No Apologies and No Regrets
Page 42
“Ivan Rusikov is dead.”
Bart didn’t sugar coat the message. Sally swiveled her desk chair away from him, removed her eyeglasses, and stared out the window. He knew she was crying though she did her best to conceal it. Bart gently clasped her shoulders and Sally rested one hand on his.
"I know you were friends.” Bart wanted to continue. Sally cut him off.
“No. Not recently, anyway, but I didn’t wish him dead.”
An odd way to express bereavement, Bart thought.
“He fell from the balcony of his suite at Hotel Imperator in Nice. The French press is speculating suicide. Despondent over Ilya’s death.”
“That didn’t happen. Somebody killed him.” Sally gave a sarcastic laugh and twisted back and forth nervously in her swivel chair. Under the circumstances Bart was uncomfortable for noticing that her short skirt was riding up her thighs, but the discomfort didn’t make him like it any less.
“How can you be so sure?”
“They were incredibly different people and not connected the way people think twins are supposed to be. Ivan never loved anyone more than he loved himself. Not the kind of guy to commit suicide. Especially over Ilya.”
“Who would kill him?”
“Bart, contrary to what you may think I am not an expert on all things Rusikov.” The pretty little blond stood up and Bart became distracted. The Louboutin stilettos flattered her already perfect legs and butt. He had a hard time focusing on her words.
“We knew each other, OK? But the Rusikovs lived in a different world. Suddenly they’re both dead. They were good looking and smart and seemed to have a lot of things going their way. Now they don’t, and it’s spooky when death catches up with people your own age.”
“I really am sorry, Sally, but I can’t help wondering what they were into. Dying within days of one another is more than a coincidence.”
“I agree.” Sally had a grim scowl on her face.
“We've had a long day.”
She checked her Rolex Yachtmaster and said, “It’s only four-thirty.”
“Stress doesn’t punch a time clock and we don’t either. Let’s go have a drink or two and unwind.”
Sally noticed that Bart Zeigler wore yet another pair of designer slacks and a pale gray silk shirt. She was past denying his attractiveness and that made her nervous, though only for an instant.
“OK, but I have a couple of things to do first. Why don’t you pick me up at my house at six?” She squeezed his arm and gave him a sliver of the same smile he’d seen that night in the car.
“Alright. Six.” He started to leave then turned back and put a hand gently on her shoulder and said, “Sally, I am truly sorry for the loss of your friends. Whatever else, they were people, just like us.”
You have no idea, Bart.
“Thanks, Bart. I’ll see you later.”
“OK.” Bart started walking toward Gabe’s office. Sally gathered a couple of things from her desk and headed out the door without speaking to anyone.
Bart stood in Gabe's unoccupied office and looked on as Sally drove out of Dynamic Integrity’s parking lot. He made a call on the secure line and the conversation lasted less than five minutes. Bart spoke to Jerry on his way out.
“I’m leaving the building, Jerry, and I won’t be in until late tomorrow morning.”
“Fine, Elvis, it’s not my day to watch you.” Jerry chuckled but never looked up from his screens. Ha, ha! Elvis leaving the building, Get it?
If Bart did get the joke he never acknowledged it. He walked straight to his work area, picked up his new cashmere sports jacket and headed for the side exit. The sight of Ivan's Ferrari California in his parking space gave Bart momentary pause. He would have to figure out what to do with the car now that Ivan was dead. He slid behind the wheel and drove off in a somber state of mourning more for the impending loss of the Ferrari than its owner. What the hell? Enjoy it while it lasts. After a quick stop at home he cruised over to Sally’s condo.
At five till six he rang her doorbell.
“Bart, come in and sit down.” His enthusiasm seemed to have cooled since they left the office and she added, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. Are we still going out for drinks?”
“Let’s have a drink here. Afterwards we can decide what we want to do about dinner.” She led him to the couch and motioned for him to have a seat. When she moved to the bar he got a better view of how she was dressed. A short, white dress clung to her delicious body and from all appearances she wore nothing underneath except Sarah Brooke Ramsay. She was barefoot and even without the stilettos her legs and ass were bellissimo! How could it have taken him so long to recognize her physical perfection when she was right in front of him?
Sally poured a couple of drinks and turned back to her guest. It seemed she had put Ivan’s demise out of her mind.
“You may not know this, but I’m half Southern. My Momma’s family is from Kentucky. This is a mint julep. Drink it.” She directed him with a hint of the dominatrix voice surfacing. He liked it.
“Jesus, Sally, this is straight bourbon with a weed sticking out of it.”
“Jack Daniels and a splash of simple syrup, but it's not a weed, son. That’s fresh mint grown on my patio.” Taking a long pull on her julep she slid down on the couch beside him. Sally rested her head on Bart’s shoulder and the two of them remained quiet for a moment, each wishing for a glimpse of the other’s thoughts.
“Bart, you seem tense, what’s wrong?”
“I’m fine, Sally.”
“No, you aren’t. You’re not in a good place. What's up with you?”
“Alright.” Bart fished in his jacket pocket and extracted an envelope which he handed to Sally who immediately started to laugh. The page was a monthly statement for an American Express Centurion account. The only charge for the prior month was for the purchase of a Lamborghini Murcielago from the dealership in Nice, France.
Sally continued laughing hysterically.
“What’s so funny about two hundred thousand euros. And, I don’t even have an American Express card. Oh, yeah, I also don’t have two hundred thousand euros in spare change.” Bart sounded a little frantic.
Sally wiped her eyes and smiled. “So, the dead guy got the last laugh, almost.”
“What? Ivan did that?”
“Sure. You said he told you it was OK to use his Ferrari. You didn’t think it was free, did you? Look, give me this and I’ll take care of it.”
“Sally, I can’t let you pay that bill.”
“Who said anything about paying? I said I’d ‘take care of it’. Don't worry so much.” She was standing very near to him and her dress clung so closely to her skin that every line and curve was plainly visible. Bart’s breathing picked up.
“What do you have in mind?”
“This is a game we used to play. Ivan, Ilya, and I started at Stanford. We’d create accounts in one another’s names and charge something very expensive. The challenge was to see if your opponent could get out of it without actually paying the bill.” Sally took another sip of her drink and, in doing so, spilled some down the front of her dress.
“Shit. Now I’m going to have to change clothes.”
“So who’s the winner?” Bart asked, oblivious to her comment.
“I was until now, but it seems Ivan went out on top. Don’t worry; I’ll fix this before we go to dinner.” She gave a seductive toss of her blond hair as she dropped the credit card bill over her shoulder.
“If you can do that I’d say you are one righteous hacker.” Bart was a little buzzed from less than half his drink.
Her eyes bored directly into his and the dominatrix voice said, “Bart, I am the best in the world.” She gave him a new kind of a smile as her dress dropped to the floor.
“Now, let’s see how good you are.”
The air was sucked out of Bart’s lungs, but in that sam
e moment he praised himself for having foregone a look at the video he downloaded from Ilya’s computer. The vision of seeing Sally naked for the first time seared itself on his brain. She pushed him back on the couch and straddled him as she took his hands and put them on her bare breasts. Sally was breathing in a gentile pant and he was dizzy to the point of blacking out. Indeed, the clean living Bart Zeigler had found his addiction.
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