Naked Truth

by Jamie K. Schmidt

  “Call me Pam,” she said.

  “Call me anytime,” he said, and when he let go of her hand, his business card was in her palm.

  “Smooth,” Drake said. “A little creepy, but smooth.”

  “I’ve got to round up the boys and get an operation set up. Pam, call me if you need anything. Anything at all.” He winked at her.

  “Take a hike, Detective Innuendo,” Drake said, pulling Pam away.

  “He’s harmless,” Pam said.

  Drake grunted. “Shameless is more like it.”

  “Doc! Hey, Doc.”

  Pam automatically turned her head and was startled to see one of her patients, Chick Barnes. He was one of the patients Dr. Mastandrea had recommended that she talk to. She had been unable to keep him from checking himself out of the hospital.

  “Sit down,” a large detective told him, and Chick reluctantly sank back into the chair.

  “I didn’t do it, Doc. You’ve got to help me.”

  Pam looked at Drake. “He’s one of my patients. Can I talk to him?”

  “Houston,” Drake called. “My wit is his shrink. Can she talk to him?”

  “Sure, come on over. This should be good.” Houston tossed a baseball from one hand to the other. He looked like he should be playing professional football instead of sitting behind a desk. But he had a warm smile and kind eyes.

  “Thank you, Detective,” Pam said to Houston and then pulled up a chair to sit by Chick. “What are you doing here?” she asked him.

  “Some Trix robbed my cash register, and the fruitcake manager said I helped them. They had guns. And I’m a Rip.”

  Drake’s eyebrows rose. It wasn’t every day they got a gang member willing to talk so freely in the police station.

  “You’re not a Rip yet. You don’t have to go through with the initiation.”

  Drake and Houston exchanged a look. This could be the link they needed to find out which gangs were lighting the homeless on fire.

  “Yeah, if I was a Rip, they wouldn’t have dared cross me. And if they did, they’d fix the Trix.”

  “It wasn’t the Trix that got you here. It was the manager. Surely, once these gentlemen look at the security tapes, they can confirm that you weren’t helping them.” Pam looked from Houston to Drake.

  Houston picked up the phone. “I’ll review the tapes.”

  “Doc, I can’t spend another night in jail. My dad will beat the crap out of me. And my mother, she’ll kick me out of the house. I don’t know where I’ll go.”

  “Drake?”

  “It’s Houston’s case.”

  “Detective,” Pam said, “has he been booked yet?”

  Houston shook his head and put his hand over the receiver to say, “Formal charges haven’t been filed.”

  “And if the security tapes seem to support what Chick is saying?”

  “We’ll let him go,” Drake answered for Houston, who was leaving a message for what sounded like the store manager.

  “What if you can’t get the tapes tonight? Will he have to spend the night in jail?”

  Drake looked over at Chick, who was watching the conversation with dread and the slight glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You planning on leaving town?”

  “No, sir.”

  “If I let you go, I’m going to need a favor from you.”

  “What?”

  Drake handed him his business card. “If you see anything that don’t sit right with you, give me a call.”

  “What? Like be a rat?”

  “Weasel,” Houston said, hanging up the phone. “Rats talk for nothing. Weasels get paid.”

  Chick licked his lips and looked between the two detectives. “I’m not a rat.”

  “Never said you were,” Drake said.

  He took the card and slid it in his pocket.

  “So, can I go?”

  “You got a hot date?” Houston said.

  Chick looked Pam up and down. “Maybe.”

  Drake narrowed his eyes at him.

  “Chick, I think you should come to the hospital and talk to me tomorrow,” Pam said, ignoring the exchange.

  “I’m not crazy,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. “But sometimes it helps to have someone to bounce ideas off of when you’re not sure what to do. We can try some of the Reiki techniques that I mentioned.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.”

  Pam got up. “Excellent. Well, I’ll see you then.”

  “Bye, Doc,” Chick said.

  “Bye, Doc,” Houston said speculatively, watching the possessive hand Drake had on her back.

  When they got back to her car, Drake gave her the bad news. “I’ve got to work tonight. But the offer is still open to stay at my place. I’ll program the address into the GPS and give you the key.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “That would be weird. I’ll hit the Marriot by the hospital. I’m so tired, I can barely stand.”

  “I’m really sorry,” he said.

  “I understand. Be careful.”

  “You too. If anything happens, call the station. I’ll be out of cell range, but ask for Houston or Mark. Promise me. Even if you think it’s something silly. Better safe than sorry.”

  “I will,” she said and slid her hand down his arm to hold his hand.

  He caught her other hand and felt a little light-headed just looking at her. “I definitely want a rain check.”

  “Sounds good to me. Kiss me good night?”

  “I don’t dare,” he said reluctantly, but then, because he couldn’t resist the cherry promise of her lips, covered his mouth with hers. “Sleep well,” he said, making an effort to be brief, but his mouth wouldn’t stay away from hers. When her tongue darted in his mouth, he knew he had to get away or be lost.

  “I want you,” he told her and kissed her firmly again before springing back out of her reach.

  “Good,” she said and got into the car.

  He watched her drive away and, for the second time that night, wished for a cold shower.

  Chapter Ten

  Pam let herself into her office, making sure to lock the doors behind her. After pulling the blinds closed, she turned on the light. If anyone wanted to get to her, they’d have to get through building security and two locked doors. This was safer than the Marriot, and it had the extra bonus of being her own space. She didn’t think she could face the anonymity of a hotel room. She’d sit up for a bit and then catch a catnap in her treatment room. She’d light a few candles, put on music, and try to forget that this day had ever happened. But just in case sleep was elusive, she set the coffeepot to brew while her computer booted up.

  When she turned around, Darren stood in front of her.

  “Don’t scream,” he said. The door to her treatment room was open. He must have been hiding in there, waiting for her.

  He was a tall, brooding figure. His shaggy black hair hung down into his eyes. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. She could see the various tattoos on his arms and hand. There was a Madonna and child, in addition to marks and dots and slashes. She had no idea what they meant, but she knew they were some sort of status symbol in the gang he was involved in. His hands were the worst. He had tattoos that looked like rings on his fingers and a spider on the top of one hand.

  “What have you done to yourself?” she said.

  “Hello, Pavla.” His voice was thick with a Russian accent. It was as if he had decided that his native language was no longer English, or perhaps he had been speaking Russian for so long that it was now more familiar to him. Each syllable was heavy with Russian consonants. His voice reminded her of Vadim’s, but it didn’t frighten her as much. He wasn’t one of the Russians who had forced them out of the house the night their father signed over the deed. He just sounded like a vor thug.

  “I’m Pamela,” she said, trying to reach through to the brother she barely remembered. “You’re Darren. We’re American. You were named after the husband from Bewitched, and I was named af
ter the girl who played Nancy Drew. Our mother watched way too much television.”

  “I have no mother.”

  “Right, the stork brought you. I forgot. How did you get in here?”

  “I opened the door and walked in.”

  “You broke in.” Pam looked around the room, but nothing seemed out of place. “Why are you here? If it’s for drugs, you can just turn around and walk out. I am not Chris’s replacement.”

  “You’re in danger. I came to warn you.”

  “Why do you care?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t. But you have something I need to retrieve. In exchange for it, I’ll let you know how to remove yourself from the situation.”

  “Did you trash my apartment?”

  “It wasn’t me. But I know who did.”

  “It was Vadim Fomin, wasn’t it?”

  Darren winced. “No. Vadim wouldn’t attack your apartment. He would attack you.”

  “Gregor and Piotr, then?”

  “Exactly so. They want you to drop the charges.”

  “Not a chance.” Pam crossed her arms in front of her.

  “Then expect them to continue to be nuisances and vandals. If I were a betting man like your father, I’d say your car was next.”

  Pam tried not to react to the “your father” remark. “I don’t suppose you’re willing to tell the police what you know?”

  “Why should I? Can I have a cup of coffee?”

  Pam looked back at the finished pot, distracted by the turn of the conversation. “Sure. Sit down.”

  She sneaked a glance at him while he folded himself into one of her chairs. He looked lean and ragged, but there was enough muscle on him to show that he could take care of himself.

  “Black?” she asked.

  “How did you know?”

  “You’re a tough guy. Tough guys always drink it black.”

  He took the cup from her and waited until she made herself one and sat down.

  “What did you do with the drugs you bought from Chris?”

  “Why? Do you want some?”

  “You’re a drug dealer? Darren—”

  “Dmitry.”

  “If they catch you, you’ll go back to prison.”

  He shrugged. “I like prison. Free room and board.”

  “You like being locked up? Your liberty and freedom taken away?”

  “Liberty and freedom are overrated,” he said, looking down at his coffee. “Are you through lecturing me?”

  “That wasn’t even close to a lecture. Are you using?”

  “No,” he said.

  They stared at each other in stony silence until Pam deflated with a sigh. “So, what do you think I have that you want?” she said.

  “Nikolai Egorov was a patient of yours,” he said.

  “I’ve been through this with Oksana and the police. He was a nice old man. He wasn’t a saint, but he wasn’t a vor either.” She gave him a challenging look. “He didn’t know enough about anything to matter. Or if he did, then he didn’t tell me.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  Pam found herself staring at his inked hands in fascinated revulsion as he brought the cup to his mouth. “I know that he didn’t do drugs. He wasn’t involved in gambling, protection, or prostitution.”

  “You know quite a lot about this man you claim was just a patient.”

  “I saw him every week for a year.”

  “He was generous to you? Gave you presents?”

  Pam sighed. “Just say it. What was he supposed to have given me that has put me on the Russian mob’s radar?”

  “You mentioned what Nikolai wasn’t. You didn’t say he wasn’t a thief.”

  Pam looked down at her desk blotter. “It’s not my job to judge.”

  “You’re judging me.”

  “Are you a thief, Darren?”

  “You will call me Dmitry.” He said it mildly, but there was an undertone of menace in his voice.

  Pam wasn’t about to call his bluff. “So you think Nikolai stole something and gave it to me? What?”

  “Nikolai did a lot of traveling. Coincidentally, his traveling started about the time he started seeing you.”

  “What?” Pam said. “I’m not getting the connection.”

  “Nikolai had contacts all over Russia. He imported more than vodka and then sold it here.”

  “Without the vor’s permission?”

  Darren clicked his teeth and pointed his finger like a gun at her. “Exactly.”

  “It was the vor that killed him? Did they beat him up for not paying a cut to them, and it went too far?”

  Darren just looked at her.

  “What’s Oksana’s play in all this?” she said.

  “Oksana is losing power. The world of men is moving around her and leaving her where she belongs. She is nothing. She’s grasping at straws.”

  “Look, I’m just a psychologist and a Reiki practitioner. I don’t want to be associated with the underworld. Nikolai wouldn’t have gotten me involved.”

  “Nikolai was also an old fool. He thought he was brokering art that the Nazis stole from Russian museums. In some cases, he did buy authentic paintings and was able to sell them on the black market back in the States.”

  “He didn’t give me any paintings.”

  “He was also successful buying jewelry, coins, and medals.”

  “He gave me a Fabergé egg for Christmas last year, but it’s not real,” she said.

  “Are you sure? Show it to me.”

  “You’re an art curator? I didn’t realize they taught that in prison.”

  “The license plate class was all signed up.”

  Pam pointed to the paperweight she was using on the top of her filing cabinet. The egg had lost its sparkle, but the green glass was pretty in certain lights. It was heavier than she’d expected, so she used it as a paperweight.

  “He said he found it at a yard sale and thought of me.”

  Darren looked it over, opening it and turning it this way and that.

  “Is it one of the missing ones that Rasputin stole from Alexander the Second?”

  “No, I think it’s a Lord and Taylor knockoff.” He put the egg back on the papers.

  “It would help if you told me what you are looking for,” Pam said.

  “It would help if I knew myself. What else did he give you?”

  “He gave me a pendant. But it’s not anything rare.”

  “Let me see it.” Darren leaned in, putting his coffee cup down.

  Pam shrugged and opened her desk drawer. She pulled out her makeup case and unzipped it. Inside was a sturdy silver chain with a crystal dangling off it.

  “Why aren’t you wearing it?” Darren said, reaching for it.

  “It turned my neck green.”

  He leaned back with a sigh and waved his hand for her to put it away. “It was a long shot anyway. I’ll see that the vor do not bother you about this trivial matter, as long as you don’t mention my visit to your boyfriend.”

  “Drake’s not my boyfriend,” Pam said, and a little voice inside of her popped up with yet.

  “I was never here. Vy ponimayete menya?”

  “I understand,” she said.

  He turned to go.

  “Darren—Dmitry,” she corrected herself at his glare. “I’d like to see you again.”

  He shook his head. “We are not from the same world, you and I.”

  “Khuinya.”

  Darren raised an eyebrow, and his lips twitched at her vulgar choice of words. “Perhaps I was wrong.”

  “We’re no longer kids. We shouldn’t let what Dad did define us.”

  “It doesn’t,” he said, his voice hard and flat.

  “Then let’s get to know each other as adults. As kids, you were an okay brother.” She smiled at him. “I still haven’t forgiven you for putting the frog in my bed.”

  “He was cold.” A faint smile lingered on Darren’s face.

  “I got warts from him.
”

  “That’s a myth,” he said. “You’re a doctor. You should know these things.”

  Pam moved forward and held his hand with both of hers. “I want to know you.”

  He looked away. “I live a dangerous life. It’s a life I’ve chosen,” he spoke over her when she would have talked. “It is not under discussion. But maybe, from time to time, we could help each other.”

  “I’d like that. Maybe a cup of coffee when no one is looking?”

  He nodded. “Rule number one. You don’t ever come looking for me. I come to you. Got it?”

  “Sure,” she said, feeling a rush of happiness. She’d found her brother again.

  “Now, come on. I’m going to walk you out to your car, and you’re going to move it under the security cameras. Then you’re going to come back here.”

  “How did you get in here, anyway?”

  “You have flimsy locks. Hospital security is a joke.”

  “Then, am I safe here?”

  “You will be tonight.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Pam fretted, looking around the room. If she got cornered in here, she would be trapped.

  “Because, Piotr and Gregor will be too busy with your car.”

  “What about Vadim?”

  “Leave him to me,” Darren said.

  Chapter Eleven

  The September night wasn’t cold enough to keep Drake’s eyelids from fluttering in boredom. It was only 11:00 p.m., but the banter on the radio had died down as his backup settled in for a long night. He had been making his way along the docks, looking for any gang activity, but it seemed quiet tonight.

  Shuffling over the rocks, he sent a pair of rats squealing down to the waterline. When he sat down with his back to one of the wooden pilings, they got a little braver. He hissed at them and threw a rock. They eyeballed him but decided to move on to less active prey.

  The sounds of the water hitting the pier were soothing, and he found his mind wandering back to his godfather. McNally and Johansson were going down the addicts-looking-to-score route, but at least they weren’t completely willing to rule out the organized crime angle. The FBI guy who had come in due to the bombing at the Tasting Room was sticking around for a few days, poking his nose into the investigation. Normally, that would have set his teeth on edge. But in this case, the more hands the better.