Hot Mercy (Affairs of State Book 2) (3 page)

“Silencer?” Kramer echoed, almost a chuckle. As if she was confusing reality with a TV show. She was sorry she’d mentioned Bourne. To Kramer’s credit, he didn’t smile this time.

She wrapped her arms around her aching body and imagined bruises blossoming purple-and-green all over her. Like the kind librarian, the first police officer she’d seen had offered medical help. He’d call for an ambulance or take her to the hospital himself. A kind man. But Mercy refused, wanting to ID her attacker, the sooner the better.

“Didn’t anyone along the street notice that you were being chased by a man with a gun?” It seemed inconceivable to her, too.

“It was a monsoon out there. No one was on the street.”

Kramer tucked his chin and studied her dubiously. “Did you at least try to ask anyone for help?”

She groaned in frustration. “I was terrified he’d hurt anyone who tried to stop him.”

“Think. Other people must have been caught in the rain, were running for shelter at the same time you say he was chasing you.”

She couldn’t miss the telltale word choice.
You say.
In other words, you
claim
. He still didn't believe her.

She shook her head. “I honestly never saw another soul, although I suppose it’s possible. I was too preoccupied with staying alive to take notice of witnesses.” She took another sip from the Tardis. Having lost its initial scalding warmth, the coffee was beginning to taste more like liquid burnt rubber. She set the mug down with a defeated whack on the table. It seemed her attacker would remain free. To try again?

“Well,” Detective Kramer said, leaning back in his chair, “in the morning we’ll have a better chance of asking around. A couple of officers will go door-to-door, see what they can find out. Tonight’s a wash. Businesses are closed. Tourists gone to dry off in their hotels.”

Mercy flashed on the moments before she’d tumbled into the canal. She’d cast off her coat and before then… She dropped her face into her hands and swore. “My purse.”

“What about it?”

It was gone. Her head snapped up and she frowned, the nervous knot in her stomach tightening. “I thought he was after my purse. I threw it at him but he ignored it. My house keys. My driver’s license. If he went back for it, he’ll know my address and be able to get into my home.”

Kramer gave her a semi-sympathetic look. “Maybe you should change your locks. On your gallery, too.”

She’d kept the antique iron key that fit in the original lock in the gallery’s front door. Not exactly high-tech security, but that key had been dear to her, a link to past owners and Georgetown’s history. She’d ignored the advice of others and refused to have modern locks installed. Not that someone like
that
needed keys to break in. Keys just made life easier for an intruder. A killer! On the other hand, what good did locks really do? Nothing would prevent the man from simply walking into Passions during business hours and confronting her. She shivered, this time not from being cold.

“Detective.”

Mercy startled at the quiet but firm voice that came from the doorway, making them both turn to look.

An attractive, slender woman with cropped brown hair opened the door the rest of the way and stepped into the room. She wore a straight, navy-blue skirt and matching jacket, plain black pumps, no jewelry, and she didn’t look at all like a D.C. cop. She held up what appeared to be an ordinary business card then handed it to Kramer without showing it to Mercy.

The detective frowned at it. “Oh, great,” he muttered, the pinch of his lips saying otherwise. Mercy thought she heard a disparaging "Feds" under his breath.

Mercy stared up at the woman from the uncomfortable metal folding chair where she sat. “Who are you?”

The woman gave her a sliver of a smile, as if fulfilling a job requirement. “I’m Margaret Storey, an agent with Red Sands Consulting. We are working under private contract with the United States government.” She held out her hand. “It’s good to meet you, Mrs. Davis. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“It’s no longer Davis,” Mercy said, eyeing the woman suspiciously. What had she heard?

That Mercy was a trouble maker who had been banging on State Department doors and generally making a nuisance of herself—insisting the government remove the restrictions on her passport so she could fly to Europe and look for her missing mother? She'd learned about the freeze on her travel documents just days before she left with Peter, her ex, for Mexico City, although she hadn’t realized the State Department was manipulating her life in other ways until much later. The U.S. Government was cooperating with Interpol—supposedly to keep her from interfering with an ongoing investigation in Europe that somehow involved her mother. Or so they claimed.

“I’ve taken back my own name, O’Brien.”

“Then O’Brien it is.” Storey snapped around to face AC Kramer. “Ms. O’Brien was recently involved in a highly sensitive international—” she briefly weighed her word choice “—situation. My company has been engaged to follow up on that incident with her.”

Which was the first Mercy had heard of any such arrangement.

Kramer folded his arms over his chest and squinted at Storey, looking territorial. “Follow up in what way?”

“That’s for Ms. O’Brien and our people to discuss.”

“She didn’t mention her trouble tonight having anything to do with government work.” The detective tilted his head and observed Mercy as though she was suddenly of much greater interest. “What aren’t you telling me, Ms. O’Brien?”

“It might be better,” Storey said before Mercy could respond, “if she and I first spoke in private.”

“No way.” He shook his head. “If what you have to say to her has anything to do with shots being fired in my city, I need to hear what this is all about.”

A moment earlier he hadn’t been taking her seriously. Now he was not only curious, he wanted in.

“No, detective.” Storey's tone took on a metallic edge. “You and the local police have nothing to do with this. Classified information is involved.” She looked down at Mercy, who was too tired to do anything but slide further down in her chair while they worked things out. She imagined two jackals fighting over a bloody carcass. “Come.” The woman motioned her toward the door. “I’ll take you home and we’ll see to securing your house. Then you and I will have a little chat.”

Mercy didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what’s going on. Do you know why that man was trying to kill me?”

“I’ll explain later, in private.”

Kramer pushed himself up from his chair and stood, hands on his hips, chest puffed out like one of the spiny, puffer fish she’d seen in the National Aquarium, trying to make itself look as large and intimidating as possible. “If Ms. O’Brien doesn’t want to go with you, she doesn’t have to.”

“True,” Storey agreed, although her body language shouted unshaken confidence. “But if the attack on her has anything to do with a missing person’s report she filed some months ago...” She fixed a meaningful look on Mercy.

Despite her bone-melting fatigue, Mercy shoved up out of her chair and to her feet. “Wait! Seriously? You think this has something to do with my mother?”

Kramer scowled, looking utterly lost. “What the hell is going on here? First it’s an international incident and now… Ms. O’Brien, you didn’t say anything about someone going missing.”

“It doesn’t concern local police,” Storey repeated before Mercy could respond.

Kramer’s face went red. “The hell it don’t.” He took an aggressive step forward.

“Easy, boy.” Storey held up the palm of one hand as if warning off a large, aggressive dog. “If Ms. O’Brien prefers, and in the spirit of sharing information between law enforcement agencies, we can talk here. Although, I repeat, this is a delicate matter and we may discuss information you aren’t technically cleared to hear.”

Kramer scowled at her, face flushed. He visibly quivered with anger. “Lady, you’ve got no fucking idea what I’m cleared for!”

The agent’s eyes flashed. “Oh, yes I do, detective. Before I stepped into this room I knew just about everything worth knowing about you. So if you want to be included in this discussion you’ll sit down and shut up.”

Kramer stared at her in disbelief, pursing his lips in wary consideration.

“Call the number on that card I gave you.” She gestured with her chin. “They’ll sort things out for you.”

He glared at her as if he understood that the balance of power in the musty, little room had mysteriously altered.

Satisfied that she was sufficiently in control now, Storey turned back to Mercy. “Have you succeeded in identifying the man who was chasing you?”

“So far, no one in their databank looks like him,” Mercy admitted.

“Care to try a different selection?” She clicked open her briefcase with an air of everyday efficiency and brought out a thumb drive, which she slipped into the police laptop. A few keystrokes brought up a file. She angled the screen toward Mercy. “These delightful characters are known to be linked to international crime or recognized terrorist organizations. Enjoy.”

Kramer leaned in.

Mercy noticed that no names appeared with the digital photos. She wondered why but was too exhausted to ask. The temporary caffeine buzz was wearing off. What little energy she’d dredged up after reaching the police station had waned. Her entire body throbbed, and she longed for a hot, soothing bath, a double shot of brandy, and the oblivion of sleep. But she dutifully focused on the screen in front of her.

The first two dozen images meant nothing to her. Some were paired headshots—full face and profile—like those taken after an arrest. Others had a clandestine ambiance—taken outdoors or through a window, most likely with a telephoto lens. Kramer peered over her shoulder and grunted occasionally. Mercy hit the Page Down button, again and again and again. Faces began to blur.

Then…there he was. She sucked in a breath. A bulldog face with a permanent snarl. The man hadn’t yet shaved his head, but she was sure it was him. She recalled those same muddy eyes lasering down at her from the canal tow path—no more emotion in them than in the weapon he’d aimed at her.

To-do list: Fly to DC. Take in the Washington Monument and National Portrait Gallery. Lunch in Georgetown. Kill Mercy O’Brien.

She touched a fingertip to the screen, fear curling in her stomach. Bile rose at the back of her throat. She fought back the urge to vomit, swallowed with effort. “That’s him,” she whispered.

Kramer muttered, “Don’t know that one.”

“Ivan Yegorov.” Margaret nodded. “He’s a hitman for the Russian mafia. An enforcer in the Tambov Syndicate.”

Not the Mexican cartels after all. A second wave of nausea rocked Mercy. She thought back over the past few horrific months and the precious little she’d learned about her mother’s disappearance. Might Talia have somehow become involved with an Eastern European crime syndicate, as Interpol suspected? If so, nothing would have shocked Mercy more.

Before her father died, he’d been on the United States Senate Foreign Relations Committee. She remembered concerns he’d voiced to both of the women in his life: “No one quite knows the power of Russian crime organizations. As far as I can see, it’s just the KGB all over again—just as brutal in every way. Only this time they’re working for themselves instead of officially for the government.”

But what did Russian criminals have to do with her mother? The little she’d learned through the Washington grapevine and her own sources was this: Interpol had issued what was called a Blue Notice on Talia. The request went out to its 184 member countries, asking law enforcement agencies to provide information about Talia O’Brien’s location and activities. She had been spotted in Ukraine, and they’d found evidence in a Kiev hotel room—the last place she’d been seen—that led them to suspect her mother had been using assignments as a photojournalist to cover her activities as a paid carrier of contraband.

Protests from Mercy that her mother was obviously innocent and it must all be a mistake failed to have any effect. No amount of begging or calling in favors from her father’s powerful friends on Capitol Hill had bought her any help.

To the best of Mercy’s knowledge, Talia hadn’t been seen again after checking in to her hotel. But apparently neither the American embassy in Kiev, nor anyone else, could determine whether or not Talia was still in the region, or was even alive.

Mercy leaned forward in her seat. “It’s your theory that this hired killer might somehow be connected with my mother’s disappearance?”

“That’s one possibility.” Storey walked over to look out the single window in the room, hash-marked with security wire. “Interpol suspects that the same people who are running black market goods out of Ukraine are also hunting down your mother. They may have sent Yegorov after you.” The agent’s voice remained as calm as if she were describing a shopping trip to the local mall. “They may think you’ve been in communication with your mother. That she sent you evidence powerful enough to make trouble for them, or even destroy their business.”

Mercy stared at her, incredulous. But apparently no more so than Detective Kramer, whose jaw had dropped a good inch. “This is insane,” she said. “I’ve heard nothing from my mother since she left the U.S. months ago.”