by Lakes, Lynde
Published by Evernight Publishing at Smashwords
http://www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2012 Lynde Lakes
ISBN: 978-1-77130-019-3
Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs
Editor: Marie Medina
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To my supportive husband who took me to Russia, the lovely and generous teacher Nadia, who went out of her way to teach me “Russian For Travelers”, and my friends Sara Rice, Lavon Lowen, and Winona Prette, all talented ladies.
And to those who worked to bring this special memory-filled novel to my awesome faithful readers: My publisher Stacey Adderley—EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING, my editor, Marie Medina, my cover designer, Sour Cherry Designs & the acquisitions manager Marie Buttineau. A big thank you to you all.
RUSSIAN CONNECTION
Lynde Lakes
Copyright © 2012
Prologue
Pre-dawn cast the San Bernardino Mountains in a profusion of purple and cloaked the alley off D Street in deep shadows. Dayd Radlavich glanced at the rear door of the bar at the end of the alley—an all-night entrance and exit used primarily by a select few of their favored Russian clientele. It was lit with one lone, dim gaslight that blinked eerily, dimly as though aware of the violence here and diffused in reverence to the dead.
The sounds of a city awakening—motors, voices—sent adrenaline charging through Dayd’s veins. Ignoring his racing heart, he tightened his jaw and stared down with cold, hard eyes at Luke Brown’s lifeless body lying next to the overflowing garbage can. He dared to breathe only shallowly to ward off the mingled foul odors of stale beer, rotting food and acrid blood. He crouched to help his muscled, bear-like partner Boris Mussorgsky search Luke Brown’s pockets. Darkness made it difficult to see the objects they were removing. But they could sort through the items later. When he caught a glimpse of Boris tucking Luke’s wallet into the inside pocket of his jacket, he whispered, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Keeping in the shadows, they ran for two blocks down the nearly-deserted sidewalks, past small shops with their wrought iron gates still padlocked across the entrances. When he and Boris passed the empty corner parking lot, they turned, ran west across a street, glad to catch the green light, and sprinted directly into an all night diner. As they entered, the smell of grilled burgers, onions and coffee gave him a sense of reaching a safe haven.
Still breathing hard, they glided smoothly into a burgundy naugahyde booth in the back. The only other customer was a burly drunk at the counter, hunched around a mug, staring into it with half-closed eyes. Dayd held up two fingers to the lone waitress, a rail-thin bleach-blonde in her thirties. She slid mugs of steaming coffee in front of them, and then returned to the front, well out of hearing range, and got back to the mindless task of filling salt and pepper shakers.
Dayd knew this was one of Luke’s hangouts and that the bastard had a way with the ladies. If Luke was one of the blonde’s regulars, would she miss him? How many broken hearts had he strewn across the globe? How many women would mourn him? How many would spit on his grave?
Dayd shook his head. Daem, he cursed in Russian. Even the death of an enemy plunged him into his own hell. He downed a gulp of nearly scalding coffee, needing its bracing rush to get him back on track. “Luke Brown’s death hasn’t solved our problems,” he told Boris. “It only changed the rules and intensified the danger.”
Boris gave a curt nod as he shuffled through the dead man’s wallet.
The cigarette dangling from his mouth sent smoke curling upward into his silvery gray eyes, deepening his perpetual squint.
Dayd studied Boris, his muscle-bound, blond partner, whom he affectionately referred to as The Bear, wondering why he was staring transfixed at one of the pictures. “What’s so damned absorbing?” he asked.
The Bear laughed and handed the wallet-sized, professional wedding photo to him. “Nikki Brown makes a lovely widow, nyet?”
Dayd ignored the way his heart did a flip-flop when he looked at the auburn-haired beauty. “She’ll do in a pinch,” he growled. “But she’s not a widow. Apparently the marriage was over before it started. According to my files on her, the lady discovered Luke’s perpetual philandering within the first few months of their marriage and called it quits. Her divorce was final two months ago.”
“If she’s moved on, why have we been watching her?”
“Because Luke still keeps belonging at her place, and we don’t know the extent of her involvement. The way he marched in and out of her place before someone iced him, there could still be a business connection. And we can’t take chances.”
Dayd studied the nuptial photo. The lovely ex wore a floor-length wedding gown with a cinched waist that showed her curves to their full advantage. Her thick auburn hair curled loosely about her face. Fighting the way her smile tugged at his heart, he let out a savage oath in Russian. The blurry photo attached to his file on Nikki Brown definitely hadn’t done her justice. What else wasn’t clear and dependable in the file?
“Don’t let the woman get to you,” Boris warned.
“Who says she is?” Dayd growled. “I just wondered if she still has any feelings for Luke, and how she’ll take the news. Some women carry a torch for their bad-boy husbands even after they kick the loser out and divorce him.”
“If so, she’s a fool. Luke was slime with a capitol S and she’s well rid of him.” Boris chuckled. “Maybe she’ll cheer.”
“She doesn’t look like the type. Even if she didn’t want to be married to him, his murder might still hit her hard. And, depending upon her involvement in his business, it might also scare the hell out of her.”
Dayd felt a knot forming in his gut. He was no stranger to relaying bad news, or the queasy feelings that dropping such bombshells aroused in him. For years he’d fought soul-eating memories by closing down his emotions. Looking at the photo of the angel-faced woman reminded him he couldn’t always bury his feelings. Or protect the innocent. But was she innocent? That was the million-dollar question.
Boris tossed him Luke’s driver’s license. “You’ll need this, too. I wonder how much Nikki Brown knows about Crpax.”
The knot in Dayd’s gut tightened. Crpax aptly meant arm-of-fear in Russian, and spreading terror was what that deadly branch of the Russian Mafia was known for. “Anything is too much.”
Chapter One
Dayd rang the bell and waited. He listened for footsteps. Nothing. Daem, the angel-faced Nikki Brown was in there. She’d arrived home an hour ago, at exactly 5:00 P.M. He’d given her time to settle in, hoping to catch her off guard. He jabbed the button repeatedly. Still no answer. He shifted his weight. Come on, come on. He pounded on the door. Silence. He pounded harder. If he ever got her to come to the door, he had to remember to speak English only.
Finally, the door swung the open and there she was—red-rimmed emerald eyes blazing, startling Dayd with their ferocity. “Look,” she said. “I’m sorry, but whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. And you didn’t have to pound on my door like that.”
He folded his arms and glared at her. “If you’d answered the blasted door—”
“There’s no law that says I have to open my door to pesty solicitors or anyone else. Except maybe the police.”
Sparks electrified the air between them. Her eyes widened, as though she felt it, too. She stepped back and started to slam the door in his face. He blocked it with his booted foot, and flashed his phony ID. “Police. Detective Radlavich,” he growled. “It’s important.”
“What is?” She pulled her robe high around her neck. Aromas of soap, shampoo, and a hint of wine floated from inside, intoxicating him.
He gestured inward with his head. “Not here. Inside.”
She looked him up and down with doubting eyes. “Where’s your police car?’”
“Undercover.” After another searching once-over and a prolonged hesitation, she stepped aside. As he passed, he caught another whiff of wine on her breath and the enticing shampoo fragrance. She followed him into the living room. He paused and looked around, not sure the best place to seat himself to gain an advantage. She gestured toward an upholstered chair. A bottle of Chablis and a half-empty wine glass sat on the coffee table. Could that be to get over Luke? Was she sorry she’d divorced him? Had she been chasing away her tears with booze? Or did she already know her ex-husband was dead and was celebrating? No, the red eyes blew that theory. Or did it?
She sat down on the couch facing him and her robe parted slightly, exposing well-shaped calves and ankles. Her photo had stirred him, but to his discomfort the flesh-and-blood woman got to him on decidedly more levels, the most dangerous at the moment was pure animal lust. He squared his shoulders. Concentrate on the goal, Radlavich. Get what you came for and get out. Before he could take action, a fawn-colored Siamese cat with brown tipped ears and tail appeared out of nowhere and gave its nerve-jangling yowl. His neck muscles tightened. The familiar squall always triggered an image of that bloody dawn, years ago. Even now he could hear the ear-splitting shots and the cat’s mournful wail. He caught another whiff of wine and wished he had a double shot of straight vodka. But even a whole bottle wouldn’t erase the pain.
The cat jumped up on Nikki’s lap, circled twice and curled up in a ball. She stroked the Seal Point with slender fingers. To block out the lingering echoes of the past, he imagined those fingers stroking him, and cursed silently as his jeans tightened against his zipper. That was the thing about a vivid imagination—it tended to get out of hand.
He shifted against the cushions and glanced around. There weren’t any photos of Luke in the room, yet pictures and knickknacks of felines filled the walls and tables. She even had a black coaster with white cat paws imprinted on it. Did the absence of pictures of her ex-husband mean she’d gotten him out of her system? It would be easier on her if she had.
Shock tactics might uncover the truth. “I have bad news.” His tone sounded like a growl, but for her safety he had to do this cold and hard.
Her wary gaze locked on his and intensified. “About Luke?” she asked, coolly.
Suspicion prickled Dayd’s spine. Why did she jump to that conclusion? Was she in on his murder? Dayd watched her, afraid to miss any change in expression, any flicker of her eye. With that scrubbed, wounded face, he didn’t want to believe she could be guilty of anything.
He’d expected someone with a little more sophistication. Her husband had been a worldwide traveler. If she were in the scam with him, wouldn’t she be more cunning and a smooth talker like Luke? Instead, her demeanor was straightforward and surprisingly spirited.
“Perhaps you should call a friend to be with you.” Dayd prided himself on his official tone. He didn’t want her to call anyone. But it wasn’t a big gamble. From what he observed, he was confident that she was too eager to hear what he had to say to wait.
Nikki clasped her hands around the now napping cat. Her candid gaze unsettled Dayd in ways he refused to examine. “If you have something to tell me,” she said stiffly, “please get on with it.”
Good, he’d read her right—she had an independent streak. Dayd cleared his voice. “Your ex-husband is dead, Mrs. Brown.”
Nikki’s liquid, emerald-green eyes widened. “Luke’s dead?” Her voice wavered. She paled and raked her tangle of thick auburn hair. “I don’t understand.”
She seemed swallowed up in her cream-colored robe. He repressed a rush of compassion and flipped open a notebook. “I need some information,” he said, intentionally gruff.
She stared at him without blinking. “So do I. What happened?”
“Mr. Brown was murdered. We think it was connected to his work. Do you know anything about his business?”
Nikki leaned forward, disturbing the cat, who leapt from her lap and streaked from the room in a blur of brown and beige. “You tell me someone murdered my ex-husband and in the same breath you ask about his business?”
Just as Dayd had planned, her grief turned to anger. He’d rather deal with rage than tears.
She glared at him. “How was he—”
“I’m working against time,” Dayd interrupted. “His killer’s on the loose.”
“Killer on the loose,” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. Her unblinking stare bore right through him.
Silence thundered between them and seemed to last an eternity.
Finally she straightened her shoulders. “I want to see his body.”
“His remains are still at the crime scene. No one unofficial is permitted there. When his body is moved to the morgue in about an hour, I’ll take you there. Now, please, his business?” Dayd repeated in a husky voice he hardly recognized as his own.
Nikki glowered at him a moment longer, then gave a sigh and said, “Luke was a salesman. He sold computers and software in Russia.”
Dayd knew that much. Luke had worked between Moscow and St. Petersburg in the Golden Ring cities of Rostov, Vladimir, Suzdal and Zagorsk. “What else?”
“I don’t know.” She lifted her chin. “He could sell anything—to anybody.” Her low, sad tone reveled that she included herself among the gullible.
Dayd felt her pain settle deep into his bones. “How long did you know Brown before you married him?”
“What difference does that make? It was a short courtship and a shorter marriage.”
The AC clicked on and wine and clean female scents swirled around Dayd, making him far too aware of this divorcee. How long had it been since she was in a man’s arms? How long had it been since he had a woman in his arms? “Please,” Dayd encouraged gently as he moved to the couch and faced her. They were less than six inches apart now. He had an urge to cover her hand with his, but knew with the vibes jetting between them it was unwise.
She didn’t move away but she flushed and looked down at her fidgeting fingers. He repeated the question. “How long did you know Brown before you married him? It’s important.”
“Six months,” she said softly, “but with him out of the country most of the time it probably boiled down to only about six weeks. It was sort of a whirlwind romance.”
“A crack salesman like him can be very persuasive.”
She went unduly still, her eyes condemning Dayd. He felt like crap.
Why was he feeling so sorry for this woman? He was only doing what he had to do—and trying to do it without bringing on any waterworks.
Chapter Two
Nikki crossed her arms tightly across her chest, trying to hold herself together. The Detective was wrong. Luke couldn’t be dead. This was a mistake, a horrible mistake. If only they’d let her view the body, she’d clear it all up. “You can’t be sure it’s Luke.”
“It was him. You can count on it—positive ID.”
Another search of the Detective’s grim face told her it was true. Nikki buried her icy hands in the pockets of her robe. Did this cop expect her to cry? Any tears she might shed right now wouldn’t be for Luke. Any feelings she’d had for him were long gone. He’d brought another woman into her home. Into her bed. She couldn’t forgive that. But he was gone forever… She held herself rigid, and curled her fingers into a tight ball as a sea of unexpected emotion swelled in her chest and tried to escape. I won’t cry. Then, she realized she coul
dn’t. Had she already shed all of her tears? A silent moan constricted her throat. Luke would never walk through that door again. And that’s what she wanted. But not this way.
Was there something wrong with her that she could only mourn her destroyed marriage—her destroyed trust? She’d made it a rule to hold a tight rein on her emotions in front of people, but why couldn’t she get beyond her anger and loss over his unfaithfulness to at least silently grieve his death? She wanted to, but— “You said Luke was murdered. How?”
“Stabbed in the chest—quick, professional. I doubt that he suffered.”
Stabbed in the chest…didn’t suffer. This man had the sensitivity of a newt. “Who killed him?” She didn’t understand how her voice could sound so calm when she was screaming inside.
“Like I said, it was professional. We’re considering some suspects.”
The officer’s words spilled out, quick, steely. The hardness about him and his sense of urgency clamped onto her like a vise and wouldn’t let go. She searched his face, looking for a trace of human warmth. If there was any, she didn’t detect it. She shivered, chilled by his lack of emotion.
Was this tall, imposing man really a policeman? He was dressed totally in black, from his turtleneck sweater to his shiny boots. He’d flashed some sort of identification, but she hadn’t looked at it closely. She felt a twinge of fear. He looked more like a Mafia wiseguy than a cop. She clutched her robe at the neck, fighting not only her qualms about him, but also an inappropriate attraction that made no sense. “You are from the police department, right?”
“Badge number 1640,” he said.
His voice was strong, vital and stirringly deep. Did she detect a hint of an Eastern European accent? The thought shook her—Luke worked primarily in foreign countries. Was there more involved than the local police? Everything about this supposed cop screamed secrecy, control. Even the resolute way he smoothed his midnight black hair from his forehead revealed a sense of power.
