“Who is this?”
“Not on the phone. I must meet you.”
Dana hesitated. Then she asked, “Where?”
The man told her before disconnecting. Dana sat back and thought. Tiffany Starr was the only person connected to the Blair case who had this number, so the man had to have gotten it from Tiffany. Who would she have told? Charles Benedict was a possibility, but the man who called had an accent, possibly Russian. He wanted to meet in an industrial park, which would be deserted at night. That was not a good sign. Still, Dana could not pass up a possible lead, so she collected several weapons and headed out the door.
Dana braked Jake’s Harley, stopping at the curb in front of a vacant lot. She took off her helmet and hooked it on the motorcycle’s handlebars. The lot was in the middle of an industrial park. Darkened warehouses and deserted offices crowded around the rubble-filled space. A cold wind whipped through the empty streets. Dana did not like the setup. Just as she was wondering if she should leave, the headlights on a parked car came on and the car’s engine started. Moments later, a black Cadillac Escalade parked in front of her bike and a man got out.
Dana’s first thought was that he was huge and thick, like a professional wrestler. Then he raised his head and she saw the ski mask. Before Dana could react, Gregor was on her. She kicked at his leg but the blow had no effect. Gregor punched Dana in the chest. Her motorcycle jacket absorbed some of the blow, but it was so strong that she found herself on the ground gasping for air. Gregor pulled her to her feet. When she was standing, he wrapped a thick, gloved hand around her throat and pushed her against the side of the SUV.
“Nice,” he said. His voice was low and sensual, and the sound made Dana’s skin crawl. Then Gregor’s tongue flicked out of the hole in the ski mask and he licked her cheek.
“You are tasting very sweet, very fuckable.”
Dana’s heart surged in her chest. Nightmarish memories of the gang rape flooded her. Gregor’s other hand found its way between Dana’s legs and he began to rub rhythmically.
“This is feeling good, no? You are getting hot. Soon you will be wanting me to fuck you, no?”
Definitely Eastern European, maybe Russian, Dana thought as she slipped her hand behind her back.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she whimpered, words she knew her attacker wanted to hear.
“Listen good.” Gregor tightened the grip on Dana’s throat. “You have been asking questions about Barry Lester. This you do not do no more. If you don’t stop putting your nose where it do not belong I will fuck you until you bleed. You understand?”
“Please,” Dana begged.
Gregor grabbed Dana’s crotch hard and she winced.
“You no like pain? I like pain. No more questions, understood? No more Blair case for you, understood?”
Gregor loosened the grip on Dana’s throat.
“Tell me you understand.”
“I understand,” Dana said.
What Gregor did not understand was Dana’s natural reaction to being accosted sexually. The last four men who had done that to her had died hideously, their bodies chopped in pieces by ax blows.
“If I hear you have not obeyed me, I will come to your house in the middle of the night and I will—”
Gregor stopped making sense as his threat became a high-pitched scream. His hands fell away from Dana and he staggered backward. Dana’s knife was jammed to the hilt in his crotch and she followed him, twisting the blade viciously before pulling it free.
Gregor lurched backward. He was in shock. The pain was unbearable. Dana smashed her fist into Gregor’s nose. She didn’t know if it was the blow itself or the pain that brought him to his knees. She didn’t care. She kicked him in the temple with the steel toe of her boot, then stomped his head against the sidewalk until she was certain that he was unconscious. She was about to land a blow that would finish Gregor when she stopped in mid-strike. She wanted to kill, but the time she’d spent in therapy at the mental hospital saved Gregor Karpinski’s life. The man was not planning to kill her or rape her. He was a messenger sent to scare her, and that crime did not carry a death penalty.
Dana’s chest heaved and she brought her breathing under control. Her attacker’s crotch was damp with blood and she knew he would die if he didn’t get medical help quickly. Dana couldn’t use her own phone because the call could be traced to her. She searched the man’s jacket pocket and found a cell phone. She used it to call for an ambulance.
What should she do next? If she stayed and the man died, she would be out of commission for as long as it took for the DA to decide that her use of force had been justified. She could not afford to be idle. She had to find out who sent her attacker.
What would happen if she left? She was wearing gloves, and the man had not drawn blood, so there would be no prints or DNA to connect her to the scene. If the man died, she would be home free. If he lived, he wasn’t going to give her up. To do that, he would have to confess to attacking her.
Leaving was a no-brainer, so Dana straddled her bike and drove off. When she felt safe she called Frank Santoro.
“Who is this?” the detective asked. His angry tone told Dana that Santoro had been asleep.
“We have to meet right away,” Dana said.
“It’s after midnight. I just fell asleep.”
“Tough. I just escaped being raped by someone connected to Horace Blair’s case.”
Chapter Forty-One
“Come on in,” Santoro said as soon as he opened his front door.
“Do you have any scotch?” Dana asked.
Santoro filled a glass with a little bit of ice and a lot of Johnnie Walker and handed it to Dana. She sat on the sofa in the detective’s living room and downed half of the glass.
“Are you ready to tell me what happened?” Santoro asked.
“Can you promise me you’ll forget you’re a cop?”
Santoro hesitated. Then he nodded
“I might have killed someone tonight.”
Santoro stayed calm. “Might have?”
“He was alive when I left but there was a lot of blood.”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me what happened?”
“I talked to Tiffany Starr yesterday but she wouldn’t tell me anything. Around eleven I got a call from a man who told me he would prove Barry Lester was lying if I met him at an empty lot in an industrial park. When I got there he threatened to rape me if I didn’t stop investigating the Blair case and Barry Lester.”
“What did you do?”
Dana looked down. Now that the adrenaline had worn off she felt sick about what had happened.
“Dana?”
“I stabbed him in the crotch.”
“Holy shit!”
Dana’s head snapped up and she looked fierce. “I did what I had to do to save myself, and I’d do it again. It was a clear case of self-defense, but I would have been answering questions and put on ice for who knows how long if I’d stayed, and I can’t afford that.”
“So you just left him to die?”
“No. The man was just a messenger. I called 911, but I left before the ambulance arrived, so I don’t know what happened to him.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I have to find out who sent the man who attacked me so I can neutralize the threat.”
Santoro had done some checking on Dana Cutler, including a look at the police file that detailed how Dana had dealt with the bikers who had kidnapped her. There were crime-scene photos in it. Santoro had seen some bad shit over the years, but these photos almost made him lose his lunch. After seeing the photos there was no doubt in Santoro’s mind what Dana meant when she used the word “neutralize.”
“There’s no way I’m going to help you kill someone,” he said. “If that’s where this is going, count me out.”
Dana stared into space for a moment. Then she nodded.
“What can you tell me about your attacker?” Santoro asked.<
br />
“He wore a ski mask. I was so anxious to get away that I didn’t take it off, so I can’t tell you what he looks like. But you shouldn’t have any trouble identifying him. The guy is huge. Not fat. Well built, like a heavyweight boxer. And you shouldn’t have any trouble finding him. He’ll be in a hospital or the morgue.”
“Is there anything else you remember? Any scars, tattoos?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s Russian or from somewhere in Eastern Europe.”
“Now, that is interesting,” Santoro said. “The odds are that Russian muscle would be connected to Nikolai Orlansky, and Charlie Benedict has represented members of Orlansky’s crew.”
“I’d forgotten that.”
“Yeah, well, you had other things on your mind.”
A sudden thought occurred to Santoro. “Do you think Tiffany Starr might be in danger?”
Dana turned pale. “I’m sure this guy came after me because Tiffany told someone about my visit. The person she talked to is probably the person who told her where Carrie Blair was buried.”
Dana looked worried. “Tiffany is a junkie, and junkies can’t be trusted. If I killed Blair and Tiffany told me a reporter had come around asking questions, getting rid of Tiffany would be my top priority.”
Santoro stood up and walked toward his bedroom.
“Where are you going?” Dana asked.
“I’m getting dressed. We’re going to drive to Starr’s apartment and see if she’s okay.”
Tiffany did not answer her door.
“She’s a stripper. She could be at a club,” Dana said.
“I hope so. Because she could also be dead.”
Dana thought for a moment. “Wait in the stairwell.”
“Why?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Dana had been inside Tiffany’s apartment so she knew it didn’t have an alarm system, and the bolt was pathetic. As soon as Santoro was out of sight, Dana jimmied the lock. Twenty minutes later, Dana was walking downstairs with the detective.
“She’s not in the apartment but I did find an ATM receipt of a recent two-thousand-dollar deposit.”
“A payoff for telling Barry Lester what to tell the cops?”
“Could be.”
“Did you see anything that made you think Starr was in danger?”
“There wasn’t any sign of a struggle or blood, if that’s what you mean.”
“Look, Dana, I’ve been thinking. If Nikolai Orlansky sent the guy who attacked you, you’re in a lot of trouble. Orlansky is completely ruthless, he has no conscience. He views killing people as a business strategy.”
“But he wouldn’t know I’m involved. I used a false name when I talked to Starr.”
“Then how did this guy get your number?”
“I gave her a business card identifying ‘Loren Parkhurst’ as a reporter for Exposed.”
“Orlansky is smart, Dana. With the lead to Exposed he’ll figure it out.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that you leave town for a while. I know how tough you are but it will be next to impossible for you to get to Orlansky, and he can get to you anytime he wants.”
“I’m not going to run. And what about my boyfriend? I’m living with someone I care about. If Orlansky is as ruthless as you say and he can’t find me, he might try to get at me by threatening Jake.”
“Good point, but I think I know a way to protect both of you. Is there any part of this investigation you can do out of town, because I’ll need a little time to see if it works.”
“There’s something I was going to do that would take me away from D.C.”
“Then do it. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come back. It shouldn’t be long.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Dana got home a little after two-thirty. Jake woke up when she entered the bedroom. Dana sat on the side of the bed.
“We have to talk,” she said.
The only light in the room came from the moon, so Dana’s face was in shadows. Jake couldn’t see her expression, but he could hear the tension in her voice. He sat up.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was attacked tonight.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, and the man who attacked me isn’t. I took care of him. But he was working for someone who wants to scare me off a case, and I’m worried that they might try to get at me through you.”
Jake was wide awake now. “How serious is this?”
“Very serious.”
“Shit.”
“I’m sorry, Jake. I’d never have gotten involved if I had any idea I might put you in danger.”
“I know that.”
“I’m working with a homicide detective who told me to go out of town for a day or so. He’s working on something that he thinks will make the threat go away. Why don’t you come with me?”
“Where are you headed?”
“Kansas City. We’ll leave in the morning.”
Dana was packing when Frank Santoro called.
“There have been two developments,” the detective said. “Neither one is good, but one is interesting.”
“Tell me.”
“Tiffany Starr is dead.” Dana felt the air go out of her. “A jogger found her body in Rock Creek Park. Stabbed in the heart. It looks like a robbery—her purse is missing and she wasn’t wearing any jewelry.”
“But you don’t think robbery was the motive?” Dana asked as she shut down her emotions.
“It’s too much of a coincidence,” Santoro answered.
“You said there were two developments.”
“Last night, a man named Gregor Karpinski was admitted to Georgetown Medical Center. He’d been stabbed in the balls and had his head kicked in. The beating was pretty brutal.”
As soon as Santoro detailed Karpinski’s injuries Dana’s pulse shot up.
“There’s a connection between Karpinski and Barry Lester,” Santoro continued. “Lester was in general population in the jail. Then he was placed in isolation because he had a run-in with Karpinski. Karpinski is a beast, six five and solid muscle, and he works as an enforcer for Nikolai Orlansky. Barry Lester is a little shit with almost no muscle and no record of violence. The jail incident report states that Lester bumped into Karpinski, then called him an asshole.”
“You think the fight was staged to get Lester into isolation?”
“That’s precisely what I think. Karpinski doesn’t breathe unless he gets permission from Orlansky, so either Nikolai wanted Lester in isolation or he was doing a favor for someone.”
“Have you asked Karpinski if he was ordered to beat up Lester?”
“He isn’t in any condition to answer questions.”
“Will he pull through?”
“The doctors can’t say yet. There’s something else. Four years ago, Karpinski beat an assault charge. Do you want to guess who his lawyer was?”
Chapter Forty-Three
Kansas City, Missouri, was founded in 1838 at the confluence of the Missouri and Kansas Rivers and had grown into a picturesque city of boulevards, parks, and fountains. Dana and Jake had checked into a hotel a few blocks from the Plaza, an upscale, outdoor shopping and entertainment district that was famous for being the first suburban shopping center in the United States specifically designed to accommodate shoppers arriving by automobile. The blighted urban area into which Dana was driving seemed as far from the condos, museums, upscale restaurants, and nightclubs of the Plaza as Earth was from the moon, but it was only a short distance by car from the heart of downtown.
Dana had dressed in a severe business suit but she wondered if she was overdressed. The neighborhood she was in was a strange mixture of lots filled with abandoned tires and rotting furniture that were patrolled by feral cats, well-tended single-family dwellings, and trashed, ruined, and looted homes with shattered windowpanes. Sullen young men stared at her as she drove by, and she spotted gang colors she’d learned to ide
ntify during her stint with the D.C. police. What she did not see were happy couples strolling behind baby carriages or neighbors talking over white picket fences. Why make yourself a target?
Just as she’d given up on the neighborhood, Dana suddenly found herself in an oasis of modern middle-class homes with newly mown lawns. Dana parked in front of a fifties ranch-style home with a peaked roof and stone-and-wood siding. The house was set back from the street, and a slate path led across a manicured lawn. A minute after she rang the bell the door was opened by a slender African-American man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a Kansas City Chiefs sweatshirt and neatly pressed jeans.
Dana had seen Roger Felton’s name in the newspaper article detailing the execution murder of the two drug dealers. She had gone to police headquarters in Kansas City and learned that Felton was living with his elderly father in the neighborhood where Felton had grown up.
“Detective Felton?” Dana asked.
“I was,” Felton answered as he eyed Dana suspiciously. “I’m retired. How can I help you?”
“My name is Dana Cutler.” She held out her identification. “I was a police officer in Washington, D.C., but I’m private now. I’d like to ask you about a case you worked on about twenty-five years ago.”
Felton scrutinized her ID before stepping aside and ushering Dana into a large living room that was illuminated by the sunlight that streamed through high picture windows. An elderly man who was breathing from an oxygen tank sat in a wheelchair across from a stone fireplace.
“That’s my dad,” Felton explained. “I live in Florida, but he had a stroke and I’m back here to help him out.
“This is Dana Cutler from Washington, D.C.,” Felton told his father. “She wants to ask me some questions about an old case.”
Felton turned back to Dana. “He has trouble speaking, but Dad is still sharp.”
Felton sat in an armchair and motioned Dana onto an identical chair that was standing on the other side of a walnut end table. A photo of a much younger man who strongly resembled Felton’s father and a smiling, heavyset black woman stood in the center of the end table next to a lamp.
Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler) Page 18
