Dmitry had to believe that it did.
Death was no stranger to Max, not with a father who was a high-ranking officer in the Russian Federation. Nor was it something to fear or avoid in lieu of the greater good. Max had learned that at his father’s knee.
Dmitry was as close to a confidant as Max had. He’d felt honored when, over a drink, Max had shared his background with him.
Max was the oldest of eight children, and the only one who burned with his father’s drive and sense of purpose. At a young age, he’d been accepted to an elite European boarding school in Switzerland, after which he’d graduated and come to the US on a student visa to Harvard. There, he’d further developed his scientific aptitude, concentrating in microbiology. Next came Harvard Medical School and then on to becoming a cutting-edge research scientist.
Dmitry swallowed, remembering how Max had told him that, in his first and only job working for someone else, he’d pushed the boundaries beyond what the plebian world could tolerate and, subsequently, been fired. Dmitry had never questioned him about what those boundaries were and how far Max had pushed them. He’d just absorbed whatever information Max was willing to share, kept it to himself, and done his job.
Of one thing Dmitry was certain, and that was that, once Max had been fired, he’d taken the route that he should have taken from the start: gone out on his own. It’d taken only a short period of time for him to develop a series of new and progressive health supplement formulations. There’d been a bidding war, and he’d sold his formulas to one of the world’s largest supplement companies for seven figures each, in addition to an ongoing stream of royalties.
It was those financial gains plus the steady stream of income that had allowed him to start and flourish in his new and grandiose endeavor—to better the entire human race and to, one day, win a Nobel Prize.
The scientific community knew him as a microbiology and stem cell genius.
But Dmitry knew he was so much more. And, as a ray of Max’s powerful sun, he would do whatever he had to to be the right arm of this extraordinary man.
Including being an accessory to murder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Upper Montclair, New Jersey
Miles was sprawled on the living room sofa, talking on the phone with a Dell customer who didn’t know her ass from her elbow, and trying to troubleshoot her problem on his laptop.
Same shit, different day.
The doorbell rang. He ignored the sound, only to have it repeated an instant later.
“Please hold for a second,” he said to the shrieking woman at the other end of the line. Muting the conversation from his side, he called out, “Working. Leave the package at the door.”
Deliverymen were the closest thing to visitors he and Lisa ever got. Of course, that was by design.
“Chicago Police,” a female voice replied with authority.
Milo froze, obviously for too long, because the doorbell sounded again.
The female cop kept her voice down, obviously so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. “We just want to ask you a few questions. That’s all.”
They weren’t going away, that was for sure.
Quickly, Milo pulled himself together, his mind racing a mile a minute. “Be right there,” he answered.
He returned to his call only long enough to end it, first getting the customer’s number and promising her a same-day callback. Unfolding himself from the sofa, he rose and glanced over at the second bedroom, where Shannon’s music was playing as she dutifully did the homework her teachers had emailed her.
In a few long strides, Milo was in her doorway.
“Shannon,” he said, his tone causing her to snap up and stare at him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, frightened even before she had her answer. She was skittish all the time, which wasn’t going to help their cause when answering to the cops.
“The Chicago police are at the door.” Milo didn’t have time to ease into it or to soothe her fears—or his own. Conversation and personal interactions weren’t exactly his strong suits. How was he going to pull off an interrogation?
“Listen to me,” he said over Shannon’s terrified gasp. “Stay in here unless I come and get you. If you have to talk to them, stick to basic, publically known facts. And, remember, it’s Julie who’s here, and Lisa who’s dead. Stick to that story no matter what. Don’t slip up.”
“Oh my God.” All the color drained from Shannon’s face. “No wonder I have two missed calls and a voice mail from my parents. What do the police want? What do they know?”
“I’m about to find out.” Milo glanced over his shoulder, expecting loud pounding at the front door to ensue. “I’ve got to let them in. Remember, stay put. Take deep breaths, and please, just don’t freak out on me.”