by Ranjini Iyer
Julian sank into the couch. His eyebrows were furrowed. “Your father,” he said softly. “How awful. You must think me callous coming here looking for a juicy mystery.” He jumped up and took her hand. “Did you go to the police after the incident with this man, especially since he had broken into your home?”
“I was frightened. Besides, this man is probably in Germany now. And how do I explain his attack? Say that my father may have killed himself or been killed over some pills my grandfather found in India decades ago? Nazi Germany, India, ancient civilization. It’s all too out there for a police complaint!”
Julian’s eyes softened. “But I’m a stranger,” he said. “Is there no one you can confide in?”
There was pity in his voice. Max thought of the few friends she had, who for one reason or another had all left town. They were married and tied up with kids and families, living a life that was alien to her.
She missed them terribly, especially now.
Truth was, she had no one. Except Uncle Ernst.
“Uncle Ernst knows some of this, but I haven’t spoken to him since I met you,” she said flatly. “Talking about Lars and Papa upset him. I didn’t even mention the attack on us. He is old and unwell and he is all I have.” She was getting flustered. “If something happens to him because I involved him in this, I’ll never forgive myself. So yes, I suppose I have no one to tell.” She added with an air of defiance, “Unless you count my assistant, Kim!”
Max cleared the table and began noisily stacking the dishes by the dishwasher. Julian gently pushed her away and loaded the dishwasher while she wiped the counter and put away the leftovers. She covered Julian’s unfinished slice of flan with plastic wrap and put it in a box for him to take home.
When the kitchen was clean, Julian re-filled their wine glasses and led Max to the couch. They sipped their wine in silence.
Max stared into her glass, wanting to drown in its intense burgundy. “I’m sorry I got angry earlier,” she said.
“No worries,” Julian said. He turned to her. “Max, I’m not a criminal expert and I know nothing about chemistry. But I want to help. So tell me, how can I?”
Before she could answer, the phone started to ring.
Max answered. It was Lars.
“I’m calling from a neighbor’s phone,” he said. “Best if you call me back from a different phone.”
Max asked Julian if she could borrow his cell phone, and seconds later she had Lars on the phone again.
He spoke in choppy sentences. “I wanted to tell you something before you decide what to do.”
“Is it that yellow-haired beast again?” Max felt an icicle of fear run down her back.
Julian stepped closer and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Maybe,” Lars said. “My computer hard drive has been wiped clean. My place torn apart, my safe broken into. It has begun, Max. They probably know I gave them the wrong key. Have you found out anything? Are you coming to London?” It sounded like Lars was pacing, out of breath.
Max put a hand over her mouth.
“What is it?” Julian asked. Max held up a palm asking him to wait.
“I’m ready to leave town, Maxine.” Lars sounded close to tears.
Max tried hard to stay calm. “I have learned a few things from Opa’s diary entries. But I don’t know if they’re relevant.”
“Perhaps we should just let things be,” Lars said. “It’s safer that way.”
Max felt like she could die with relief. Yes, that was the way to do it.
A thought nudged at her. What if Lars’s disease progressed, and he was not around to help if she decided to do something? Then she’d have no one, absolutely no one to talk to who’d have any idea about her father’s work.
“I agree. That’s what we should do,” Max said, but not as forcefully as she had wanted to. “This is getting way too dangerous.”
She heard Lars exhale sharply. “If you change your mind and want to see me while I’m still healthy and useful, come. You’ll have to decide in the next two days.” With that, Lars hung up.
Max tried to smile at Julian. “Thanks for coming,” she said in an unnatural voice and handed Julian his phone. “Hope that call doesn’t cost you too much.” That was all she was going to be able to say without breaking down and becoming completely incoherent. “I really appreciate it.” She was starting to sound like a robot.
Julian took both her hands. “What is going on? Who was that?”
Max looked at the floor, pools of tears dangerously forming in her eyes.
Julian knew a lot already. What difference would it make telling him this, too? He would just be walking away after she told him, never to be seen again. She told him what Lars had said.
Julian’s face turned bright pink. His voice took on a lower timbre. “I cannot believe this man. I understand he was shot at. That is enough to frighten anyone. But he was the one that got you involved. He ought to at least—” Julian shook his head.
Max felt grateful for Julian’s support, but she couldn’t blame Lars. She too wanted to leave the whole thing alone now. Behemoth corporate villains, bleached blond assassins, computer drive wiped out, homes ransacked. Watching such things in a movie was tense enough.
Living it was hell.
But she mustn’t show her true feelings, for once the dam burst she’d be sniveling, snotty, and red faced like a small child. So unattractive. For once she was glad her shallow thoughts were helping her put on a brave front.
“If I were a stronger person, I’d go to London and do what it takes. For my father,” she said. “A part of me feels I should.”
Julian gave her an admiring look she didn’t deserve and couldn’t bear to face. She turned away.
They stayed holding hands, their faces lit by the dim floor lamp in her living room. Max wanted the moment to last forever.
She could almost sense a stranger’s fetid breath on the back of her neck with Julian’s sweet breath on her face canceling it out. These people were obviously keeping track of Lars’s movements, maybe even hers. What was she going to do? That blond meant business. How dangerous was this whole thing anyway? Could they be sure it was Berliner? Lars was assuming it. It could be someone else from the pharmaceutical industry using Berliner’s name. Goodness, could it be Kevin Forsyth?
Would she find a bullet in her mailbox like Russell Crowe had done in The Insider? News flash Max, you already got a bullet in your mailbox. Two in fact. One grazed Lars’s neck. And the second had been aimed at her face.
This was all so unfair. And to add insult to already grievous injury, Julian was leaving now, probably for his wife or girlfriend’s shapely arms. He hadn’t mentioned one, so maybe he was single. She ought not to think too deeply along those lines. What was the point?
“I don’t think I’m going anywhere,” she said. “But I couldn’t have done any of this without you. They’re such inadequate words, but thank you. So very much.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “I suppose I should say good night.” He gave her hands a little squeeze.
“Good night,” she said sadly. She wanted him to go.
And she wanted him to stay.
He let go of her hands. They dropped to her sides, limp and lonely.
Max looked at the dim floor lamp. She should change the bulb. It made the place look so damn depressing.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Julian was unable to leave. He couldn’t stand to see Max alone and sad, burdened by her family’s past. He so wanted to do something useful for her.
But he had said goodbye. He checked his watch. It was past 10:30 p.m. He had told Raquel he’d be back by ten. He felt like he was being unfaithful merely by being here in Max’s company.
Why had he not told Max about Raquel? What was wrong with him?
He didn’t know how else to explain it, but being with Max was easy. Fun. It was like being home. Comfortable. He didn’t want to ruin it by mentioning a girlfriend. Max seemed obviously att
racted to him. That meant he was leading her on by not mentioning Raquel. Surely, though, it wasn’t so wrong to enjoy Max’s adoring gazes if he wasn’t going to ever see her again, was it?
He looked at Max. She seemed mesmerized by the floor lamp. When she became thoughtful, like now, her flawless olive complexion turned transparent. It made her seem so much more delicate. Especially with those soft wispy curls around her face.
Stop! he almost cried out aloud. This was getting out of hand. He needed to walk out the door and go back to his life. To Raquel.
And yet in front of him was Max, temptingly Rubenesque. The generous curve of her chest, covered, with barely a hint of cleavage showing. So tantalizing.
Julian had tried telling Raquel not to obsess about her weight, which was a joke, since she weighed about a hundred pounds. Dining out was painful since she would only nibble at her food. If she did eat, it would be a salad. Julian had tried ordering foods he normally ate, but seeing her wistfully eye his juicy steak while she toyed with some greens had become too difficult, and they had started eating out less and less.
Max was pushing a curl away from her face. She turned to him, her eyes puzzled. Perhaps because he was still there.
Really now, he said to himself, you have a gorgeous, fantastic girlfriend. A good life. You did this sweet woman a favor. This mini adventure was fun while it lasted. Time to bloody go home.
He stepped outside. Max moved to the door and started to close it when Julian noticed that her eyes were glazed and remote, her mouth quivering. She seemed to be thinking a hundred thoughts, each jostling with the other.
“Max—” he began.
She looked at him. Expectantly, he thought.
He was about to open a door he had no business even touching. If what he desired was excitement, he needed to find another line of work.
But it was more than that, wasn’t it?
Was he drawn to Max’s innocent charm and vulnerability? Or was it simply that this woman actually needed him? With Raquel, he often felt out-loved by her laptop. He was being idiotic, of course. Stumbling blocks were part of any relationship.
But there was no denying that this whole business with Max had rejuvenated him in ways that he hadn’t felt in years. That meant the attraction he felt toward Max was solely because of this journey she had embarked on. Or was it sympathy? Neither was reason enough to risk what he had with Raquel.
“If you go to London or…if you need anything, call me,” he found himself saying. “I…I know London well. I went to university there.” He should stop right now. He was making an utter ass of himself.
Max nodded absently.
And now that he had made an ass of himself, it was time to mention Raquel.
But the words refused to come out.
Julian had taken a few steps into the corridor when Max started to close the door. He turned, rushed back, and gave her a quick kiss on her cheek. Without another glance at her, he left, his lips tingling with the soft electricity of her skin.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Pilsen neighborhood,
Lower West Side of Chicago
Aaron West was a slim man of about twenty-five. Five foot ten, with wispy reddish-brown hair, a waxy complexion, and a narrow, mousy face. He stood outside the new Big Bowl. The lunch crowd had dispersed. Aaron looked at the wallet he had just picked. Unbelievable. The guy had gotten out of a brand new BMW 7 series sedan wearing gold chains. Reeked of cash, too. Aaron threw the wallet away in disgust. Twenty bucks. One credit card—check ID, it said.
Plastic—the bane of his existence. And here in Pilsen! There used to be cash in this neighborhood, wads of it in every pocket, piles in every store. The business owners, mostly Hispanic, trusted only cash in their transactions. Aaron had friends who hit the ethnic grocery stores here and in other parts of Chicago—Indian, Chinese, and Mexican places—since these people kept so much cash around. But now, everyone was turning yuppie and the neighborhood was gentrifying. What a waste!
His cell phone rang. It was Geoff, the man who called himself Aaron’s pimp.
Aaron answered. “Got something for me?”
Geoff let out a laugh. He sounded tipsy. Aaron rolled his eyes. Geoff was losing control. He was becoming useless.
“Where you at today?” Geoff asked.
“Pilsen,” Aaron said tiredly.
“Dry day?” He laughed. “Not for me.”
“A man has to do something in his off time, which I seem to be having too much of.”
Silence.
“So do you have anything?” Aaron persisted.
“Well, it’s slightly different than your usual,” Geoff said.
Geoff brought Aaron computer hacking work. People wanting to get access to their ex-spouse’s bank accounts, disgruntled employees itching to install viruses on former employers’ mainframes. This paid well, but the work was starting to get sporadic. As a teenager, Aaron had picked pockets. He kept going back to it during lean times. He was constantly being tempted by Geoff to hold up pawnshops and grocery stores, but Aaron didn’t want that kind of exposure. Still, he would need to do something if the computer business slowed down any further.
“Come on. My landlord comes after me with a shiv these days. I’ll do anything, but no hold-ups, no guns.” Aaron could hear Geoff take a swig of a liquid he guessed wasn’t water.
“What a brave heart you are!” Geoff scoffed. “It’s a traveling job.”
Aaron was disappointed. “Traveling? Where?”
Geoff hadn’t heard, it seemed. “I can’t do it, Ricky and Nico are otherwise occupied right now, so all I had was you.”
Aaron sighed. Ricky and Nico were doing time for a Mexican grocery store break-in gone sour. “Why can’t you do it?” he asked. Geoff wasn’t one to let go of plum assignments.
“Smart ass, aren’t you? It involves going abroad.” Aaron let out a moan of protest as Geoff continued. “Maggie is pregnant and it’s not a good time.”
Maggie was Geoff’s self-proclaimed wife. But Geoff had another problem—one small matter of being an illegal immigrant from one of the numerous Russian republics.
“Where?” Aaron said.
“London, for starters. You’ll need visas if—”
“How much?” Aaron interrupted.
“Twenty grand!” Geoff shouted. “All you have to do is follow this girl and grab whatever it is that she gets her hands on. Easy mark. Just a fancy pickpocket job.”
“And your cut?” Aaron asked.
“A meager twenty-five percent.”
Aaron inhaled through clenched teeth. “Ten is what you usually take. And for doing exactly nothing.”
“You are being given an opportunity. I was asked to find a tough guy—a thief with serious skills. Not a soft computer hacker who snatches purses on the side. It’s a gift. Take it or leave it.”
Aaron sighed. “Where did you find this job, anyway?”
“Heard about it from the father of a friend. Why?”
“Nothing, I was just—”
“Ok. For you only, twenty-two percent,” Geoff said with a tinny laugh.
A young woman with a large Louis Vuitton handbag walked by, looking confused. Her entire being screamed “tourist,” with her Chicago Bulls cap, camera, and practical shoes. What the hell was she doing here? Sears Tower, Michigan Avenue—that way, Aaron wanted to point. He watched her fumble in her handbag, drop something, and bend down for it.
“So, what’ll it be?” Geoff said.
The woman started to walk away.
Aaron needed rent money and he needed it now. “Expenses?” he asked.
“I negotiated a grand more,” Geoff said.
The woman was hailing a cab. Aaron slid his phone into a deep pants pocket and glided up to her with practiced ease. There was no one around. He snatched her bag and started to sprint.
A police car turned onto the street a block ahead. Aaron felt his stomach tighten. The woman was screaming in a foreign language.
Aaron ran into an alleyway and entered a tobacco shop owned by his cousin Marco. From his pocket he could hear Geoff singing. He tossed the bag to Marco. “’Sup, brah!” Marco called and stashed the bag under the counter. Aaron took off his T-shirt and turned it inside out. It was white on the inside, black on the outside. He took off his baseball cap and tossed it to Marco, too.
The police car seemed to have taken off. Aaron’s heart slowed to a steadier beat. He gave Marco a nod and went to the back of the store.
He returned the phone to his ear. Geoff was still there. He was calling Maggie vulgar names. Aaron winced. Perhaps this trip to London was his ticket to start a legit business—a liquor store, a donut franchise even.
“Oi, you there?” Geoff said. “Got some rent money, I hope.”
“Yup, and yes, I’ll do it,” Aaron said.
Geoff let out a shout. “I told them you would. They won’t tell us who they are—it’s very hush-hush. But there’s an emergency number to call in case of trouble.”
Aaron’s ears perked up. “Whoa! Trouble? What kind?” Aaron lived on the less-than-right side of the law, but he liked to avoid unnecessary trouble as much as possible. That and any job that might involve blood. Aaron considered himself strictly white collar—the pickpocketing notwithstanding. That was artistry. And desperation.
“More than a paper cut, less than a knife wound,” Geoff offered.
Twenty thousand was not money to be easily refused, but Aaron needed some assurances. “You gotta give me more info than—”
Geoff sneered. “No pain, no gain, buddy.” Maggie was shouting for him now. “One of these days I’m going to off this woman, I swear.”
Aaron hung up.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Bengal Clipper Restaurant
Shad Thames
London
Max looked at her watch. 10:00 a.m. London time, but the middle of the night according to her body.
