Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000)

by Maitland, Piper

  “Sir? We have a situation.” Mr. Underwood’s voice sounded quivery and high pitched.

  “Go ahead.” Wilkerson lifted his glass and held it up to the light. Just a dribble of scotch remained.

  “It’s the Clifford girl,” Mr. Underwood said. “She’s alive.”

  “Are you sure?” Wilkerson sat up straight. A pulse ticked in his neck.

  “Quite sure,” Underwood said. “Her passport surfaced on the grid. Heathrow’s cameras show a young woman fitting her description in Terminal Five. She’s flying to Bulgaria.”

  “Make sure there’s a greeting party at the airport.” Wilkerson poured another shot of scotch. Well, why not? He had a reason to celebrate. A few moments ago, the wheel of fortune had scraped the bottom, but now it was turning upward. The way it always did, always would.

  CHAPTER 7

  HOTEL USTRA

  KARDZHALI, BULGARIA

  Caro was leaning against the steel railing in the mezzanine bar, watching for the ministry representative, when a man in a brown leather jacket strode through the doors and up to the reception desk.

  She drew in a ragged breath. It was the ponytailed man from Heathrow—Jude something-or-other. Caro couldn’t decide if she should get his attention or spy a bit longer. Why was he really here? He might not be a reporter but he was acting like an archaeological groupie. Better to hang back, right?

  She grabbed her duffel bag and stepped into the shadows, watching as Jude rested his elbows on the fake marble counter. He had a square face with a boyish, cleft chin. The collar of his jacket stood up against his neck, a tender, boyish neck. He shifted, and his ponytail fanned across his back. Dense shoulders filled out his jacket, the kind of biceps you’d see on a rugby player.

  He looked up at the mezzanine and smiled at her. Dimples. God, she couldn’t stand it. He passed under the chandelier, and the lighting washed over his face. His nose was straight except for an endearing bump near the bridge.

  Breathe, Caro. Count to twenty. But he was already climbing the steps, his glossy ponytail spilling down his back. He stopped in front of her and extended his hand.

  “I was hoping to see you,” he said.

  She shook his hand. Firm grip. Smooth palm. No calluses. Just how tall was he? She was almost five foot eight, but his chin could easily fit on top of her head. This morning his face had been smooth, but now there was a grainy shadow along his jaw. Through the stubble, she saw a tiny white scar on his chin. His eyes had a sleepy, jet-lagged look, and she felt an urge to sit him down with a cup of tea and a biscuit.

  “You look lovely tonight,” Jude said. He slipped one hand in his pocket, and his jacket parted, showing a cornflower-blue sweater.

  “So,” she said. Small talk wasn’t her métier. Ask anyone and they’d confirm that she was a cut-to-the-chase sort of girl. Not one of her better qualities. Not by a long shot.

  “Do you have time for a sit-down?” He stepped closer, and light from the chandelier passed over his face. He no longer resembled an exhausted boy who needed coddling. He looked like a man who wanted to get laid.

  “I’m waiting for a ministry official,” she said. “But I really want to see my uncle’s letters.”

  “We could talk later. Over dinner, perhaps?” He smoothed one hand down the front of his sweater, the gesture of a man who was accustomed to wearing a suit and tie. But wasn’t he a biochemist? Maybe he was into polo, pageantry, the peerage.

  “I don’t know how long the meeting will take,” she said, but she was thinking, I’m vulnerable tonight. I don’t trust myself with you.

  “Not to worry. I’m in room three fourteen. Ring me, if you get a moment.” He unzipped his backpack and pulled out two creamy envelopes.

  “Your uncle’s letters,” he said.

  She started to thank him, but her uncle’s boxy handwriting caught her attention. The first envelope was addressed to Dr. Jude Barrett in Lucerne, Switzerland.

  When she looked up, Jude was halfway down the stairs. She stepped closer to the railing and watched him stride toward the elevators. Caro stuffed the letters into her duffel bag. Just then, the black entry doors swung open, and an entourage stepped into the lobby: A balding, pear-shaped man marched past the front desk, followed by three men in uniforms. The bald man wore an official-looking black coat, but he was gripping a red backpack under one arm. The ministry official, no doubt. As he stopped beneath the chandelier, light bounced off his round eyeglasses. He looked up, spotted her, and walked up the stairs.

  “Miss Clifford?” he asked.

  “Da. Dobar vecher,” she said in halting Bulgarian.

  “I speak English.” He produced a business card and waited while she tucked it away. “We meet under sad circumstances.”

  He turned toward the windows, where club chairs and glass tables were grouped into conversation pits. Behind them, snowflakes hit the glass and instantly melted. Caro hadn’t realized how tired she was until she sat down and tucked one leg beneath her hips.

  “Would you like wine? Have you tasted our Mavrud?” Velikov draped his overcoat on the back of his chair, then sat down. “It is a spicy red.”

  “I’ve sampled your national drink. Some type of fruit brandy?”

  “Rakia.” He smiled and wrinkles fanned out from his eyes. “I think you will prefer Mavrud.”

  A waiter set napkins on the glass table and took their drink orders. After he left, Velikov set the backpack on the table. “Your uncle’s personal items,” he said.

  Caro leaned forward to examine the bag. It looked new. When had Uncle Nigel bought it? He’d hated shopping alone. Before she’d taken up tour guiding, she’d always helped him select his jackets and trousers. She placed her hand on the zipper and wondered if she had the nerve to open it. Not just yet. She folded her hands and leaned back in the chair.

  Velikov tilted his head and swallowed. “Miss Clifford, I have difficult questions.”

  He paused as the waiter set down their wineglasses. “I did not know if you wanted your uncle’s remains cremated or returned to England. If you prefer cremation, it is offered in Sofia. Otherwise, I will arrange a casket and a flight. It will take a week to do paperwork on both.”

  “No cremation.” She reached for her napkin and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Please, do not apologize for your grief,” Velikov said.

  She lifted her glass, hoping the alcohol would help her relax, and took a long swallow. Over the rim she saw a tall, gangly man step into the bar. He had thick black hair and wore a black dinner jacket over a red floral Hawaiian shirt and jeans. Wait, she’d seen him at the airport with the purse snatcher. He sat down in one of the chairs and crossed his bony legs.

  Velikov turned sideways in his chair. He glanced at the man and swiveled back to Caro. “Is he bothering you?”

  “I saw him today at the Sofia airport. He was with a man who tried to steal my bag.”

  Velikov’s eyes cut to her plaid duffel, but he made no comment.

  “Now this creep is in Kardzhali.” She leaned forward. “At the Hotel Ustra. Don’t you find that a little strange?”

  “You think he followed you?” Velikov asked in a conspiratorial tone.

  Caro’s hands began to shake, and her heart sped up. She nodded. Then she remembered that in Bulgaria a nod means no and a head shake means yes. She shook her head.

  Velikov turned around to stare, but the man in the Hawaiian shirt wasn’t looking at her. Now the ministry official would think she was a kook. Uncle Nigel had sheltered her to an extreme, and she’d grown into a cautious woman—okay, paranoid. But he’d also taught her to view the world through an archaeologist’s eyes, paying attention to details.

  “He does not look familiar.” Velikov’s eyes narrowed, and then he turned back to Caro. “But I know his type, and it is not good.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “He will not harm you.” Velikov patted Caro’s hand. “I will make certain of it.”

 
; Caro looked past Velikov. The chair was empty. She looked around for the man. When had he left? He wasn’t at the bar, either. “Where did he go?” she asked.

  Velikov frowned. “Most odd. I will have my men check the hotel. Also, I will alert the front desk. I will tell them to screen your calls and not to reveal your room number.”

  “Thanks.” She took another sip of wine. “I’m not normally this nervous.”

  Liar, she thought.

  “Your fear is justified.” Velikov paused. “Considering the brutal way your uncle was murdered.”

  Brutal? The word slammed inside her head, and she stiffened. A Bulgarian would not use this word casually. The Ottomans had slaughtered them in the fourteenth century and, even today, a good part of Kardzhali was Muslim.

  “Perhaps I have spoken out of turn,” Velikov said.

  “Someone needs to.” She stared into her glass. “They didn’t beat him, did they?”

  He nodded. No.

  “What happened?”

  “The cause of death was exsanguination,” said Velikov. “That means—”

  “I know the term. Uncle Nigel took a blood thinner for his heart.”

  “I hesitate to continue. It is not for the faint of stomach.”

  “I need to know.”

  “This was more than a robbery. Your uncle was tortured. Both Achilles tendons were severed. And he was bitten.”

  “Did you say bitten?” She abruptly set her glass on the table, and the wine swayed.

  “Yes.” Velikov shook his head.

  “By an animal?”

  He shook his head. Yes. “And human.”

  No. Not possible. She rose abruptly and her knee hit the table. The wineglass tipped over, spilling Mavrud across the glossy surface, red drops pattering to the floor.

  CHAPTER 8

  WILKERSON PHARMACEUTICALS

  EAST LONDON, ENGLAND

  Moose Tipper sat at the far end of the mirrored conference table, its surface reflecting lights from nearby buildings. Wilkerson stood in front of the broad glass window, his hands clasped behind his back. The Thames stretched out in front of him, black and twisty.

  “How did you bungle it this time?” Wilkerson asked.

  “It went tits up,” Moose said, but he was thinking that Wilkerson was absolutely wet. And, he wasn’t immortal.

  “What happened?” Wilkerson turned.

  “I already told you.” Moose extended his hand and pointed to the purple bite marks. “I didn’t make a total bollocks of it. I got the samples. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Have you looked at a newspaper?” Wilkerson leaned forward, his reflection moving along the mirror. “Listened to the news?”

  “I don’t watch the telly. It’s too horrid.” Moose brought his hands together, tapping each finger, right to left, left to right. Ten times. Perfect. When he noticed that Wilkerson was staring, Moose made a fist and slammed it against the table. “I got your fucking samples.”

  Wilkerson flinched.

  “Didn’t break it.” Moose lifted his hand. The imprint of his fist had left a smudge on the mirror. He had heard that Wilkerson was sent down from Cambridge. Disgraced his family.

  “You got the tissue samples, all right.” Wilkerson paused. “From the wrong woman.”

  Moose narrowed one eye. “Say what?”

  “The woman you murdered wasn’t Caroline Clifford. You killed her flatmate. The girl’s father was Sir Edmund Dowell.”

  “Never heard of him.” Moose shrugged.

  “He’s the Lord Speaker in the House of Lords.”

  “Oh, that Dowell,” Moose said, trying not to roll his eyes.

  “Scotland Yard is crawling all over her flat.”

  “But you never said the Clifford girl had a roomie. I assumed—”

  “I don’t pay you to make assumptions. I pay you to complete a task. Wilkerson Pharmaceuticals is a billion-dollar corporation, and the cosmetics division will surpass that. I will not see this corporation destroyed by a blood sipper.”

  “I don’t sip it, mate. I’m brilliant at what I do. You know I am. The situation isn’t a total cock-up. I just killed the wrong girl. Tell me where to find the right one, and I’ll bring her back.” Moose clenched his fists, repressing an urge to straighten the pencils on Wilkerson’s desk.

  “It’s too late,” Wilkerson said. “I can’t risk another botched assignment.”

  “I’ll use chloroform this time. And I’ll get your samples in half a tick.”

  “Sorry, I can’t trust you.”

  “Sure you can.” Moose opened his fists and tapped his fingers. Right to left. Left to right.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Wilkerson cried. “This murder is all over the news. I can’t afford another mistake. Mistakes lead to scandals. Scandals attract journalists. My company could end up on the BBC.”

  “So?” Moose’s eyebrows went up. “I thought you liked publicity.”

  “A scandal would wreck my company. Worse, you and I could be locked up at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”

  “Quit borrowing trouble, mate.” Moose’s fingers moved in a blur, tapping against the mirror. Wilkerson was a chinless wonder with a knack for turning pills and face creams into money. Lots of money.

  Wilkerson pressed the intercom button. “Sandra?”

  “Yes, Mr. Wilkerson?” answered a woman.

  “Have the Zuba brothers arrived?”

  “Y-yes, sir,” the receptionist said, her voice quavering.

  Moose’s head jerked up. He knew about those blokes. They weren’t just assassins; they were sadists. Their victims didn’t plead for their lives, they begged for death.

  The door opened and two men walked into the room. They had cropped, platinum hair and icy blue eyes. One wore a tweed jacket over a pink T-shirt; the other wore a Burberry sweater and ragged jeans.

  They smiled.

  Moose jumped out of his chair and backed up against the window. Stone the bloody crows, those teeth. They’d been filed.

  “Take him,” Wilkerson said.

  The men’s reflections moved along the mirrored table. Moose grabbed the chair and shoved it through the window. The glass ruptured, clattering to the floor. He leaped through the jagged opening and plunged three stories. He landed feet first on an overhang. That was lucky for him. But it was also lucky for the Zubas.

  He bolted toward the fire escape. His right foot snagged on a metal pipe and he toppled over. He heard a crack and pain exploded in his leg. He pulled up his trouser—no protruding bones—and got to his feet. He limped to the fire escape. By the time he reached the ground, his ankle was throbbing. Above him, the fire escape rattled as the Zubas climbed down.

  Moose hobbled off into an alley. In the distance, he saw the Hungerford Bridge. He shambled to the Thames and jumped. The dark water clamped over his head like an iron lid. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t rest. Just keep going, mate. You had to play when you were wounded.

  CHAPTER 9

  HOTEL USTRA

  KARDZHALI, BULGARIA

  After the meeting, Velikov insisted upon searching Caro’s room. His coat rippled as he strode to the window and flattened the curtains, presumably making sure no one was crouched behind them. He opened the closet and swept one hand over the coat hangers. His eyebrows quirked and he turned into the bathroom. Caro jumped when the shower curtain hooks scraped over the metal rod.

  He stepped back into the hall. “Make sure you bolt the door tonight.”

  “Why?” She crossed her arms, trying to decide if she’d brought this on with her silliness over the man in the bar or if the extra security was related to Uncle Nigel’s murder.

  “I have four grown daughters,” Velikov said. “And the world is wicked.”

  The moment he left, Caro sat on the bed and rang Jude’s room. When he didn’t pick up, she felt a pinch of disappointment. She hung up and stretched bonelessly across the bed. Above her, the ceiling squeaked as someone paced back and forth, shouting i
n Russian.

  “Zavali yebalo!” a man yelled.

  “Nyet,” a female voice cried.

  Caro slid off the bed and turned on the television. The satellite weather channel showed a smiling sun over Bulgaria. An exotic, dark-skinned woman delivered the forecast in an elegant British accent. The Balkans could expect rising temperatures and overcast skies, followed by a blast of Arctic air and snow.

  Her stomach growled. She found a package of Jammie Dodgers in her bag and stuffed a biscuit into her mouth. Then she picked up Uncle Nigel’s letters and returned to the bed. The first envelope bore no address or postmark. Scrawled across the front, in his distinct, boxy handwriting, was Please Forward to Dr. J. Barrett.

  25 October

  Dear Dr. Barrett,

  Quite by chance, I stumbled upon your article in the British Scientific Journal; I searched for companion articles but couldn’t find one. You’d simply vanished from academia. I might not have found you at all, but your name sounded familiar. I’d known a John Barrett at Eton back in the early 1950s. His given name was John Fleming Dalgliesh Barrett from York. We had quite a bit in common, and not because our fathers were in the House of Lords.

  We were incorrigible mischief makers. One time, we caused a ruckus at St. George’s Chapel, and the Windsor guards came rushing down. We narrowly escaped. Another time we made false ID cards, took the train to Piccadilly Circus, and got positively sozzled. There are more tales, of course. What else could you expect from two teenaged softies? However, I’m digressing. I was terribly saddened to hear of Sir John’s passing.

  Once I made the connection, I traveled to York, to Dalgliesh Castle. Your stepmother, the Lady Patricia, wouldn’t say if you were dead or alive. Considering the subject of your article, I decided she was protecting you.

  In case you are alive and in hiding, please allow me to introduce myself. I’m a professor of archaeology at Oxford, with a special interest in minority cultures during the antiquities. I apologize in advance for my boldness and for my lack of knowledge about your area of study; however, I was simply gobsmacked by your research. Moreover, I was consumed with unanswered questions.