If Looks Could Kill

by Andi Marquette

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  Table of Contents

  Other Books by Andi Marquette

  Books in the Series The Law Game

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  About Andi Marquette

  Other Books from Ylva Publishing

  The Secret of Sleepy Hollow

  Requiem for Immortals

  Four Steps

  Coming from Ylva Publishing

  The Lavender List

  OTHER BOOKS BY ANDI MARQUETTE

  Twice Told Tales – Lesbian Retellings

  The Secret of Sleepy Hollow

  The Bureau of Holiday Affairs

  BOOKS IN THE SERIES THE LAW GAME

  Requiem for Immortals by Lee Winter

  Archer Securities by Jove Belle

  Daughter of Baal by Gill McKnight

  Evolution of an Art Thief by Jessie Chandler

  If Looks Could Kill by Andi Marquette

  CHAPTER 1

  “Here’s the target.”

  Ellie took the folder and opened it. A photo was fastened to the inside cover, and the woman in it stared out at her, almost glaring. “Wait.” She looked up at him. “This is Marya Hampstead.”

  “Yep.” Rick took his suit jacket off and slung it over the back of the chair at his own desk. He rolled his shirt sleeves up, something he did when he was in the office, and straightened his tie. Rick was built like a prize fighter, and Ellie figured he had his shirts custom-made to accommodate his musculature. A long scar marred the underside of his left forearm, pinkish against the brown of his skin, a souvenir of his service in Afghanistan.

  “The Marya Hampstead,” she said. “Fashion mogul. Bitch on wheels.” And ultra-hot, she finished to herself. Seemed beauty was wasted on people like her.

  He clicked the remote and brought up Marya’s portfolio on the big screen that hung near his desk. Hampstead glared out at him now, too. “You’re quick, Els. Guess that’s why you’re part of this unit of NYPD.” He flashed her a grin.

  She ignored the ribbing and rolled her chair over to his desk. “What’s the deal?”

  He clicked to another photo that showed Hampstead with a well-dressed man, entering a restaurant. She had her hand on his arm. “That’s Lyev Koslov,” Rick said.

  “Looks familiar. Is he part of the Koslov family here?”

  “Yep. The Koslovs might be tied in with international arms dealers overseas.”

  “Define ‘tied in.’”

  “Daddy Koslov—the head honcho—runs a company in Moscow that makes medical equipment. However, a couple of his shipments were intercepted in Turkey. The shit in the boxes was not scalpels or clamps.” He clicked to another photo that showed military-grade rifles and ammo.

  “Where were they headed?”

  “Yemen.”

  Which was currently a hotbed of crazy, with layers of civil war, violence, and whatever other atrocities people dealt out to each other.

  “There are complicating factors.”

  Of course there were. “Which are what, exactly?”

  Rick put another photo on his screen. It showed a dead guy, a standard autopsy photo that featured him from the pecs up; the stitched-up Y-cut on his chest was visible just above the sheet. A small black hole was positioned almost perfectly in the center of his forehead.

  “And who’s this poor soul?” she asked.

  “One of the Petrovs, but not of the New York Petrovs, though he is related. A second cousin of the boss here in the city. This dude was based in Moscow up until this past January. Then he wasn’t based on this earth at all.”

  “Professional hit,” she said, leaning forward a bit. He looked like he was in his early thirties. “Not very old.”

  “Thirty-two. Not married, and somewhat of a playboy.” Rick clicked the mouse and an autopsy photo of another dead guy showed up.

  “Also execution.”

  “This is another Petrov,” Rick said. “Also cousin to Boss Petrov.”

  “Call me crazy, but I’m sensing a pattern.”

  “Damn, you’re really quick,” he said with a little smile. “This gentleman was found in Prague about two months after the first died.” Rick pulled up a third autopsy photo. “Comes in threes, for now.” One more Russian guy, shot execution style. “This is yet another Petrov. His mother is a first cousin to Boss Petrov, and she’s originally from St. Petersburg. She married a Brit and still lives in London. His body was found there in June.”

  “Okay, so it looks like the same hit man did all three. What ties them together besides the Petrov connection?”

  Rick clicked his mouse again, and a photo of a local boss filled the screen, wearing an expensive suit, sunglasses, and standing outside one of the restaurants he owned in the city. He was in his mid-sixties, but he maintained himself, and he was always in the company of younger women, though he did have a wife.

  “The Petrovs are also involved in arms dealings,” Rick said, sounding like a college professor. “We’ve been following this guy for a couple of years now. He’s on Interpol’s radar, too, but he’s pretty slick. All three dead dudes were involved in Petrov gun-running, though they managed to keep their hands clean. They arranged sales, apparently, serving as the middlemen between buyer and seller, but never got caught with anything.”

  “So they were points of contact.” Ellie rolled her chair back to her desk, grabbed her coffee cup, and rolled right back to Rick’s.

  “Most likely. And probably helped organize meetings and networking. So law enforcement overseas wasn’t able to make much stick. And then they turned up dead.”

  Ellie sipped. “So what does any of this have to do with Lyev Koslov and Hampstead?”

  Rick pulled the photo of Marya and Lyev up again. “We think there’s some kind of private territorial war going on between the Koslovs and the Petrovs.”

  “An arms race, basically.” Figures. Any time there were guns and money to be made, people got greedy. And violent.

  “Something like that. The thing is, the Koslovs don’t have a history in arms dealing, and Daddy Koslov insists his family isn’t involved, and he insists that he has no beef with the Petrovs.”

  “But the Petrovs are blaming him for the murders.”

  “Yep.” Rick took a sip of his diet soda.

  “What about the guns that turned up in Koslov’s medical supply boxes in Turkey?”

  He screwed the top back on the bottle and set it down. “Koslov claims he was set up, that those boxes were stolen from the supply warehouse in Russia. He’s got a police report to prove it.”

  Ellie snorted. “Easy to fake that.”

  “Yeah. Except Koslov seems worried. He’s wondering if somebody in the family has gone rogue and has personal beef with the Petrovs. He’s running tons of diplomacy right now with Boss Petrov, and word on the street is Petrov is giving Koslov time to see if that’s the case.”

  “Could be Petrov is popping his own guys to set Koslov up to take a fall. Koslov’s empire is bigger than Petrov’s, and he’s been at the game longer.” All this underground mob stuff could get really shitty like that.

  “We thought about that, too. But Petrov personally worked with the men who died, and from what
we can glean, they were good at their jobs. No mob guy is going to get rid of assets like that to make a point or set a trap.”

  Ellie frowned. “Okay, so basically, we want to know if Big Daddy Koslov is lying about arms dealing. If he’s not, then we want to know if maybe Lyev is doing it or if somebody else is, and using Big Daddy’s various businesses as fronts and killing off Petrovs because he wants their markets.”

  “Nailed it. The last thing anybody wants is a mob war between two powerful Russian families like this, especially when it’s so damn easy to get guns up the I-95 corridor. They could flood the city with them.”

  “That’s such a lovely thought, Rick. Thank you. As if we’re not already inundated with assholes.”

  He laughed, and Ellie looked at the photo of Marya and Lyev on the big screen again. “So what the hell does Marya Hampstead have to do with this?”

  “We don’t know. We’re trying to figure that out. We’re also trying to figure out what Hampstead’s relationship to Lyev Koslov is. And what he’s up to with her.”

  “When was this picture taken?”

  “Almost two months ago.”

  Ellie frowned, skeptical. “The guy’s a businessman. She’s a businesswoman. Her dad does international banking in the UK. These two probably met at a party or some dinner or something and had a fling. That’s how they do it in those circles.”

  “Totally possible. Except Daddy Hampstead spends a lot of time with Koslov holdings overseas, and we’re not sure what he’s up to. He’s been spotted in Moscow, cozying up to former KGB.”

  “Practically everybody in the Kremlin is former KGB, including Putin.” Ellie rolled her chair back to her desk and took one of her cinnamon Jolly Ranchers out of a drawer. She unwrapped it and put it in her mouth. “Businesses over there are probably full of ex-KGB, too,” she said around the candy as its spicy kick filled her mouth.

  “True. But Jonathan Hampstead has ready access to all kinds of international contacts, and he’d be able to get the money to help broker a few arms deals.” Rick sipped his soda again.

  “So we’re targeting her to get to Daddy Hampstead.” Her tongue burned a little from the cinnamon.

  “And Lyev Koslov.”

  “Even though she hasn’t been seen with him for almost two months.”

  “But he might be hanging out with her dad, still.” Rick gave her a look over his shoulder.

  “And what about Jonathan Hampstead? Maybe he’s taking care of all the Petrovs.”

  Rick studied her. “That thought has crossed my mind, but there is zero evidence to support it.”

  “Seriously?” Ellie raised her eyebrows. “Assassins-R-Us on the deep web. Burn phone. Meeting, payment, done.”

  “Again, we have zero evidence for any of that. And he’s an international businessman making money hand over fist. He doesn’t need to run arms.”

  “No, but people still do it, no matter how much money they make legitimately.”

  Rick shook his head. “We’ve got no evidence, Els. So let’s stick with what we know.”

  “Fine. Rain on my damn parade. When was the last time Marya saw Dad?”

  “A month ago in London. He’s British and based there. Plus, she has fashion shit she has to do all the time over there and in Paris. His ex-wife—Marya’s mom—is Greek. The ex still lives in London, too, and it seems she’s still cordial with dad and daughter. Marya is a British citizen, but like a lot of international business-types, that hasn’t been a roadblock to running Fashion Forward and living here. Read the file and see if you can fill in some holes.” He pointed at the screen. “We’re starting this op in about a week. By that time, you’d better know Hampstead’s favorite music, what wine she likes, and the kind of toilet paper she uses.”

  Ellie raised her eyebrows. “C’mon,” she said. “People that rich pay others to wipe their asses.”

  He laughed. “Then find out what the servants buy.”

  Ellie took a drink of cold coffee. “So how is this going to go down?”

  “We’re putting someone inside.”

  “Inside what?”

  “Hampstead’s outfit. Fashion Forward publications.”

  Ellie nodded, approving. “Ambitious. Who gets that job?”

  He grinned at her, like a shark.

  She stared at him. “Oh, no. Hell, no. I know nothing about that shit.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get you ready.” At her expression, he picked a piece of paper up from his desk and handed it to her. “Hampstead is looking for an intern.”

  Ellie didn’t read it. “No. I’m too old.” And she really hated everything to do with the world of fashion.

  “Tough economic times, all kinds of people take internships. Besides, we couldn’t set you up as another fashion mogul. Hampstead would see through that faster than you go through that damn candy.”

  “An intern?” she repeated and almost choked on the candy. Her throat burned, and she coughed.

  “We’ll take a few years off you. And get you a younger haircut.”

  “What’s wrong with my hair?” She picked up her smartphone and looked at her reflection in its blank screen.

  “Please. You’re about to enter the world of competitive dressing. They probably have secret arenas for their clothing wars. You need to look polished—not too polished—and definitely not cop.” He set the remote on his desk and picked up his soda again.

  “What does ‘definitely not cop’ mean, exactly?”

  Rick grinned again.

  “No. Rick, this is not going to work. I’m the last person for this job. What about Sue? She’s pretty. Put together. And she reads Cosmo. Bet she knows about this fashion stuff.”

  “Sue’s good, but you have much more undercover experience.”

  “Good time to break her in.”

  Rick set his soda down and crossed his arms, which made him look like some ancient guardian statue. “You have the experience and the chops for this assignment. Hampstead can be intimidating.”

  “Sue can be a total hard-ass.”

  “But we think your sunny disposition makes you the better match for Hampstead’s personality.”

  “That sounds really wrong.”

  He laughed. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you ready for it, and we even got you a fashion consultant.”

  She stared. “I dress fine. No complaints from anybody.” She chewed the rest of her candy.

  He cocked his head. “Not for this assignment. Didn’t you see The Devil Wears Prada?”

  “That right there is what this is. And Sue is a way better fit. Have you seen her when she’s in street clothes?”

  “Sorry, Els. You’re the pick.”

  She glared at him. “There’s no guarantee I’ll get the job, anyway.” She reached for another candy.

  “Not to worry. Here’s the folder on you and your new past.” He handed it to her. “You do have to knock ’em dead in the interview. Well, halfway dead will work, because Hampstead’s reputation as a bitch on wheels, I believe you said, means they’re not going to care too much what warm body occupies an internship. Temporary jobs like that, no problem.”

  She popped the fresh candy into her mouth. “When’s the interview?”

  “Three days.”

  She coughed again.

  “You’ll need to pack a few things. You’ll be based out of an apartment in Brooklyn, close to the bridge. It’s fully furnished, so just take clothes and sundries. Maybe some food.”

  “Oh, yeah. That,” Ellie muttered.

  Rick grinned. “And right now, you need to meet with your fashion consultant so she can get a sense of you and all your skin tones and your seasonal palette. Or however that works. I’m thinking you’re more spring,” he said as he motioned toward the door. “Though I know some blondes who look good in fall colors.”

  “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

  “You have no idea.”

  She grabbed another candy and followed him, wondering if com
bat boots were a thing yet at Fashion Forward.

  * * *

  Ellie watched another video from the recent Fashion Week in the city—which had taken place a couple of weeks ago. Marya Hampstead had given a rare, two-minute interview. She was almost cordial in this one, though still a little prickly. Okay, Ellie conceded. She was attractive, and someone who would turn Ellie’s head in a crowd. A helpful trait in the fashion industry, too, which relied on that sort of surface appeal. Plus, she sounded good. Articulate, well-formed sentences in a clear British accent. That probably got her major points on the American circuit. Because who didn’t love a James Bond-ish British accent on this side of the pond? That had to be hot, whispering in your ear with that.

  She clicked to another video. This one showed Hampstead entering a trendy nightclub in Los Angeles over Christmas. She gave a perfunctory wave to the paparazzi—seriously? They stalked fashion moguls, too?—and went in, with a guy on her arm who looked like he could have been a linebacker for the NFL. Ellie had seen the same guy in a few other videos, but Hampstead’s file said he was part of her security detail.

  Ellie ran the video back and paid more attention to the body language between him and Hampstead. Seemed platonic. But you never knew. Didn’t lots of straight female celebrity types bang one of their bodyguards now and then? She grinned. Probably lots of straight-acting celebrity dudes did, too. In this case, given Marya’s looks and accent, hell, if Ellie worked security for her, she’d want to hit it with the fashion queen, too.

  Her coffee was cold, but she drank it anyway as she ordered Chinese delivery. She’d spent the last two days in her apartment, studying Marya Hampstead, and memorizing her own background that Rick had provided. At least they let her keep her first name. Ellie recited her new life history again, making sure it came naturally. She already had a bunch of her regular clothes ready to go to the new apartment, and supposedly, the department was dropping off some clothing there from the fashion consultant.

  Christ. Fashion consultant. Ellie made a face, though the consultant was professional and actually easy to work with. Still, she’d never thought those two words would ever be mentioned in conjunction with her name or an assignment.