by G. K. Parks
“How much for the room?”
“Planning a bachelor party or corporate event?”
“No, maybe just some quiet time.”
The bartender laughed. “We have several private areas available. For parties, we normally need advanced notice. For intimate meetings, we’ll add the charge to your tab. It requires bottle service. That’s about it.”
“Nice.” Although from the aged spirits on display and the bar’s marked up prices, bottle service would run a few hundred easy. Good thing I had the money because this seemed like the perfect place to unwind.
Twenty-six
I’d been showing up at the club regularly. I’d drink, flirt a little, and ignore the warning voice in the back of my head. The cops weren’t allowed in private venues like this, not without being invited in by the management, and I didn’t see that happening. So I should have nothing to worry about.
“The usual?” the bartender asked when I took a seat in the corner.
“Sure.”
He filled a glass and placed it on a napkin in front of me. The woman I’d been flirting with for the last week and a half spotted me and came over. She eased onto the stool beside mine. “Come here often, stranger?”
“It sure feels like it.”
“I know what you mean. I like the vibe. Chill, laidback, no one pawing at me, or fights breaking out.” She picked up her martini and took a sip. “But it’s far from quiet. I don’t like boring.”
“Who does?”
She spun on the stool to study me. “You never told me what you do for a living. Let me guess. International spy.”
“You got me.” I chuckled, picking up my own glass. “I’m guessing only a spy would recognize another spy.”
“Oh no, you’ve figured me out.” She put her hand on my forearm and leaned in closer. “Are you my contact?”
“The bird flies at midnight.” It was stupid, but it kept her entertained.
She laughed in delight. “The morning sun knows no flame.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t that a spy-like thing to say?”
“It is.”
“Good.” She sat up straight and fidgeted with her napkin.
We’d had exchanges like these several times in the last ten days. I always spotted her when she came in around 8:30. She’d grab a drink from the bar, wander toward one of the high-top tables, finish her drink, and dance. It never mattered if she was alone or with a couple of friends. She always found partners to dance with. After almost an hour, she’d wander back to the bar, take a seat, and talk to me. I liked our routine.
“Are you ever going to ask me to dance?” she inquired.
“I don’t dance.”
“Liar. I’ve seen you out there.” She finished her drink, and I gestured to the bartender to bring us each another. The second always went on my tab. “Men don’t come to clubs to drink alone at the bar. They come to dance. To meet people.”
“I met you.”
“You don’t even know my name.”
“We’re spies. We don’t exchange names.”
“That’s right. I almost forgot.” She picked up the fresh martini. “So aside from whatever spy game you might be playing, why do you come here every night if you don’t want to dance?”
“I like to watch.”
“Oh?”
“Not like that.”
“Sure,” she teased. “Whatever you say, Mr. Mystery Man.”
Screw it. “Do you want to grab a drink somewhere a little quieter and we can get to know one another better?”
“That has to be the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s not a line.” I jerked my head toward the thick door just to the side, indicating the private room. “If you decide I’m a jerk, you can walk right out, and your night isn’t ruined. What do you say?”
“Give me an hour on the dance floor first.”
“Go ahead. I’ll be here.”
She tugged on my hand. “No, silly. You’re going to dance with me, and the private room is my treat.”
After we were hot, sweaty, and a little out of breath, she dragged me across the club. She nodded to a different bartender, one I didn’t recall seeing before, and he tossed her a key to a different private room. Obviously, I wasn’t the only regular around here.
She unlocked the door and tugged on the handle. The heavy door opened, and she pulled me inside. The door hadn’t even fully shut when she kissed me.
“What’s that?” she asked, her hands had found their way beneath my jacket to the bulge behind my back. “Shouldn’t the hard thing be in front?” For the first time since we started talking, I noticed she had a slight accent. She reached for my gun, but I caught her hand.
“Hardware,” I took it out and placed it on one of the tables, “for the spy trade.”
The gun didn’t freak her out, which it probably should have. “Are you really a spy?”
“No, I’m a security consultant.”
“What does that mean?”
“I work private security.”
“Like a bodyguard?”
“A little higher up the chain than that.”
“It sounds dangerous.”
“Sometimes.”
She grinned. “I can be dangerous too.” She pushed me down onto a leather couch and straddled me. Her lips found mine, and whatever thoughts about what was happening trickled out of my mind.
The rear door opened, and she crawled off my lap. A cruel laugh left her lips. “You were right. He had no idea.”
“Excellent,” a man with a thick Russian accent said. “You did well.”
“That makes us even, no?” she asked, the accent even more pronounced now.
“Almost.” He reached into his pocket. “Let me give you what you are owed.”
Despite the thick tapestries and plush furnishings, the gunshot boomed in the enclosed room. I scrambled off the couch, but it was already too late. She was dead.
“Don’t be stupid,” the Russian warned, aiming at me.
Blood and tissue dripped from my once white shirt. I took a step back, hands raised. “Who the hell are you?” I stared down at her body, horrified. “Why would you do that?”
My eyes burned. A suffocating cloud of gunpowder had replaced the pungent haze of cigar smoke and fine spirits. I inched toward the table where I’d placed my nine millimeter. If only I could reach it.
“I wouldn’t recommend it.” The Russian toed the woman’s body out of the way, clearing a path to the oversized leather armchair which squeaked in protest under his massive frame.
“What would you recommend? I’d suggest Jenny Craig.” Not the time, Cross, my internal voice warned.
“Do you think that’s funny?” he asked.
“A little.” But nothing was funny. I wanted to kill him. “Who are you?”
“Vasili Petrov.”
His face meant nothing, but his name did. He was a Russian gangster. The Russian gangster.
Vasili reached into the box for a cigar. He put his gun down and trimmed the tip of the Cuban. “Have you ever seen what one of these can do to loosen a man’s lips?” He held up the single blade guillotine, a wicked grin on his face.
“Can’t say that I have.” Nor did I want to. I had to escape, but Vasili had brought two of his enforcers along for the ride. They blocked the only exits. I needed a weapon, but getting my hands on one would be tough. And taking out all three Russians without getting my brains splattered against the wall would be damn near impossible.
I couldn’t count on help to arrive. The back room of the club was private. Soundproofed. But even if it wasn’t, the pounding beats beyond the door would easily drown out weapons’ fire. No one would interfere, except maybe the waitstaff, and they’d end up gunned down in the process. I couldn’t let that happen. Why had I been so stupid to ignore the nagging itch that told me something was wrong?
How did I end up in this nightmare? None of this made sense.
What was going on? Why was Vasili after me? Stray thoughts entered and left my mind as my synapses misfired. I’d made a mistake somewhere along the line. But where?
He smiled, knowing he could take his time. He didn’t have to worry about the noise, which was exactly what he wanted. He examined the end of his cigar, put the cutter down, and struck a match. He rotated the Cuban, puffing slowly until the end glowed red. “Have a seat, so we can discuss your options, Mr. Cross.”
What options? This wasn’t a discussion. It was an execution, possibly a double-execution. I thought back, trying to clear my mind. What had I done to piss him off? Suddenly, a single possibility came to mind. Shit.
“You should have called my office and made an appointment.” My gaze drifted to the dead woman. I didn’t even know her name. Guilt and sadness flooded over me, but I held my emotions at bay. There would be time to mourn later, if there was a later. “You could have saved on the dramatics and bloodshed. We’re both businessmen. We should behave as such. Killing was unnecessary. Ruthless.” Rage boiled inside of me. Could I take him out before he killed me? The two enforcers standing at either end of the room made me think otherwise.
“I wanted you to understand how serious this is and the peril you face.” He jerked his chin at the couch. “Sit.”
I stared into the woman’s lifeless eyes and silently vowed Vasili would pay for this. “What do you want from me?”
“Cross Security interfered with one of my shipments and turned it over to the police. You have twenty-four hours to get it back.”
“That’s not possible.”
“You will make it possible or unfortunate things will befall you and everyone you know.” Vasili flicked the ashes off his cigar, letting them fall onto the dead woman’s thigh. He lifted my gun off the table, aimed, and fired a few rounds into her body. Then he unloaded the weapon and tossed it to me. “In case you were thinking of calling the police, don’t, unless you want to explain why you shot and killed Svetlana.”
I noted the gloves on his hands. He had come prepared. He set this up. He even knew her name. “She was one of yours,” I said, the realization coming too late. “Why did you kill her?”
“She stole from me. People shouldn’t take what doesn’t belong to them. I thought you could use the object lesson, right, comrade?”
“I’m not your comrade.”
“Fine. Have it your way, Mr. Cross. All that matters is you return my shipment. If not, I will destroy you. Piece by piece.” He puffed on the cigar.
“You should kill me now.”
“Who said anything about killing you? I need you alive. Dead men aren’t good at following instructions.” His gaze dropped to Svetlana. “There are plenty of other ways to hurt you besides death. An anonymous call to the police for starters. They have an axe to grind, no? How about I give them evidence of a homicide?”
“You can’t seriously believe you’ll get away with this.” Scanning the room, I memorized the details in case I had to prove my innocence, but the facts were against me.
“Get away with what? That’s your gun. Those are your bullets in her body. You’re the murderer. No one will believe otherwise. Now retrieve what belongs to me. Meet me at pier nineteen at this time tomorrow. Don’t be late.” The big Russian nodded to his men, and they yanked me off the couch, dragged me to the door, and tossed me into the crowded club.
I stumbled backward, pinwheeling my arms to regain my balance. I didn’t go down. Instead, I knocked into several people on the dance floor. A couple turned to give me the evil eye. The annoyance on their faces quickly morphed into revulsion and fear at the sight of the dripping blood.
“It’s okay,” I said, even though it wasn’t. I had to get out of here before Vasili opened fire on a few innocent bystanders or one of them decided to report me to the police. Ducking away from them, I removed my bloodied shirt and wrapped it around my unloaded weapon before tucking the bundle against my stomach and hurrying to the exit. Leaving the scene of a crime wasn’t advisable, but I didn’t think I had a choice.
Vasili wouldn’t call the cops. Not yet. But the gangster had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure I wouldn’t either. He had a plan. For all I knew, everyone and everything was part of it, from Svetlana spotting me to the unknown bartender who tossed her the key. It’d been a setup from the start. A slow burn. How far back did it go? Was Almeada involved? No, that wasn’t possible. He was my lawyer. We’d been through hell, but someone introduced him to the club. A coworker’s client. Which one? How far down the rabbit hole did this go? When did it start? What about the prostitutes who’d approached me in the other clubs? Had they been on Vasili’s payroll too? I didn’t know what to think. All I knew was I had to get out of here.
As I pushed my way out the front door, I cautioned one final look behind me. Thankfully, the couple I’d bumped into seemed to have forgotten all about me and had gone back to dancing and drinking. That bought me some time, but Vasili had put me on a clock.
Setting a timer on my phone, I slid into a waiting cab and gave the driver my office address. Then I dialed the only person I truly trusted. “Justin, I need you back at work. We have a problem.” I didn’t wait for a reply before hanging up. The specks of blood and fluid clinging to my undershirt distracted me from proper phone etiquette. I picked at a piece of brain matter as a wave of nausea rolled through me. “Don’t get sick.” I swallowed down the bile and let my forehead rest against the cold window. “You’ll figure it out. It’ll be okay.”
“Long night?” the cabbie asked, curious as to why I was mumbling to myself.
“You could say that.” I shook out the tremors in my hands.
The cabbie alternated his gaze from the road to the rearview mirror. “You feeling okay, buddy? If you gotta hurl, let me know, so I can pull over.”
“I’m fine.”
I forced my thoughts away from the sticky dampness I held in my lap. For the rest of the ride, I contemplated calling the police, but Vasili was right. They did have an axe to grind, and given the evidence, I doubted they’d believe me.
Thoughts of exactly what linked me to that club ran through my mind. Credit card receipts and my nightly chats with Svetlana worked against me. The cops would think I’d made a move, she refused my advances, and things went south. That’s what I’d assume.
What about security footage? I couldn’t remember where the security cameras were hidden in the club, but it could exonerate me. It’d prove Vasili entered the private room and shot Svetlana. I had to find out if such footage existed. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to clear my name otherwise, and even that might not be enough. “Who owns the club?”
“Hmm?” the driver asked, eyeing me through the rearview mirror.
“Nothing.”
The taxi came to a stop. “Here we are.”
I tossed the money into the front seat and stepped out of the cab. So many thoughts cascaded through my mind. I had to focus on one thing at a time. The problem was I didn’t know where to begin. After all, I’d never been framed for murder before.
Twenty-seven
Unlocking the door, I went straight to the bathroom and stripped down, desperate to wash her blood off my body. Was this destroying evidence? Would the police think I’d done this intentionally to conceal my crime?
Flashes came as I showered. This time, I couldn’t contain the bile that burned the back of my throat. Gagging, I hoped this was a nightmare, that I’d wake up, but that didn’t happen. Once I had my faculties in order, I rinsed my mouth and remained under the spray for a few minutes longer, compartmentalizing the facts. I had to pull it together and get to work.
I dried off and dressed from the waist down. Then I shoved my bloody clothes into a zippered plastic bag and wiped my prints off the gun. That wouldn’t solve anything. The weapon was registered to me, but it might slow down the police, should they come knocking. I washed my hands again, trying to recall everything I knew about gunshot residue.
“Lucien?
” Justin tapped on the bathroom door. “Are you okay?”
“I’m glad you’re here. Find out what kind of security system Club Nova has. We have to gain access to their footage, and monitor the police frequencies. Listen for any calls pertaining to a homicide, female victim, blonde, mid-twenties.”
“Right away.”
I checked the countdown timer and turned to grab a fresh shirt, catching a glimpse of the angel of death tattoo in the mirror. I didn’t get into this business to deal with death, quite the opposite actually, but death always found me. Thank goodness Jade was safe.
I went into the outer office. “Justin, when you get a chance, get Almeada on the phone. It’s about time my attorney answers a few questions.”
“Yes, sir.” He glanced at the bag in my hand. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“No.” I opened the top drawer in the cabinet. “Where’s the Knox file?”
“Look under pending.”
“Got it.” I took the folder and settled in behind my desk, scanning the contract we signed. Nothing in the research indicated Knox’s case involved anything other than recovering stolen property. It should have been simple. So what went wrong?
It had to be Knox’s gambling that had led to all of this. The hired muscle, Alexei Balakin, was Russian. Surely, he worked for Vasili. That’s the only way any of this fit together. The Russians must have stolen from Knox in order to make him pay his debt or to take his prized possessions as collateral. That would explain the professional break-in and the storage unit I found. But what if I was wrong?
After turning on the computer, I poured a shot of bourbon, needing something to calm my nerves. My fingers flew over the keys. None of my other cases or clients had any connection to organized crime. It had to be Knox. How could I have missed his connection to a Russian gangster? Why hadn’t I done a better job performing my due diligence?
I knew the answer. I just wasn’t ready to admit that I’d let Jade’s visit derail me this much.
