by M. C. Grant
“Do you need anything else?” I ask.
“Yes, one thing. And I don’t want you to get too self-conscious, but Derek and Shahnaz have asked if they can move across the hall to the empty apartment above Sam and Kristy.”
“Oh? Why? It’s not any bigger.”
Mrs. Pennell points over my shoulder to the ceiling, and when I turn around I immediately see a ray of light from the apartment above shining through a stray bullet hole.
“I can patch that,” I say sheepishly.
“I don’t think that’s exactly their worry, dear,” says Mrs. Pennell.
“No,” I admit. “Guess not.”
The phone rings as Roxanne opens the bathroom door in a barely there towel. She’s at the age when all awkward teenage plumpness should have turned into luscious, head-turning curves, but the woman in front of me is little more than a skeleton wrapped in grayish flesh.
The barbed wire tattoo on her back has companions on her front that make her look like a sadistically stitched doll. The ink speaks to me in a voice that pricks at my heart and sends electrical filaments of doubt deep into my soul. There are wounds here too deep to heal.
The phone continues to ring.
“Do you have clothes I can borrow?” she asks. “My old ones feel dirty.”
“Of course.” I lead the way to the bedroom. “Let’s see what we can find.”
The answering machine clicks on. It’s Stoogan.
“Dix, pick up, what the hell? I just received a police report on a shooting last night—at your address. You didn’t think to mention that? Are you OK? What’s going on? You need to get a cellphone. Jesus, call me.”
I don’t.
Twenty-One
Kristy allows me to borrow her precious VW Bug in exchange for not asking her to look after Roxanne again and a promise that I won’t leave it unattended anywhere near the Sandford Hotel.
I park around the corner from The Russian Tea House and get out to feed the meter. When Roxanne opens the passenger door, I tell her to stay in the car.
“She’s my sister,” argues Roxanne. “I want to come.”
“And what good will that do?” I squat down beside the car to meet her at eye level. “Lebed’s men will take you back, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. The only leverage we have is the worth he believes you offer as bait for your father. If Lebed decides you’re no longer worth keeping alive, then walking into his hands is suicide.”
“Maybe he’ll take me in exchange for Bailey.”
I shake my head. “He already had you and your father didn’t come.”
Her voice rises in alarm. “What the fuck does that mean?”
I wince, wishing I had a better filter between my brain and mouth.
“Tell me,” she presses.
“OK,” I relent. “But this is just a theory and I could be completely wrong.”
“Tell me,” she repeats.
“It’s what you said this morning about Lebed keeping an eye on both you and your sister. He left Bailey alone while he set you on a destructive path to the gutter. Any father worth the name would have tried to rescue you; but if he felt he couldn’t, he might reach out to the daughter who had already escaped. Your father did neither, so now it’s time to switch things up. Lebed lets you go free, but—”
“He punishes Bailey,” Roxanne finishes.
“It’s just a theory,” I repeat.
“But you’re smart. Like him.”
“Not like him. Not like that.”
“You’re wrong.” Bailey’s eyes fill with warm tears and she can no longer hold my gaze. “That’s exactly how he thinks.”
The handsome maître d’ isn’t trained well enough to keep the look of surprise off his face when I walk through the front doors of The Russian Tea House.
“We’re not open yet,” he barks, moving quickly to block my progress.
“Then you should lock your doors,” I quip. “Gals like me get desperate for a good pot of tea and a Russian crumpet in the morning.”
I flash him one of my get-down-on-your-knees-and-beg smiles, but it bounces off his crisp white T-shirt as though it’s made of Kevlar. I like the way his shirt suctions to his abs to form a six-pack of kissable muscle, although the tightness also reveals a wide patch of some kind underneath that covers his left side. I wonder if it’s used to hold a gun against the small of his back, but figure he won’t give me a twirl—even if I ask nicely.
Last time we met, he was in a white tuxedo that made him look good enough to take home to meet the parents; this time his tight jeans and T-shirt say forget the parents and let’s head straight to the bedroom.
“Are you straight?” I ask before the professional side of my brain can kick me in the kneecaps.
The question flusters him. “You have to go,” he says.
I straighten my shoulders to fix my posture, which also makes my breasts ride high and proud, but his eyes don’t flicker below my neck. Admittedly, they’re small breasts, but they still deserve a glance.
“Do you remember me?” I ask. “I gave you my card last time I was here.”
“I know who you are.” His eyes shift nervously and his hands clench and unclench at his side.
“You didn’t call,” I say. “So, I thought—”
“You’re here to see me?” he blurts, his confusion deepening.
“Relax, it’s just an ice-breaker. I need to see the Red Swan.” I smile again, but with a little more innocence this time. “I just love that moniker, don’t you? I was thinking of calling myself the Ginger Fawn. What do you think? Too threatening?”
The skin on his nose furrows into deep wrinkles and his voice is laced with fire. “Mr. Lebed isn’t receiving visitors at this time.”
“No offense, cute cheeks, but I’d rather hear that from him.”
“You are making a mistake.”
I unwrap a chocolate mint from a bowl on the reception desk and pop it in my mouth. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” I say.
“I need you to go.”
“Not gonna happen.” I crack the candy with my teeth and suck out the chocolate filling.
He moves around the reception desk, but he’s walking stiffly and I can see ripples of pain moving across his face.
“What’d you do?” I ask. “Try to clap your hands and stomp your feet at the same time? Tell me you didn’t go for the hat trick and throw in gum chewing, too.”
He doesn’t smile as he clears the desk and puffs up his chest to appear more intimidating. He points at the door.
“Leave. Now!”
I stand my ground. “Your body is beautiful, but your vocabulary seems somewhat limited.”
His face flushes with anger, but it’s tempered by the pain. I glance down at the patch around his kidneys and see the outline of thick tape holding it to his flesh. My eyes drop to below his belt and notice that his jeans are also stretched tighter against his left hip than his right.
It’s not a belt to hide a gun, I realize.
It’s a bandage. And it’s fresh.
With a snarl, I curl my right hand into a fist and jab it into his left kidney, aiming, as Pinch has taught me, for the center of his core.
The shock on his face is quickly replaced with a bone-white queasiness as he reaches for the counter and drops to his knees. The bandage on his side blossoms in a Rorschach stain of blood. I’ve torn his fresh stitches where shotgun pellets ripped into his flesh.
“You were in my apartment last night,” I hiss. “With a fucking gun. Were you ordered to kill us?”
With one hand gripping the counter, the maître d’ grabs my wrist with his free hand and squeezes so hard my bones rub together.
“Quiet your tongue,” he says between clenched teeth. “You have no idea what is going on.”
“Then tel
l me,” I hiss back. “And let go of my fucking arm before I punch you again in the same spot.”
He immediately releases my arm, which means I’ve made a good impression.
Dixie’s Tips #17: Don’t make a threat you’re not willing to follow through on. It’s vastly more effective if even you believe you’ll do it.
“Where’s Bailey?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit!”
“No.” He holds up a hand to stop me lashing out. “She arrived earlier, but I didn’t see her leave. I-I don’t know where she is now.”
“Then let me talk to Lebed.”
From his knees, he looks up into my eyes. Fear glistens within dark blue orbs, but beneath it is a lead-lined layer of defiance. His voice is low, just above a whisper.
“Mr. Lebed doesn’t know.”
“Doesn’t know what?”
“About my visit.”
“Last night?”
He nods.
“He didn’t order you to kill us?”
He shakes his head.
I curl my fist again and let him see it. “Then why?”
He swallows. “I need answers.”
“What answers?”
“To who sent you.”
A puzzle clears in my brain.
“The last time I left here, I was attacked in the street. It wasn’t Lebed who sent him either, was it?”
He shrugs. “He was told not to hurt you.”
“So you cut off his hands?”
“It sends a message.”
“No shit, but why did you send him after me?”
“I need to know if the man’s alive.”
“Who?” Another puzzle piece meets its mate. “Wait a minute. The sisters’ father?”
He nods.
“Why?” I ask.
“He has evidence.”
“What evidence?”
He swallows again and pulls himself slowly to his feet. Despite myself, I help him stand.
He leans in close, his mouth next to my ear. “He can bring the Red Swan down,” he whispers. “He’s the only one who can.”
I push him away.
“And why would you want that?” I ask.
His eyes burn as color returns to his cheeks. “That is for me to know.”
“So the enemy of my enemy is now my friend?” I ask.
He doesn’t smile. “Perhaps.”
“Then get me in to see Lebed and maybe we can work together.”
He hesitates, but then nods. “Give me a moment to replace my bandage and I’ll see if Mr. Lebed is available.”
“There,” I say, unwrapping another chocolate mint, “that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
Twenty-Two
The maître d’—who tells me his name is Mikhail, which is so stereotypical, I don’t know if I believe him—leads me across the restaurant to the doors of the same private room where I met Lebed before.
“Wait here,” he says. “And I mean it. Unless invited, the guards won’t hesitate to break your neck.”
I remember the two guards, so I stay put.
When Mikhail reappears, he flashes me a look of warning before holding the door open to allow access. He doesn’t follow me inside.
Krasnyi Lebed, aka Red Swan, is sitting behind the immaculately dressed table with his twin computer geeks busy being nerdish with numbers at his back. He’s eating a lump of pungent blue cheese with a curved knife, its tip split into a two-pronged fork, while sipping black tea from a china cup rimmed in gold.
Lebed stabs his knife in the direction of an empty chair at the table.
“Sit,” he says.
I observe the mountainous guards, one on either side of the door like Orcs guarding the black gates of Mordor, as I move to take the chair. Neither seems particularly worried or concerned about my presence.
“Are you hungry?” Lebed asks. “My chef is preparing fresh anchovies straight from the boat. Cherry smoke salt and lime zest.” He kisses the tips of his fingers. “Delicious.”
Although intrigued, I decline.
“I’m here to collect Bailey,” I say.
“Do you prefer smoked fish?” he asks as if I haven’t spoken. “There is a town in Scotland named Arbroath where a man of Scandinavian origin prepares smoked haddock that has to be tasted to be believed. I have a box flown in every week.”
“Where’s Bailey?” I ask.
“I know not of whom you speak.”
“Yes, you do. She stupidly came to visit you this morning. I want her back.”
He slices off a chunk of cheese and lifts it to his mouth on the tip of the knife. A pale pink tongue darts from between coral lips, its tip encircling the cheese like a snake before drawing it into his mouth.
“You intrigue me, Ms. Flynn,” he says, swallowing the cheese. “You seem to think that being a reporter offers you some kind of protection. It does not. With a simple command, my guards will bend you over this table, strip you naked, and rape you in unison. They will not care about your screams or whom you write for. If I invite more men, they will join in, too. If you do not have enough holes … they will make new ones.”
He stabs the knife into the chunk of cheese and twists the blade to cut out a cone-shaped plug. Placing the plug of ripe, veined cheese on a small plate, he pushes it toward me.
“This is neither a boast nor a threat,” he says. “This is truth.”
I want to say something tough and defiant to show that I can’t be intimidated, but I worry that if I even breathe, my bladder will release.
I push away from the table and stand. My eyes are glowering, but my legs are weak. I plead for them not to buckle. Turning around, I walk to the French doors, keeping my head high and my fear hidden beneath an immovable mask.
As my hand turns the knob and pulls the door, I catch a glimmer of movement out the corner of my eye. It’s immediately followed by the sound of the two guards unzipping themselves.
I lose all dignity and bolt from the room. If the guards are laughing, I can’t hear it over the sound of my own internal scream.
Twenty-Three
Outside the restaurant, I ashamedly dart into a nearby alley and shake. Tears flood down my cheeks and I hate myself for the weakness. I’m a mess, a blubbering, choking, sniveling pile of oozing estrogen.
The smug bastard scared me with words. That’s supposed to be my domain.
An alarming screech of metal stops my heart and makes me swivel to study the dark recess of the alley as I suddenly realize that like a choking victim flushed with embarrassment, I have run away from the safety of others to a dangerously isolated spot.
A rusted sheet of corrugated iron slides off its greasy perch atop a foul-smelling dumpster to hit the alley floor, scaring a family of rats. Ten alarmingly blood-red eyes stare back at me before scurrying away. Their bald tails are what make them so disgustingly creepy, and each one twitches like the silenced rattle of a desert snake.
As my heart returns to its hollow beneath my ribs, another movement makes it leap again. From behind the dumpster, a shadow unfolds to form the shape of a man. There isn’t enough light to make out his features, except that he’s painfully thin with a wiry, unkempt beard.
A growl grows in the back of my throat as my right hand instinctively reaches for the knife in my boot.
The shadow holds up a pair of gloved hands to show he means no harm.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. His words are all rough-edged and stiff as though he doesn’t use them much.
“No shit,” I growl defensively. “Who the hell are you?”
“No one.”
A flicker of light catches his eyes and there is a shimmer of pale blue within murky puddles of rat red.
He pulls a black knit cap off his hea
d to reveal a bald pate, the gesture as stiff as his words, as though gentlemanly politeness was once driven home to him by a mother who never expected he’d end his days hiding in alleyways.
“You should go.”
Recognition dawns.
“You’re my Good Samaritan,” I say. “Why’d you step in the other day? Wasn’t your fight.”
He begins to back away from me, moving deeper into the alley, deeper into the shadows. “That was a mistake,” he says.
“Not from where I’m standing. I wanted to thank you.”
“No need.” He lifts an arm and points over my shoulder to the mouth of the alley where light still dares to shine. “You need to go. Don’t come back. These are bad men.”
I cast a glance to where he’s pointing in case he’s trying to warn me of someone else approaching, but there’s nobody there.
When I turn back around, he’s gone.
Returning to the car, I reach in to grab the box of tissues that Kristy always keeps on the back seat. I need to blow my nose and wipe my eyes and get a grip on—
Shit! Roxanne is missing.
Cursing, I stand on my tiptoes and scour the street. She couldn’t have followed me to the tea house, I realize. I would have seen her.
Just as panic is threatening to make my head explode, I spot her half a block away. She’s exiting another unseemly alley and stops by a lamppost to spit into the gutter. Between the two of us, we set women’s good graces back a hundred years.
When she looks up, she spots me standing by the car. A smile broadens on her face and she waves as if we had plans to meet for a girly lunch and, hey, isn’t this neat to bump into each other on the street beforehand?
I slide back into the car before I call her something that women aren’t meant to call each other.
When she reaches the Bug, she has trouble with the door, like she’s forgotten how to work her thumb. I reach over and open it from the inside.
She slides in with a goofy smile wider than her face and I know exactly what she was doing in the alley. I grab her arm and spot a fresh bead of blood in the crease of her elbow. Guess she didn’t want to take her shoes off.
