by Jory Strong
Staring into her eyes, he wondered if that's how she rationalized what she did.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah. When is Iosif supposed to be here?"
"By now."
They gave him another hour.
"Rooming house?" Caleb asked.
"Yes."
The dog left the couch and waited by the door, sending Caleb's pulse skittering.
* * * * *
Mallory parked as close as she could to the rooming house. She glanced over her shoulder at Dane. "Coming or staying?"
He didn't budge.
She and Matthew got out of the Jeep.
Two old men watched their approach from metal folding chairs. When it became obvious that they were about to get visitors, they rose and scurried inside.
"Not a good sign," Matthew said.
No, it isn't.
Inside the air smelled of communal bathrooms and borscht. Stick-on numbers from a hardware store identified the individual rooms, and behind the closed doors, Russian was being spoken.
On the second floor, Matthew pounded on Iosif's door with enough force the hallway vibrated.
A full three minutes passed before a round-faced man with a food-stained shirt climbed the stairs and approached them, his fear the scent of hot blood and raw meat.
"Iosif is not here," the man said. "I don't know where he is."
"When was the last time you saw him?" she asked.
"Days ago. He hasn't been back."
Truth. The man was too frightened to lie and she didn't smell the carrion scent of it on him.
"You run this place?"
"Yes."
"What's your name?"
Sweat popped on his forehead. He licked his lips.
Matthew took a menacing step toward him, the two of them already working as a cohesive team, like a pair of hunting Hounds.
The man lifted his hands, placating, defensive. "No trouble. No trouble. I am Stepka Banasik. I want no trouble. I don't know Iosif's business. I have not seen him in two, three days."
Her gaze caught and held his. She allowed something of the nature she fought to rise to the surface. "If you don't want trouble, then you will let us into this room."
Stepka's bulk shrunk, shriveling as the hot blood and raw meat scent intensified. His shoulders and back hunched as he dug into his pocket and retrieved a set of keys.
They jingled as he hurried to unlock the door. Quieted as he gripped them in his fist afterward, backing away, and when they didn't stop him, rushing toward the stairway.
She didn't have the stomach for terrorizing him further. They could find him again if they needed to.
The man whose faint scent was on the DVDs had beaten them to the room.
Iosif's suitcase lay on the floor, its contents scattered as if kicked. A sense of failure overwhelmed Mallory, closing her throat and fisting her heart.
She'd smelled the lie on Iosif when he'd told her a friend was coming to pick him up. She'd let it go, allowing him his pride.
I will be here. Nothing will keep me away.
Then where are you, Iosif?
Crouching next to his things, it was easy to imagine it had taken all he had to come to the United States looking for his daughters.
The smell of a body sweating away years of alcohol rose from a shirt.
Maybe he'd succumbed to the temptation to drink. Maybe he was in an alley somewhere, passed out or ashamed of his failure or polishing off another bottle.
The man who had vented his anger on Iosif's meager belongings had expressed it in another way by shitting in the suitcase.
Matthew crouched next to her. "Too bad we left your dog in the Jeep. He could take a sniff and recognize whoever left the calling card."
He joked, but he burned with determination to act.
"Day before yesterday, that's when someone was here."
"You can tell that just by looking at a pile of shit?"
"I'm a tracker."
"Deserts? Forests?"
There was an edginess to Matthew's voice, sharp enough to have her looking at him, trying to read him.
Was he thinking about his time in the service?
"I've tracked in all kinds of terrain."
Her sire had seen to it. An empty belly and will to survive had ensured she learned the necessary lessons.
The watch Viktoriya gave Iosif when times were better had been stepped on, ground into the carpet. The lack of broken glass or shattered plastic meant it had been without a crystal. Now it was without arms.
Mallory picked it up then went through the rest of the scattered belongings.
Matthew checked the room for a hiding place neither of them believed he'd find.
Kseniya's doll lay beneath a shirt, its dress tattered along the hem, blue-velvet and not the blood-red of her nightmare.
Mallory collected it. Her thumb stroked a faded cheek, and for a moment she remembered the dolls she'd loved before she'd been taken, the dolls her mother had packed away along with the hope of having her daughter returned.
They belonged to Sorcha now.
Zinaida's zebra had been kicked under the bed. The white was grungy but its black button eyes shone.
Mallory shivered and stood. The nightmare with Sorcha walking the stuffed animal and being pulled into a car was too fresh, too real, too much of a threat.
"Iosif didn't tell you everything," Matthew said, a growl in his voice. "He didn't tell you they were after him."
"He told me the important parts."
She'd only smelled the one lie on him, but her nose wasn't infallible, especially when it came to shaded truths or facts left out to mislead.
Knocks to Iosif's neighbor's doors went unanswered. Stepka Banasik had fled the house rather than risk being cornered and asked for the name of the man he'd allowed into Iosif's room before them.
It might not matter. Hayden would have already pulled prints off the disk cases and started running them. He might already have identified the man Iosif followed from the Brides' office.
If Rahmiel had actually lived here, he'd be gone now, his work done.
Your sire's interests and goals happen to align with mine at the moment.
A sense of urgency built in Mallory. She wouldn't become a killer, not for Rahmiel, not for the Reaper Lord.
"We need to get into the Brides' office. Tonight if possible. Can you do it?"
"I can't promise anything without doing the recon."
"I'll drop you off at the apartment."
"You're heading to the Brass Ring next?"
"Yes."
Oleg snapped the woman's picture as she emerged from the rooming house, but couldn't get the man's. His fury rose, the anger he'd vented on Iosif returning.
He wanted to use fists and bat until the man getting in the Jeep was nothing more than a skin sack of broken bones. He wanted to do the same to the woman, but only after he'd shown her with his cock how it was to be with a real man.
Sweat gathered under his arms. Stupid cunt, she wasn't going to leave this alone. Americans and their causes.
The sick taste returned to his mouth as they drove away. He could not afford to keep this from Vadim and have it come back on him.
He would say nothing to Vadim about the missing DVDs. If they became a problem, then a dead whore would be made guilty of having taken them and turned them over to the authorities.
Oleg entered the rooming house to make sure no one had talked. A couple of punches to ensure that he had learned the truth and he returned to the car feeling calmer.
He called up the picture of the woman. She would be a fighter.
Vadim sometimes liked to put a woman down. Better if this one ended up dead, though he hoped she lived long enough to understand the mistake she'd made in involving herself in his business.
* * * * *
Vadim's phone vibrated on the patio table. After the scorching heat of the previous day, he was glad to sit with his guest on the deck above the c
anyon, to look out at a view many could not afford and dream that in the near future what he saw in front of him would rival the one on Mulholland.
The call was from Oleg, and unexpected. Frowning, Vadim lifted the phone. "There is a problem?"
"Maybe. I am at the rooming house where Iosif Gruzinsky stayed."
"I thought that matter was handled."
"Not completely. He involved someone else. A woman who looks for missing persons. I will send you a picture."
Vadim sat taller in his chair at recognizing the dark-haired woman who'd approached at the party. He would order her killed as well. There could be no trouble now that Linden Spiller was very nearly in his grasp.
His lawyer's fingers on his wrist stopped him from carrying the phone to his mouth.
"I recognize this woman," Vassily said. "Her name is Mallory Cassel. Her stepfather is a prosecutor. His family is full of policemen."
Vadim nodded, acknowledging Vassily's warning that care needed to be taken.
"Do nothing right now," he told Oleg.
He placed the phone on the table, turning toward his lawyer. "What do you know?"
"I have heard things about her, because she works for the bond companies."
Some of Vadim's concern faded. Perhaps last night was coincidence though it did not change the fact that she had involved herself in his business. "A message must be sent."
"There is a way to accomplish this."
Vassily held up his own cell phone. On it was a picture of a man obviously related to the woman.
"This man has been charged with murdering three people. I will visit several of my jailed clients today, Russians who have little chance of gaining their freedom before they are old men, Russians with no ties to you. They will send the message on your behalf."
Vadim tapped his fingers against the wicker chair. The cost of it would be money sent to families here or in the countries of the former Soviet Union, or it would require him to arrange for family members to be brought to America. Little enough.
"Yes. This is a good way for such a message."
"How strong do you want it to be?"
Vadim's eyelids lowered. He allowed fantasy to scroll across them, of waiting for the Oscar ceremony to begin as he sat among stars and directors. He could let nothing interfere now that he was so close to achieving his dream.
"Tell them that this man should not live when they are finished delivering my message."
* * * * *
Chapter 14
Moments after Linden got into the office, one of the men who'd been with Vadim Korotkin arrived with the box of scripts. Wearing short sleeves instead of a suit, the Russian looked like what he was, an ape parading as a human, a gorilla whose hairy arms bulged with muscles.
Knowledge that Korotkin had the building watched—or him—had the meal Linden had eaten with a client churning in his stomach, becoming the threat of a nauseous spew. He didn't like the thought of Korotkin knowing where he lived or where his wife shopped or where his daughter attended school.
Through his office doorway, he watched his secretary attempt to take possession of the box. The Russian shook his head. "Nyet, for Mr. Spiller's eyes only. These are private."
Linden's pulse sped, agitating the churn of his stomach. He stood and made his way around the desk and into the outer office. "I'm expecting these, Courtney, thanks."
The Russian handed over the box, the tattooed skulls above the knuckles on his right hand repulsive.
Linden returned to his office, closing the door behind him. He set the box in the middle of the desk and stood over it.
It was cardboard. Nondescript and unlabeled. Sealed by tape, but not excessively so, a Hollywood version of Pandora's box.
Open it? Or don't?
Did he want to become involved with Vadim Korotkin? Did he want to risk dirtying himself?
He laughed at that thought. This was America after all, where men were innocent until proven guilty, where everyone was not only allowed to seek riches, but judged based on how well they accomplished it.
He removed the letter opener from a drawer and used it to slice through the tape. The flaps popped up.
Setting the opener aside, he lifted the top script and the reason for the Russian's insistence became obvious. A naked blonde lay on a mattress, giving the camera what was supposed to be a sultry look as she held her labial lips open.
There was no attempt at art or sophistication in the photograph. It was porn, and not even high-class porn.
If he stared at it long enough and pretended she was Julia, he could get aroused, but why bother? Cheating on a wife in this town was easy. There were plenty of aspiring actresses who'd do anything it took to be noticed by an agent. There were plenty of beautiful women who just wanted a life of luxury and were willing to be discreet if it meant becoming a wealthy man's mistress.
He had no interest in cheating and the lack had nothing to do with the clause covering adultery in the prenuptial agreement. He'd settled on Julia for a number of reasons and made a commitment to her. The arrangement worked well for both of them. Very well, in fact.
Linden smiled at remembering their bedroom games the night before, after he'd gotten home from disposing of the body. She was intuitive, always seeming to pick up on his need to revisit some of the fun they'd had early on—and of course, she'd overdrawn her account again.
But who was he to complain? She was a beautiful woman, talented in the ways that were important to him.
He lifted the small stack of photographs. Idle curiosity made him flip to the second image, a brunette this time, looking over her shoulder as she stood with one foot on the seat of a wooden chair, her thighs parted for the money shot.
Tawdry backdrop. A screen that appeared stained by body fluids. Cheap furniture, something found in a diner where full meals cost less than twenty dollars.
He flipped through several more photographs, tossing them one at a time to the desk. They were all equally staged, the only difference being the women's hair color and positioning.
A shiver went through him when he reached a pale blonde who could pass for fifteen. Unlike the others, she was dressed in short shorts and a wet halter top that clung to breasts about to spill out, their nipples outlined against the material. Suggestive, yes, but not enough to end up as evidence presented in a criminal proceeding.
A single photograph remained behind the picture of the teen. His skin became a straitjacket. A trickle of fear slid in, that Korotkin knew.
Then irritation flared. When had he become so fearful?
Thoughts of the picture sent last night from the babysitter were enough to have his heart racing and his chest tightening at the possibility he might lose control and do something truly reprehensible.
He checked the door though there'd been no sound to indicate anyone on the other side of it, and Courtney would never barge in, nor allow someone else to.
He let the picture of the jailbait teen drop to his desk, breath catching and heartbeat drumming in his head at the pair of girls in the final photograph.
They stood in silky nightgowns, their small breasts just hinting at sexual development. Twins maybe. They were Aubrey's age. Blonde and blue-eyed, already showing the willowy promise they'd have in adulthood.
He responded physically, a surge of desire followed immediately by the core-chilling fear that Korotkin knew about the house, and the criteria with respect to the girls selected to live there until they were sacrificed.
"Impossible," croaked out, the sound of it breaking him from the paralysis of fear.
Impossible. He'd always been careful, meticulous in his planning.
He thought back to the first of the Russian's requests for a meeting and relaxed. It had come shortly before necessity required sacrifice, and that girl's death had been every bit the boost he'd anticipated given the endless press conferences with sobbing family members pleading for her return.
Korotkin would have used blackmail to achieve his goal
instead of negotiation, especially given that the girl's stepfather was a policeman. In all likelihood the nightgown-clad girls were the only ones of that age Korotkin had to offer. And there was no doubt they were being offered, at no cost and with no questions asked.
Linden sat, leaning the photograph against the box. His hands trembled to reach out. His fingers longed to stroke live flesh. He ached to once again recreate and relive the scenes he'd been playing out since his first sexual encounters at the age of twelve.
It had been a glorious time. A year after being freed from the confines of the wheelchair, physical therapy and hundreds of sacrificed animals had fully restored his strength and health, making life his to embrace, to grab and do with it as he desired.
Like father, like son.
He hardened at remembering that day he'd stopped by his father's house without calling ahead and discovered his father's preference for girls even younger than he himself had been at the time.
A lot of men would have used fear or bribery to keep their secret. His father had made it a bonding experience.
His death, unfortunately, had left a craving Linden despised, but also one that could no longer be easily dealt with by a visit to his father's home.
For years afterward he'd battled against giving in to the howling need for something so dangerous it could ruin his life. For one all-too-brief period of time, playing in fetish clubs had satisfied him. Not completely, but enough. And then his career had taken off, and being known to frequent places catering to kink held the potential of derailing him professionally as well as personally.
He'd stopped going. It hadn't been a true hardship. He'd met Julia by then and they'd taken the games private.
Back then it had never occurred to him to combine the thing he craved sexually with the killing required to maintain his health.
He'd hated the necessity of securing farm animals or pets, of having entire days spent killing at the house he'd acquired for that purpose, just so he would be freed for stretches of time to concentrate on other pursuits. He'd managed to endure the unsatisfied desire born in those first sexual encounters at his father's home, not suppress it, it was too deeply ingrained for that. But he hadn't acted on it. Instead he'd devoted himself to his agency and clients, to his wife and daughter.
