by M. C. Grant
“Stealth is my specialty, Miss Flynn. When do I start?”
I give him a copy of the address where Bailey is being held. “I need to know what’s happening there now. I’ve filled in Victor with what faces to look out for.”
Mr. French grabs a pair of two-way radios off the bookshelf and hands one to me.
“Channel seven,” he says. “If you can’t reach me, drop to channel three. We’ll be set up within the hour.”
Twenty-Nine
In the apartment, I shake Roxanne awake and show her the photo of the uninvited guest at Izmaylovsky’s funeral.
“Is this your father?” I ask.
Roxanne snarls at me and pushes the photo away. She tries to bury herself beneath the sheets again, but I yank them away.
“I’ve had enough of this,” I yell. “Look at you. You’re killing yourself with this junk and you don’t give a damn. People want to help—let them.”
Roxanne glares at me, her pupils enlarging and dilating as though attempting to journey back from a dark pit, until her throat suddenly bulges, then she grabs the bucket I left by the side of her bed and vomits into it.
“Charming,” I say before heading into the bathroom and retrieving a cold, wet cloth.
When I return to the bedroom, I press the cloth against her forehead as she dry heaves into the bucket. When she’s done, I use a corner of it to wipe the sticky edges of her eyes and mouth.
“How is this helping?” I ask. “Your sister is being held by a Russian mobster and you’re shooting poison into your veins.”
“Don’t fucking judge me,” Roxanne croaks.
“Somebody has to. And better it’s someone who gives a damn.”
“Why?” she snarls. “What the fuck do you care what happens to me or my sister? You’re nobody to us.”
“I’m involved.”
“Who asked you to be?”
I shake my head. “No one.”
“Exactly.”
She sits up and attempts to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but her lower body doesn’t cooperate and she ends up flopping back onto the pillows.
“What I do,” she continues in frustration, “is none of your damn business.”
“So you like being a whore and a junkie and a waste of space?” I growl.
“Maybe I do.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, too bad, because you don’t know me from spit on the ground.”
“And yet I want to help you.”
“That’s your problem.”
I sigh and show her the photo again. “Is this your father?”
This time she studies it. “Yeah. So what?”
“Do you know when he went missing? Was it before or after Alimzhan Izmaylovsky’s funeral?”
“Who? I wasn’t even born yet, how would I know?”
“Bailey never talked about it?”
Roxanne shrugs and looks away. “Yeah, OK, she did.”
“Did she mention a date?”
Roxanne’s lips curl with the full intent of telling a lie, but then relax as though deciding the truth is easier.
“June twenty-first,” she says. “Bailey baked these chocolate cupcakes on the anniversary every year. They were supposedly dad’s favorite and she thought if he smelled them baking, he would come home.” She wipes at her eyes. “For a while she even had me believing it, too.”
I flip the photo over to reveal the date of the funeral. June 28.
“He was alive when this photo was taken,” I say. “That’s seven days after he left the apartment.”
“So?”
“If he was alive a week after his disappearance, there’s no reason to think he isn’t still.”
Roxanne’s laugh is soft, dark, and laced with bile. “Maybe you should bake some cupcakes, then,” she says snarkily. “He might smell them and come running.”
When Pinch arrives, he’s dressed in pristine head-to-toe black and sporting a fashionable pair of Winklepicker boots with pointed toes so sharp they look dangerous.
His eyes are hard as he steps through the door and takes in the room, and I worry that I’ve pissed him off by asking for yet another favor. Without saying a word, he brushes his hand over the shotgun-shell damage to the left of the door, his index finger flicking off traces of dried blood. My attacker’s blood. Mikhail’s blood.
Next, he glances up at the bullet hole in the ceiling as though calculating the angle, and finally he fixes his gaze on Roxanne, who’s sitting on the couch nervously chewing her nails. I can read the same concern on his face that crossed mine when I wondered how Mikhail knew where to find us.
“The fresh air isn’t doing you much good, darling,” he says. “You looked better with a three-hundred-pound sailor on your back instead of this monkey.”
Roxanne flashes him the finger.
Pinch turns to me. “Never trust a junkie, Dix. Ever. They’ll take your good intentions and sharpen them into knives to throw back in your face. If she’s involved, I’m not.”
“She’s not involved,” I say, making the decision on the spot.
“Like hell I’m not! You’re going after my sister. I need to be there.”
Pinch glares at me. “Have you told her what you’re planning?”
“None of the details.”
“What about the address?”
I shake my head.
“I am still here,” Roxanne shouts.
“That’s a problem we need to fix,” says Pinch.
“Hey, fuck you, shorty!”
I grab Roxanne’s arm and yank her to her feet. “I need you to go next door—”
“Fuck you, too,” Roxanne snarls. “It’s my sister.”
“But Pinch is right. You can’t be trusted.” My voice breaks slightly, but I batten down the hatches and lock them tight. “I should have known better. I wanted to believe that nobody could possibly choose to live like you do. But you never wanted to leave, did you? That’s why Bailey had such a difficult time finding you. The sister she remembers died a long time ago.”
“You have no right to keep me here.”
“I know,” I say. “But I can’t risk you roaming free. Not yet. Once Bailey is back, you can choose your life. I won’t stop you.”
I march her across the hall and knock on the door. When Kristy answers, I push Roxanne inside.
“Sorry,” I say, “but I need a favor. You still keep a set of handcuffs? Good ones?”
Kristy nods and Roxanne’s eyes widen as I relate what needs to be done.
Thirty
On the drive over to the NOW offices in Pinch’s vintage Jaguar, I ask why he’s acting so pissy.
“’Cause if it’s PMS, tell me now,” I say, “and I’ll bail. Hell, there are some months when I can’t even stand myself.”
A small grin creases his mouth. “I’m not used to doing favors,” he says. “And I’m also not used to”—he pauses—“not used to finding that I enjoy them.”
“Awww,” I say. “Is that a compliment?”
“Yes. And that’s unusual, too.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like anyone.”
“Me either.”
His grin widens. “That’s not true. Your problem is you like too many people.”
“I do?”
“You have a big heart.”
“And you don’t?”
He shakes his head with minimal energy, barely a twitch. “I keep it small and wrapped in a full-metal jacket. Makes it harder to hit.”
I reach over and stroke his arm. “I don’t believe you.”
“You should.”
The office is deserted when we walk into the newsroom and cross to my desk.
“You actually work here?” Pinch asks, taking in
the rows of cluttered desks; low-walled, no-privacy cubicles; and lack of natural light.
“I’m out a lot,” I say. “Some reporters can work a phone like it’s an extension of themselves, but I need to look people in the eye. I’m an adolescent dog stuck in the muck between the old newshounds and Facebook pups.” I chuckle. “A few months back one of the interns asked if I was tweeting, and I thought she was accusing me of being high.”
Pinch grins. “It’s not like you see on TV shows, is it?”
I laugh. “Not even close. No smoking, no drinking, no swearing or cracking jokes. Hell, laugh too loud and the publisher might accuse you of creating a disturbance. The last fistfight I witnessed was back in my Chronicle days, and that was between the news editor and the ME over a front-page headline. As fucked up as it sounds, I sometimes miss that passion.”
“I’d go crazy.”
I wink. “Most of us do.”
Lulu has come through again, and the building’s blueprints are waiting on my desk. I unroll them and weigh down the corners with the various odds and ends—empty stapler, Mickey Spillane and Raymond Chandler bobbleheads, etc.—that litter my desk.
“Bailey is being held on the third floor,” I say. “There’s one guard with her as bait, but four gunmen waiting on the fourth. Their plan is to lure Bailey’s dad into the trap when the guard goes out for one of his frequent smoke breaks, and then the four move in for the capture or kill.”
“Who tipped you off?” Pinch asks.
“A gambler.”
“Can you trust him?”
I shrug. “Not really, but this has the ring of truth to it. He’s not a fan of Lebed.”
“Money doesn’t require friendship or loyalty, Dix, only opportunity. Never trust anyone where greed is the only binding factor. There’s always someone who can outbid you.”
“Yes, Yoda,” I quip.
Pinch studies the blueprints, his finger running up and down the center staircase. He turns the page and studies the aerial view, too. The building has a flat roof, three exterior fire escapes, and another in the center that connects with the interior staircase.
“The Swan is too clever to set only one trap,” he says. “Four men can provide enough firepower for what he’s expecting, but their location isn’t ideal. Seconds will be wasted getting down those stairs.”
“He doesn’t want them being seen,” I say. “Joe never showed up for Roxanne. Lebed obviously wants to make this choice look easier.”
“Maybe.” Pinch sighs and turns his back on the map. He closes his eyes for a second, then turns back and studies the map once more. When he’s satisfied, he straightens up, brushes some invisible lint off his sleeve and looks at his watch. “Ready?”
I nod, gulp, and follow him back to his car.
We park a short distance away from the building and I switch on the walkie-talkie. The static hisses for a second before clearing.
“Mr. French?”
“We’re here, Miss Flynn. Eyes in the sky. All clear.”
“Any movement?” I ask.
“The guard appears to be trying to kill himself with a smoke break every twenty minutes. Regular as clockwork. If my bowels did that, I could cut back on my morning prunes.”
I grimace. “Any sign of the father?”
“None, I’m afraid. Victor has been scanning the streets with his telephoto lenses, but nothing yet.”
“When is the guard due to take his next break?”
“Twelve minutes. He exits the front door, lights his cigarette, and walks half-a-block to either the north or south. He’s very predictable, which means he’ll go north next time.”
“Any movement on the fourth floor?”
“Quiet as a church mouse, although Victor has noticed occasional wisps of smoke drifting over the roof. He thinks somebody is sneaking onto the rear fire escape for clandestine smoke breaks.”
Having heard enough, Pinch slips out of the car and opens the trunk to prepare.
“Is Bill here?” I ask.
“Mr. Bulldog is in position,” answers Mr. French. “And he’s brought friends. Very large friends.”
“Give him a two-minute heads up when the guard is about to show.”
“Roger that. Where will you be?”
“You’ll see me.”
“Be careful.”
I swallow. “Stay out of sight. I’ll be fine.”
I switch off the walkie-talkie and slip it under the passenger seat. If anything goes wrong, I don’t want Lebed to know that I had any help.
Outside, I walk to the rear of the car to join Pinch.
“Change of plan,” he says, handing me a gun.
By the time I find my voice to protest, Pinch is dashing across the street and vanishing into the shadows.
Thirty-One
“Change of plan?” I mutter to myself. “What the hell!”
We had discussed the plan over a dozen times and agreed that Pinch was to accompany me into the building to make sure I didn’t get my ass shot off.
Now I was on my own and having second thoughts about not involving Frank. Of course, he would have been thrilled with that conversation: “You think a friend of yours is being held captive by Russian mobsters. And based on a tip from a back-street bookie, you want me to get a SWAT team and execute a search warrant?”
Despite his great fondness for me, there’s only so much rope Frank is willing to wind out. At least Pinch, until he deserted me, hadn’t questioned my twisted logic.
I study the gun: Italian-made Beretta 92FS semi-automatic with a non-reflective black finish. I eject the magazine and count fifteen rounds of 124-grain 9mm jacketed hollow-point. It’s a nice gun—not as comforting as my own, which Pinch told me to leave at home—but solid and reliable. I just hope I don’t need to use it.
After double-checking the safety, I slip the gun into the rear waistband of my jeans and move to the corner of the building opposite the one where Bailey is being held. I work on my breathing as I wait, trying to slow each inhale as though I’m running a marathon or swimming laps in a pool. My lungs convulse, fighting me, wanting to race like greyhounds with an electric rabbit in their sights.
Across the street, a broad-shouldered man with distinct five o’clock stubble and nicotine-fueled eyes steps out of the doorway and lights a cigarette. His gaze takes in the breadth of the street—mentally ticking off the junkies, whores, welfare bums, and storeowners that he knows on sight—before heading north for a casual stroll. If he’s bored, he isn’t showing it. Every muscle moves like a coiled spring.
I wait two heartbeats before stepping out of the shadows and crossing the road. Out the corner of my eye, I notice the guard turn his head to check me out. I’m dressed casually in dark jeans, leather boots, loose T-shirt, and my long green trenchcoat.
I don’t hold his interest for long, especially when the wrestlers turn the corner ahead of him.
Bulldog’s boys are boisterous, pushing and shoving each other as they fight over a glass jug of Tennessee whiskey. I watch the guard’s pace falter as he takes in the collective size of the encroaching group.
I reach the doorway but freeze in place when the guard suddenly swivels back toward me, a silent alarm tripped somewhere in his brain. Time slows and my panic rises when he tosses his cigarette aside. I watch it spin and spark as it bounces into the gutter.
When our eyes meet, I sense recognition, and wonder if Lebed has warned him about me. But how could the Red Swan possibly believe I would attempt this when even I think it’s crazy?
The guard’s right hand reaches inside his jacket, but whether to grab a phone or a gun, I’ll never know, because in the same instant the gang of rowdy wrestlers swallows him whole.
I immediately push through the door and head up the stairs.
Nobody blocks my way to the first landing and I w
aste no time in rounding the bend and moving swiftly to the second. This is all part of Lebed’s plan, I remind myself to keep my confidence in check. Lebed wants Joe to make it to the third floor.
It’s getting back out that’ll be the problem.
As I round the second floor on my way to the third, I hear a steel bolt sliding back from one of the closed doors on either side of the stairwell.
I don’t stop to look. That’ll come later.
On the third floor, I stop on the landing to catch my breath. There are four doors to choose from, but the guard has made it easy by leaving one of them slightly ajar.
Sweat beads on my scalp, pools under my arms, and runs between my breasts. I smell my own fear leaching from my pores. It’s sour and unpleasant.
As soon as I go through that door, everything changes. Does Lebed want a dead journalist on his hands? I’m betting heavily that he doesn’t. But even if that’s the case, has he told his team of hired thugs in the room above?
You should have thought of that before you came this far, says an inner voice with such sarcastic clarity that I almost look around to see who’s spoken.
“Shit!” I curse under my breath and move closer to the door. “Now or never, Dixie,” I tell myself.
Now or never.
I push open the door and vanish inside.
Thirty-Two
Easing down the hallway, my eyes and ears alert for any sudden movement, I’m surprised to find the Beretta back in my hand with the safety flicked off and a bullet in the chamber. I don’t remember grabbing it, but apparently another part of my brain has kicked into survival mode.
The first door I pass leads into a bleak bedroom with little more than four walls and a single unmade bed. The air holds the flophouse smell of hired men—body odor, masturbation, and gun oil—but the space is all ghosts and no threat.
At the end of the hall are two more doors before I reach the living room. The one on the left is for a toilet and stand-up shower that would make Mr. Clean weep, while the other opens to a barely used galley kitchen. I make sure both rooms are unoccupied before passing.
