Crossing the Line (6 page)

Jim Brannon pulled up on the dirt road near the Russian’s house, and glanced at his partner Detective Jose Merino.

“At least we beat the press,” Brannon said.

In the fading light, a Dade County police car idled ahead of them, a white Camry next to it. Two uniformed officers stood with a man wearing a dirty t-shirt and ripped jeans. The perimeter had been taped off. Brannon recognized one of the officers and sighed with relief. Mike Sherwood wouldn’t have allowed anyone to trample the scene.

“Hi, Mike. What have we got?” Brannon asked.

“Two bodies. Man and woman who lived in the house.” He consulted his notebook. “Vasily and Irina Novikov. No sign of a break-in. Door unlocked. Guy who discovered them.” He nodded in the man’s direction. “Friend of theirs. Edgar Chavez. Says he didn’t touch them. He and three friends were here playing cards last night. Novikov didn’t turn up for work today, didn’t answer his phone and he came to see why.”

Chavez walked over with his hand out. Brannon ignored it. “Did you turn on the lights?”

“No.”

“Dogs were in the shed?” Brannon could hear them barking.

“Yeah. They’ll need feeding.”

“They bad tempered?” Jose asked.

“Yep.”

“Call Animal Control,” Brannon said to Mike. “If you’d wait here, Mr. Chavez, while we look inside.”

The two detectives stopped by the door, put paper booties over their shoes and tugged on gloves. Jose carried the camera while Brannon made notes. Not hard to miss the large number of empty beer cans and the playing cards.

“No sign of a struggle,” Jose said.

They moved slowly and methodically across the room to the door opposite and over to the bed where the woman lay. Jose pointed to the pillow and took a photograph. “Bloody fingerprints?”

“Looks like it.”

“Something’s been wiped up by the bed.” Jose took another couple of shots.

Brannon nodded at the medicine. “Sick lady.”

He lifted a picture frame from the dressing table. The Novikovs on their wedding day, the fat-cheeked bride barely recognizable as the woman on the bed.

The next door led to the bathroom. Brannon glanced in before moving on. There might well be evidence in there, but there was no body. The dark, coppery smell of blood was strong now. He heard the flies before he saw them. Jose groaned and started snapping. Brannon took mental pictures.

Blood had dripped and pooled on the wooden floor in a congealed mess like some grisly Rorschach test. This looked to be the primary crime scene though he took nothing for granted. They moved closer to the body, but didn’t touch it. Brannon noted the wounds at the neck and back, the knife in the guy’s hand.

Jose photographed, then lifted the items of clothing lying on the floor and took a wallet from the pants. “Vasily Novikov. Fifty last month. Thirty-two dollars in cash. Credit card receipt for gas dated two days ago.”

“So where’s his vehicle?”

“Look, another knife.” Jose pointed under the bed.

Brannon grunted. He sketched the layout of the room and the position of the body. This cautious walk through showed they were in for a long night.

They went back to talk to Chavez, who was scuffing his boot on the ground.

“Any idea why they’re dead?” Jose asked.

Chavez shrugged. “Maybe Irina died and Vasily killed himself. She had cancer. I know the doctors hadn’t given her long.”

“What were they doing when you left?”

“Irina was asleep, Vasily was fine.”

“Much drinking?”

“Yeah, but not Setter. He drove.”

“Very commendable,” Brannon said. “Playing for money?”

“Peanuts.”

“Who won?” Brannon asked.

Chavez hesitated. “We…we were about even.”

“No-one on top?” the detective pressed.

“We split the proceeds.”

“What did Novikov drive?”

“Chevy pickup. It was here last night.”

“We’ll need you to give a formal statement.”

“Sure, no problem.”

The glare of headlights suddenly lit up the scene.

“Evening, boys.” Dr. Jack Caldwell, the medical examiner, got out of his car. He called all policemen “boys” regardless of age. Brannon reckoned it saved him having to remember names. The female cops were “ladies.” He wouldn’t risk calling them girls.

Caldwell followed the two detectives to the house and pulled on a pair of gloves. Brannon filled him in and watched as the ME checked the medication next to the bed, made a note and then examined the woman’s body. He took photographs of his own, leaned over her and sniffed a couple of times. He checked Irina’s scalp, worked down one side of the body and then the other before the three of them turned her for him to do everything again.

The ME sighed. “I’d put time of death around eighteen hours ago. Lividity fixed on her back. She’s not been moved post mortem. She was also in the terminal stages of cancer. These are strong drugs. She could have died in her sleep. No sign of strangulation. No obvious petechial hemorrhages.”

“We wondered about the pillow,” Brannon said.

Caldwell cocked his head on one side as he regarded the position of the pillow on the floor and the bloody fingerprints. “Suffocation? Okay, roll her over, boys.”

He checked her eyes again. “Mmm. I’ll see better in the lab.” He examined her chest.

“What you looking for, doc?” Jose asked.

“See these buttons at the top of her nightdress? If she was suffocated they might have damaged her skin as they were pressed against her. I’ll bag her hands. She has long fingernails. Might have caught the killer herself.”

“Could she have killed her husband and then overdosed?” Brannon suggested.

“Doubt she was capable. And why not take all your tablets? None of these bottles are empty. And there’s no blood on her. Thought the guy was stabbed?”

In the other bedroom Caldwell grimaced at the number of flies and put on his mask. He went through the same methodical examination of Vasily.

“Interesting. I hope the crime scene technicians aren’t in too much of a hurry.”

Interesting meant not straightforward. Brannon recognized Caldwell’s language. Although elaborate and fascinating forensic evidence was an increasingly popular feature of TV shows, it only turned out to be critical in relatively few cases. Since you couldn’t know which ones they’d be, every procedure had to be followed to the letter. Still, Brannon felt in his gut that old-fashioned police work would most likely solve this case. Find the motive—money, love or power and you were partway there.

The ME left and CSIs arrived, swarming over the house like robotic white locusts. Dressed head to toe in protective gear, they checked everything with painstaking precision. Armed with the tools of their trade, they tweezed, vacuumed and patiently lifted evidence into specialized containers. Nothing was left untouched, even the garbage. Wood’s Light showed semen traces in several places in the bedroom where the man’s body had been found. Lumi-light revealed previously invisible blood tracks on the floor in both bedrooms and the bathroom. Someone had attempted to remove incriminating evidence.

It was Brannon’s job to find that someone.

Katya played a slow, easy piece by Grieg aware she was being watched by one diner in particular, a good-looking, dark haired man with hooded eyes and a hard smile who sat at a table with an older bald guy and two young blonde women who appeared to be twins. They were drinking expensive champagne. The women were fawning over the older guy but not the good-looking one. No one on the table tipped her.

Too much to expect Viktor Petrenko to be dining here. What would she do if he walked in? Panic fluttered through her and her bow slipped. She forced herself to concentrate. She’d already annoyed Dimitri by not buying shoes. She didn’t want to get sacked for making diners wince.

When it was time for her break, she went to the staff room. The television was on but muted. A Russian newspaper lay on the table and she read as she ate mushroom
pelmeni
. Some instinct made her glance up and she saw Vasily and Irina smiling at her from the TV. Her fork fell from her hand. The item was over before Katya could make her legs move.

Had her name been mentioned? Were the police looking for her? She shook too much for her to play. She muttered apologies to the maitre d’, told him she was sick and paid for a cab to take her back.

In the hotel, she flicked to Fox News and waited with her fists clenched and heart racing. When the photograph of her aunt and uncle filled the screen, she stopped breathing. The news reporter stood near the house, yellow crime scene tape flapping behind her.

A friend had found them.

The deaths were being treated as suspicious.

No mention of her.

Sleep took an age to come and though Katya tried to escape to somewhere happy, her dreams dragged her to her own private hell, where she struggled to escape dozens of pawing hands. She woke entangled in the sheet, soaked with sweat, and didn’t close her eyes after that.

The following morning she paid for another night and bought a paper. She read the front-page article twice to make sure she missed nothing. Headed “Russian Couple Found Dead,” there was no mention of a niece, or Russian visitor. She’d given their address on her immigration form. How long before the police came looking? Or maybe it was like Russia where everyone filled in forms but no one did anything with them.

After a day cowering in her room, she persuaded herself the situation wasn’t so bad. The men who’d raped her hadn’t given her name to the police because they knew what she’d say. She might be safe for the time being.

She called Dimitri.

“Katya. Our very own Cinderella.”

“I’m sorry. I felt too ill to play.”

“If it happens again, tell me. I’ll have Nik take you home. I expect you tonight.”

Katya suspected Dimitri didn’t believe her, but at least he’d asked her to return. She felt sure Nik had been told to collect her that first night. Things were already sliding out of her control.

* * * * *

Jim Brannon reread the four statements, closed the file and tossed it on his desk. The men agreed on the time they arrived and left, what they ate and the number of beers they drank. Their designated driver, Setter, claimed he hadn’t drunk. Corroborated by the others, although too late to be confirmed by blood test. But they’d all come up with different details about the card game, the one thing he expected them to agree on. Playing for peanuts, or big money? Had Novikov cheated and someone decided to even things out? Though these guys didn’t look or act as though they had big money to bet with.

They’d managed to trace a relative of Novikov’s who lived in Brighton Beach. He hadn’t seen his cousin in years so didn’t see why he should bury him, unless of course he’d left him money.

Jose came in and put another file on the desk. “CSI’s prelim report.”

“Interesting reading?”

“Oh yeah.”

Brannon groaned as he read. “I want all four of them back, no warning.”

The fingerprint guys had been busy. Novikov’s prints had been everywhere, including both knives. According to the ME, the wounds were unlikely to have been self-inflicted. The wife’s prints had been confined mainly to the room where she’d been found. The four men had left prints everywhere but her room.

Far more interesting was the presence of fingerprints that belonged to none of them and the collection of long blonde hairs. The print size indicated a female; the same prints had also been found on the murder weapons with a partial on the pillowcase. So they were missing a long-haired blonde. In addition, four grand had been stashed in the dog shed which could relate to the men’s indecision about the card game.

On closer examination of the wife, the ME had found minute petechiae, webs of ruptured capillaries inside the lower eyelids, evidence she’d strained her neck while struggling. He’d also discovered button marks on her upper chest. The crime lab had found saliva traces on her pillow. Had the blonde killed Novikov before she suffocated the man’s wife? Had one or all of these four guys killed Novikov, his wife and the blonde, but buried her somewhere?

“Our four guys guilty?” Jose asked.

“Of something. Maybe they planned a guys’ night in, but playing cards wasn’t the only activity. They took a prostitute out there and who knows what happened after that. We need the CSIs to work their vehicles, especially Setter’s.”

“A hooker explains their prints in the bedroom, multiple semen traces,” Jose said. “Maybe things got out of hand. They killed her, hid her body. Or she killed Vasily and Irina and they killed her. Maybe they hid the money thinking we wouldn’t find it and they could retrieve it later.”

“Get the canine unit in.”

That evening, Katya started with the theme to Schindler’s List. It was a solo she loved, but a bad choice. Her throat thickened with emotion. The next piece by Tartini was hardly better. She tried to cheer herself up by playing Classical Gas. Didn’t work for her, but earned a round of applause from the diners.

By the time she took her break she felt drained. As she walked out of the dining room, Dimitri stepped in front of her and she jumped.

“Steady, Katya.”

“Sorry about the shoes. I’ll buy some tomorrow.”

“Your bare feet are growing on me.” He smiled. “I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

He led her to a table in the corner occupied by the good-looking man who’d stared at her the previous evening. Tonight he was alone. As they approached, he stood. He wore a business suit and red tie, and was three or four inches taller than her with eyes as dark as his untidy black hair.

Dimitri backed away and she fought not to do the same.

“Katya. Do you have another name?” the man asked in perfect English.

“Not that you need to know.”

He laughed. “I’m Aleksei Viktorovich Kusmin.”

His accent was more European than American. He offered his hand. Katya shook it and a tremor ran through her as if she’d stepped onto an unsafe bridge. She couldn’t deny her attraction, though he was too good-looking not to have a girlfriend or be married.

“Please join me. Would you like champagne?” He poured a glass without waiting for an answer.

She slid into the seat next to him.

“I’ve enjoyed listening to you play, though I think you should choose more cheerful tunes.”

“I play to suit my mood, Aleksei Viktorovich.”

“Please call me Aleksei. You should play to suit the mood of people eating here.”

She fought not to squirm under his intense gaze. “Do you have a request?”

“Why are you so sad?”

Her skin prickled. “I don’t know that one. Hum it.”

He smiled. “It’s said the violin is the instrument of angels and devils. I can’t make up my mind which you are.”

Butterflies took flight in her belly and zoomed into her throat. He’d not stopped staring but neither had she. She thought he might be the most handsome man she’d ever met.

“You played The Devil’s Trill by Tartini. That should give me a clue, though with such beautiful hair you look more like an angel.”

He’d named the music to impress her and it had, but this guy oozed…danger. Nothing she could put her finger on, no scars, no flashy jewelry, just something in his controlled manner, his attentive gaze that warned her to be careful.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re sad?” he asked.

“I haven’t met my quota of damned souls today, but things are looking up.” She made herself smile.

He chuckled. “Dimitri tells me you trained at the Moscow Conservatory.”

She nodded.

“And had the honor of playing for Putin.”

“And his dog.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How long have you been in Florida?”

“Not long.”

“Where are you living?”

“In a building.”

He stared at her.

“In a building, in Miami,” she said.

“And?”

“In a building, in Miami, in America.”

He sighed. “Do you have any friends here, Katya?”

“Lots. Do you?”

“No.”

“Don’t people like you?”

He smiled. “Maybe I don’t like most people. But I find you interesting.”

“I’m not.” She swallowed hard.

He leaned forward. “What color is your underwear?”

“What?” But she knew what she’d heard.

“Is it a matching set? Does it rip easily?” He caught her arm and pulled her ear down to his mouth. “
Ya hochu tebya trakhat’
.” I want to fuck you.

Her earlier anxiety turned into well-defined fear. She jerked from his grasp, slapped his face hard, grabbed her violin and walked out of the restaurant to the sound of stunned silence.

The moment she reached the street she wished she could turn back the clock. She’d over-reacted to a
dolboy’eb
she’d have ignored in Moscow. She’d had nothing to eat, not been paid, nor picked up her tips. She was furious with herself. She’d lost sight of the importance of this job, not just because of the money, but Petrenko might eat at a place like The Sturgeon. Maybe Aleksei knew him.
I should have laughed in the dickhead’s face, not slapped it. I’m an idiot.

She’d thrown away the chance to start what she’d long-planned because of some vague feeling she’d put down to anxiety that was probably hunger. And now she’d waste more money on a cab. Tomorrow she’d use public transport. Tomorrow she’d go to the university and see if she could begin work earlier than arranged because without money she could do nothing. Tomorrow she’d start all over again.

Far from being deterred by Katya’s rejection, Aleksei was even more intrigued, though he’d miscalculated. He’d expected her to freeze in shocked horror and instead she’d slapped his face. He dragged his fingers over his cheek. It still stung. He could have rushed after her and apologized, told her he was just trying to find out what sort of woman she was, and it was true, but Aleksei didn’t chase tail.

He poured himself another glass of champagne and wondered if he was going to break his own rules.

* * * * *

Ethan tried to take his mind off his disastrous personal life by throwing himself into sorting out his home. He tossed out belongings he’d paid a fortune to store for the last few years, and disposed of the furniture. A quick trip to Fort Myers to order a new bed, a large couch and a fridge, then a zip around to pick out stuff to re-equip the kitchen and he ran out of steam. Resisting the temptation of another cold beer was an effort, and uncurling his toes from the edge of the deck a chore.

He’d set up the hammock between the trees, but wanted someone in it with him, tickling him until he fell out like Sarah had done, but it was Katya he imagined lying next to him, her lips pressed against his ear. Then he had to go inside before some sharp-eyed neighbor figured out what he was doing with his hand in his pants.

Vacations weren’t much fun on your own. He could have asked Katya to come with him for a few days and instead he’d snuck out on her. Going to bed with her had been the wrong thing to do, but there was no point beating himself up about it now. He just hoped like hell Katya wasn’t up to anything or his indiscretion in Paris might end his career.

After a cold shower, he greased his bike and cycled round the JN “Ding” Darling wildlife refuge, but instead of taking his time and stopping to stare at the blue crabs and birds, he’d ridden as though it was a race. Things he thought he’d enjoy seemed pointless on his own. Even early morning runs failed to live up to his expectations, not because the running wasn’t great but because he wanted Katya at the house to share breakfast.
Shit.

He checked his emails and found a response from his former boss acknowledging the update on Katya and advising Ethan to discuss her with Frank, his new boss. What was there to discuss? She’d said and done nothing suspicious. She was here to teach. No reason to suspect otherwise.

Ethan poured a glass of juice and clicked on to the Miami Herald website. The glass clattered down when he recognized Katya’s uncle, Vasily Novikov. He read the story and read it again on Fort Lauderdale’s
Sun-Sentinel
site
.
No mention of Katya.

“What the hell?” he blurted.