Hide in Place

by Emilya Naymark

  She gathered her uneaten lunch and dumped it into the trash can. Together they made their way back to the front, and he opened the door, letting in the smells of dust and gasoline, ocean and incense.

  A skinny girl with too much makeup over greasy skin and overbleached hair edged into the alley behind the shop, glancing at Owen, her eyes sharply hungry.

  Laney watched her merge with the shadows, wondered how old she was. Sixteen? Seventeen?

  “Do you feel superior to her?” Owen asked, and the question was so unexpected that Laney responded with an incredulous little laugh.

  But then she peered at the darkened, stinking alley. Would Kendra feel superior to that girl? The answer came easy. “Yes,” she said. “Of course. She let something own her.”

  Hopper walked back into the coolness of the pharmacy, the door swinging shut. She followed him as he shouldered open the back door, handed the junkie girl her fix, pocketed her cash.

  “See now, I don’t think of it that way,” he said. “Not everyone is that in charge of themselves. Some of them are so young. They think they’re invincible, that they’ll never be like that. They’ll never sell their bodies.” He went behind the counter and retrieved an empty pill bottle, began filling it. “But they do.”

  “Everyone has a choice, Owen,” Laney said. “I have a choice. My choice is to give them what they want. If it wrecks them, that’s on them. I make my decisions and they make theirs.”

  He peeled a label off a sheet and stuck it onto the bottle. “All of our decisions come down to survival,” he said. “Really, in the end. For all of us. The dopeheads come to me because if they don’t get their fix, they’ll die. Or feel like it anyway. You come to me because if you don’t give the cops what they want, they’ll take something away from you. Something you need to survive.”

  She picked up a candy bar and placed two dollars on the counter between them. “And you? How did you end up in all this?”

  He pushed the dollars back to her. “Just trying to survive, Kendra. Just trying to survive.”

  Five days later, following his introduction, she bought the biggest batch of heroin she’d ever seen. The transaction took place above a law office, and the seller, Oskar Koshka, along with his two bodyguards, was not only happy to take her cash but treated her with a flirtatious deference that made the whole experience feel like an odd date.

  “Adding the husband was a brilliant touch,” Harry told her after he’d vouchered the dope. He’d volunteered to do the vouchering for her, since she was still finishing her buy report, her expense report, and they all wanted to go home.

  Months later, when questioned about the discrepancies between her reports and the vouchered drugs, she said she’d been tired, preoccupied with domestic drama, couldn’t remember the details.

  But that day the adrenaline from the buy pumped through her. It had gone so easy, she didn’t know why they all worried. At this rate, they’d get every one of Orlov’s guys in weeks, a couple months at most. They had evidence to put away five of them already—Malyish, Koshka and the two bodyguards, and Bruce Shulman, who had written enough bad scrips for Kyle Thompson (and for once, Kyle’s wholesome suburban looks paid off) to earn himself at least five years and a hefty fine.

  “Reeling in that big fish!” said Harry, and clapped her on the shoulder.

  “I’m not counting fish sticks until they’re chopped, breaded, and fried, but I can sure smell the batter,” she said, already stepping into the elevator to begin the commute home. Her own family waited—her strange, imperfect, and utterly beloved family. When she was in this kind of mood, on the heels of a success, she told herself she did this job to protect her loved ones, to provide for them, to cocoon them within the strength of her love.

  Harry, who knew her better than anyone, called out to her as the elevator doors closed, “Keeping the world safe.”

  CHAPTER

  34

  AND YET, THE case stalled after that auspicious beginning. Meetings fell through, sellers grew cagey and walked away. She wondered if her cover had blown and she not known it, if Hopper had ratted her out and then strung her along.

  Despite all the time and money spent, they had no hard evidence against Orlov, nobody who’d risk their lives speaking against him.

  “One more week,” Harry told her as they hunkered in a Chinese restaurant, a bowl of dumplings over ramen noodles before him, pepper beef for Mike, a plate of fried wontons for her. “If we can’t get something on him in that time, we’re off the case, all of us. They’re interviewing some cops who can speak Russian.” He shrugged. “Probably not such a bad idea.”

  She stabbed her chopstick into a wonton, then again, without eating. “I can do this, Harry.” Though she didn’t know how. Should she be tougher? Or more feminine? Should she flirt? Or threaten? Be professional and aloof? Where was she stumbling? She didn’t know how she could have read the signals for last week’s buys so wrong.

  The next meeting, tomorrow night, had to be it. Hopper had set it up, introduced her to one of Orlov’s cousins, was going to have Oskar Koshka vouch for her legitimacy. It was supposed to be the final one—the real deal, Orlov in the room, half a kilo of coke, and bam, case closed.

  Harry put down his fork and looked at her, hard. “I don’t think you should go,” he said. He wasn’t kidding either; she could see it in the grim set of his jaw, his stiff shoulders. He’d been short with her, with everyone, all day.

  Heat flared in her face, and she had to bite her words. She didn’t want an argument now.

  Mike said, “Harry, it’s all set. We’ll have a team surrounding the place.”

  Without looking at Mike, Harry said, “It will take us more than ten minutes to get to you in that apartment if something goes wrong. At least let Thompson go with you.”

  She shook her head. “Where’s all this coming from, Harry? Relax! We’re almost there. This one is it. Besides, they know me. They expect me.”

  Something passed over Harry’s eyes—disappointment? regret? fear? She couldn’t read him. This wasn’t like the ribbing a few weeks ago. He meant it. Maybe he had a right to doubt her ability after the way things had been going, but fuck it. She simply couldn’t let him cockblock her chances. Not now.

  “She’s right,” Mike said. “It would be suspicious if we added Kyle to the mix this late.”

  Neither Harry nor Laney acknowledged Mike’s words. Laney said, “What’s the matter, Harry? Did Cynthia start doing your horoscope chart again?”

  He pursed his lips.

  “Or mine? Did she do my chart?” But he didn’t smile back, remained cold and severe, and a stinging irritation made her short. “Chill, Harry. I know what I’m doing.”

  She threw a twenty on the table and stormed out of the restaurant, desperate to have the last word lest he try to pull rank or, worse, get Mike to do it for him.

  The buy was to be in an apartment on Tenth Street, sixth floor. Laney had prepared with more care than usual, her excitement a warmth in her middle. She’d noticed the Russians favored black leather, with sporty twists for the men and pop-star enhancements for the women.

  She chose a tight, waist-length, black leather jacket, red top and skirt, and black booties. Even as the weather turned nasty and a cold, lashing rain detonated the night in a rumble of thunder and lightning, her mood remained determined.

  But when she got to the apartment, the vibe was all wrong. She felt it as soon as one of the four guards locked the door behind her and leaned against it.

  Unsurprisingly, everyone in the room looked exactly as expected—black leather coats over shoulder holsters over black tracksuits over black sneakers, crew cuts, and flattened noses. Alarmingly, Orlov wasn’t there. Instead, a man she’d dealt with before, one of Oskar Koshka’s nephews (and Orlov’s second cousin) loomed before her in the empty apartment.

  That was another thing—she’d expected someone’s home, but this was obviously a vacant rental, commandeered for the night. She didn
’t like this at all. In a home you could deflect uncomfortable conversations any number of ways, furniture could be useful; in an outdoors buy spot, you could run. In an empty apartment with a locked door and an armed droog plastered against it, you had to be alert. Make that fucking alert.

  The man, Marat Djugashvili, examined her, eyes scraping over her short hair, her jacket, her leggings and boots, then up again. He smiled. Rather, his lips thinned and his teeth gleamed (an American smile; the dude at least spent enough time in the U.S. for that), his eyes remaining cool.

  She unzipped the duffel and exposed the top layer of cash. Ten thousand dollars this time, enough for half a kilo of coke, maybe a third if he was in a haggling mood. Either way, the sale would cost him and his guys twenty years.

  Zipping the bag closed, she shifted her weight, letting it rest on her hip. Ten thousand dollars was heavy.

  “That is small bag,” the man said.

  She grinned. He was making it easy. Getting him to voice the details of the sale out loud was half the battle.

  “Half a kilo,” she said, “for ten K, as agreed.”

  He shrugged, spread his hands. “There is snag.”

  Her stomach churned, and for a second she thought the light in the room dimmed.

  “Oh yeah?” If she appeared unconcerned, it would come off fake, raise eyebrows. It was too early to play at being pissed. She settled on cool and dissatisfied. “What kind of snag?”

  The man beamed, and this time the smile reached his eyes, which were a pale, tigerish brown.

  Her skin was alert now, her ears, every part of her energized and waiting, and the pull to leave, to rush the guards at the door, shoot her way out, fought with the desire to see this through, to win. At that moment the thought of buys and sales was buried under a nearly animalistic need to triumph over this man.

  Her hand traveled to her hip, where her gun waited, small, smooth, loaded inside its hidden (but already snapped open) holster.

  Harry would be hearing all this. He was certainly on his way toward her, with backup. Ten minutes. That’s it. She had ten minutes to figure this out.

  The man reached inside his jacket pocket, and she widened her stance, planted herself firmly into the floor, a solid triangle. She tested ninety-eight out of a hundred on her last qualification at the shooting range. She’d kill this perp in an instant if he pulled a weapon.

  Instead, he retrieved a box and extended it to her.

  She didn’t move, the adrenaline rush so intense she felt the letdown like a wallop. One of his guys took the box, walked the five paces to where she stood, and placed it in her hands.

  It was a box of chocolates. Perugina Bacis. As it happened, her mother’s favorites.

  “What the fuck is this?” she asked, her voice betraying her.

  “Like I said,” the man said, “change of plans. We just received a shipment of these.”

  “What?” She felt sluggish, stupid. Where was Harry? Was he hearing this?

  The second guard handed Djugashvili another box out of his own jacket. Djugashvili opened it, removed a bonbon, unwrapped it, popped it in his mouth, and chewed with visible delight.

  “Ten tons of this shit,” he said around the goo in his teeth. “Company hire stupid driver. Who leaves truck idling while he goes for piss? We drive away truck. Now we look for buyer. You want buy? I give good price.”

  Laney stared at the blue-and-gray box in her hands. What was she going to do with ten tons of chocolate?

  “We agreed on cocaine, Mr. Djugashvili, not candy.” She let the box fall to the floor.

  The man frowned. “Is good chocolate,” he said. “Make good money. You buy for fifty percent off retail, sell at profit. Easy money.”

  When she said nothing, he said, “Fine, sixty percent off retail. That’s eighty thousand for the ten tons. Really good fucking deal.”

  Desperately, she attempted to regroup, fast. She had only the ten thousand on her, which meant that if this guy agreed to sell her a part of his load, she’d still end up with two hundred fifty pounds of chocolate. Grand larceny whether she bought everything or just the portion she could afford, but in the smaller amount, only third degree. Since Djugashvili had no priors, there was a chance he might not see any jail time at all. If she managed to buy the whole lot, it would bump the case to second degree and jail time.

  But … crap!

  “Ten thousand now and the rest next week. I’ll buy the ten tons.”

  Djugashvili opened another chocolate and bit off the hazelnut nipple. “No. Everything or nothing. Now.”

  “Ten thousand now, the rest in two days.”

  He smoothed the translucent wrapping under the foil and held it to his eyes. “You know, they have these things on each piece.” He squinted, then guffawed. “ ‘A mom’s hug lasts long after she lets go.’ ” The rest of the chocolate went into his mouth. “My mother was whore. She still giving hugs in Tbilisi. You know Tbilisi?”

  She shook her head.

  “No? Why would you, right? So!” he clapped his hands. “We have deal?”

  “Ten thousand now. The rest in two days,” she repeated.

  He waved his hands. “Fine, fine. Deal.”

  Three of his men disappeared into a back room and began bringing out boxes while one of them lifted the duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder, and left the apartment. She wondered if Harry was outside already, in the hallway, on the stairs. They would not arrest any of them yet, since the plan had always been to get Orlov, then rope in the others with all the evidence they’d collected. Arresting anybody too soon might spook the boss. But standing in this empty room with a goon behind her and four in front gave her a headache. She wanted them gone so Harry and team could sweep in and take the goods.

  Nobody was moving.

  “Well, see ya in two days,” she said. “Same time, same place?”

  None of them said a thing, but stared at her, their bodies rigid with tension.

  “Unless you guys want to bring this to my place for me, it’s best you get going. We’re done here,” she said.

  More silence. She felt the breath of the guy behind her on her neck and, despite all intent to keep her cool, lashed out, her elbow jabbing backward, her body compressing, ready for battle.

  Then the lights went out.

  She pulled her gun at the same time as something hard hit her head and she stumbled to her knees, a riot of leather arms swinging around her face, a fist connecting with her cheek, though she managed to turn just enough to make it a glancing blow. More furious than scared now that the worst was happening, she jumped to her feet and lunged at the nearest dark form, shoved her gun into a chest, but before she could pull the trigger another blow struck her temple and she crumpled to the floor, seeing and hearing nothing, a blackness gulping her into nothingness.

  CHAPTER

  35

  SHE WOKE IN the ambulance, the EMT calm and soothing by her side as the blaring, rain-dazzled streets rushed past the windows.

  “How’re you feeling, Officer?” He checked something on a monitor, smiled at her with encouragement.

  “Like an elephant sat on my head,” she said.

  “Ha-ha, yeah.” He peered at her eyes, at the side of her face. “We’re just going to check and make sure there’s no concussion, but you look good.”

  She swallowed, just now becoming aware of the soreness all around her eyebrow, her jaw. “I doubt it,” she said.

  Later, after the scans showed she’d sustained nothing worse than bruising and a black eye, she called Theo. “I ran into some trouble,” she said, her mouth stiff from the battering. “I’ll be home in a few hours.”

  The ER doctor said they’d keep her overnight, but she wanted to be home. She needed Theo’s turpentine-stained hands around her, his comfort, his love, and to hell with this case for a while. She couldn’t bear to think of the beating she got. She hadn’t been able to defend herself. Some cop she was.

  Theo’s silence seemed acc
usatory. “What happened?” he asked after a moment.

  She didn’t know. She had a vague memory of Harry bending over her, but he hadn’t come to the hospital, and neither had Mike. She only knew she’d been knocked unconscious. If Harry had been in the hospital with her, she would have bucked up, made light of the situation. But alone, with only Theo listening, the enormity of her failure tormented her, and she blurted, “I was jumped, Theo. They robbed me.”

  This time the silence seemed shocked. “Where was your backup?” he asked.

  Yet another thing she didn’t know. “They got me out,” she said. “I think Harry and Mike got to me before … It could have been worse.”

  “You think? Laney, what happened tonight?”

  But she was so tired all of a sudden, barely able to string thoughts together, slurring her words. “I’ll tell you when I’m home,” she said.

  “Laney.”

  “Yes?” God, she craved him next to her.

  “Laney, you can’t do this anymore.”

  She held the phone away from her ear. The phone felt hot, unpleasant. “Please, Theo, please let’s wait until I’m home.”

  “There’s other ways of being a detective,” he said. “You don’t have to be an undercover.”

  She grunted. “Later, Theo. Don’t harp on me now.” As she said this, Harry walked through the door, heard her, paused uncertainly at the entrance. She hung up without saying good-bye and gestured for him to come closer. Speaking with Theo made her tired and distressed, another disappointment to an already disastrous night. With a depth of feeling that surprised her, she wished for her mother’s quiet, comforting presence and felt even more wretched at its permanent absence. When she spoke to Harry, her voice rose unpleasantly.

  “What the hell happened, Harry? Why weren’t you there?”

  “The radio stopped working,” he said.

  The implication sent a lance of pain up her jaw. “Did you get any of the conversation?”