPD would do a search to confirm that no other living relatives existed. Glenna had asked if she could claim the body for a proper funeral, only to be told that, assuming no next of kin existed, the state of Florida would have jurisdiction since Rose’s sister had died there. Glenna would have to contact a Floridian attorney, supply him with a letter from the NYPD stating the fact that this was a DOA, and have him appear before a judge with that letter and the proper legal documents. If everything was in order, the judge would provide the attorney with signed papers allowing Glenna to claim guardianship of Rose’s body.
“I don’t know where to turn,” Glenna had said, chewing on her lip with a helpless expression. “I don’t know any lawyers, much less one who practices in Florida. Finding one… getting this done… who knows how long that will take and how much it will cost? I don’t know where to start.”
“I do.” Fiona had whipped out her phone and called her brother Nolan, laying out the dilemma for him while omitting the part about her being the one who found the body. The last thing she needed was another family member worrying about her. Nolan had listened carefully and said that he’d attended law school with a buddy who was now an attorney in Florida. He assured his sister that he’d contact him and Detective Alvarez right away and make sure this all happened as quickly as possible—maybe even in a day if his friend knew the right judge. A few faxes, an in-chambers meeting, and the legal document with the judge’s raised seal and signature could be overnighted to New York.
Both Fiona and Glenna had heaved a sigh of relief.
Once legal channels had been surmounted, Glenna and Fiona would then make all the wake and funeral arrangements. Rose, like Glenna and the McKays, belonged to the Basilica of Saint Patrick’s Old Cathedral. Located in Nolita, an eclectic neighborhood between Canal and Houston Streets in New York City, it was a historic treasure. Tomorrow, Glenna and Fiona would meet the funeral director at the parish office and see what they could arrange with their limited funds. In the meantime, Glenna planned on spending the rest of that afternoon and evening calling all of Rose’s contacts to personally tell them the news and to tactfully ask if they’d like to contribute to a special Mass and funeral for the beloved antiquities expert. Many of those contacts had been customers for years and would hopefully contribute even a small sum.
Fiona had offered to make some of the phone calls, but Glenna had thanked her and said no, that she felt obligated to contact the patrons. Since she was Rose’s assistant, they all knew her, so it was best that it was her voice they heard when they were told the upsetting news. And she intended to jump right on those calls in the hopes of reaching as many people as possible before the NYPD beat her to it.
Fiona had understood. So she made plans with Glenna for tomorrow and left.
Back at her place, she curled up on the sofa, covered herself with one of her mother’s beautiful quilts, and fell fast asleep.
She was awakened by the ringing of her cell phone. Damn. Why hadn’t she turned off the ringer? She groped for the phone and stuck it under her ear. “Hello?” she mumbled.
“Fee? Where the hell are you?” Ryan demanded. “I’m double-parked outside your townhouse and Claire has been ringing your doorbell for five minutes.”
Fiona bolted to a sitting position. “Shit. I fell asleep. What time is it?”
“Time for us to get going unless we want to sit in Midtown rush-hour traffic for who knows how long.”
Fiona had already jumped to her feet and was combing her fingers through her hair as she hurried to the door. “I’m really sorry. I’ll let Claire in. Give me five minutes to get myself together.”
Seven minutes later, they were all on their way.