In Sheep's Clothing (4 page)

Ten minutes later, she felt nearly soused herself, courtesy of the wino beside her. She gulped fresh air as she stumbled off the bus. Approaching the Youngs’ building, she noticed Leonid’s blue
Zhiguli
was not parked in front. She’d held out a slim hope he’d actually check in with Evelyn, not relishing the day hiking around town. Still, as much as she needed a lift she had to admit to some relief. The guy gave her the creeps. He ogled her like a starved lion. Her irritation died in the face of the alternative. Hoofing was definitely safer.

Gracie shuffled into the dank corridor and called the Youngs’ lift. It wheezed to life and lumbered down six floors. Shivering, she wondered why someone didn’t clean the cobwebs, hanging Spanish-moss–fashion from the dark corners. A pile of old cigarette butts, crushed juice boxes and plastic bags added a musty odor to the shadows. She smirked as she read the new chalk graffiti on the already well-decorated walls—“Natasha loves Slava.” Some things were the same throughout the world.

The elevator doors wrenched open and a buzzing fluorescent light beckoned her to enter. Gracie hesitated and waged her familiar self-debate. She’d been imprisoned twice in an elevator in Russia and the experience had left scars on her psyche, not to mention her olfactory glands. Still, six flights of stairs waged a compelling case. She pushed the sixth-floor button, charred black from a vandal’s lighter, and ascended in the tiny box sticking of dog urine. Perhaps she would walk back down.

The lift stopped on the sixth floor. Gracie stepped out and froze.

The black metal door protecting the Youngs’ flat, a standard for foreigners, hung slightly ajar. Talk about creepy—it groaned as Gracie eased it open. “Evelyn?”

The inner wooden door gave easily. Gracie stood there, her stomach coiling into a cold knot. Evelyn was a zealot about locked doors.

“Dr. Willie?”

Silence oozed from the apartment. Gooseflesh rose, pricked her neck.

“Evelyn? Dr. Willie?” Alarm pitched her voice high and it added to the gnawing fear in her gut.
Stop. It.
She took a deep breath. There were simple explanations. Like, they’d gone out shopping and forgotten to lock the door.

She nearly jumped through her skin when she closed the door and found the Youngs’ coats neatly hung on the hallway hooks. From the kitchen, the refrigerator clicked on and buzzed.

She startled, turned and braced her hand on the wall.
Stupid girl.
Maybe they were next door. Gracie stepped into the kitchen. A fresh, wet rag dripped into the sink next to the drying rack, which held the clean breakfast dishes. Bacon grease glistened in a cast-iron pan on the stove. On the ledge, an African violet sparkled, freshly sprayed.

“Evelyn?” Maybe she was in the bathroom.

Gracie stalked down the hallway, noticing the French doors to the family room were closed. If Dr. Willie was studying, he wasn’t answering. A light streaming from the bathroom urged her down the hall. Gracie stuck her head in, a smile on her face, ready to catch Evelyn hanging laundry. A stepladder and a fresh batch of laundry drying from a line above the bathtub cast gloomy shadows on the white tile.

No Evelyn. Gracie flicked the light off and stood in the hall, listening to her heart beat.

Stop.
Gracie held up her hands as if to halt the ridiculous fear cascading over her. She would not let the unknown push her beyond the cradle of common sense. Evelyn and Dr. Willie
had obviously left and forgotten to lock their door. Odd, but not impossible. Besides, weren’t they safely tucked under the protective wing of her Heavenly Father? Gracie bowed her head, shame dissolving her fear.
Forgive me for my lack of faith, Lord.

Gracie checked her watch. She still had time to download her mail and send her mother a note. She headed for the bedroom office.

Knocking on the bedroom door, she laughed at her silliness. If Evelyn were in the bedroom, she would have heard her long before Gracie’s timid rap.

As she pushed open the door, the moment slowed like an old movie on creased film. Horror filled her—starting at her gut and building until it emerged in an all-out howl. Her bones turned to rubber. Gracie collapsed to her knees and fought for breath.

No,
no!

She whimpered as she pulled herself across the bloody floor toward Evelyn’s unmoving body.

T
oweling off after his frosty two-minute shower, Vicktor caught the phone on the third ring.

“Slyushaiyu.”
He rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven skin and winced at a raw spot. The clock hands inched toward eight-thirty.

“You have some explaining to do, Shubnikov.” Comrade Major Mikhail Malenkov’s voice grated Vicktor’s already throbbing nerves.

“Come again?” Vicktor folded his towel and hung it over a straight-backed chair.

“Maxim. He’s supposed to be your partner. Yet you didn’t have the courtesy to call either him or me and let us know that one of your best informants is stone cold in the morgue?”

“He was a friend, sir, and unless I missed a memo, my understanding was Maxim just shares my office space.”

“Don’t get smart. You know he’s assigned to you.”

Vicktor’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed his closet. His voice grew cold. “I was walking my dog. I found Evgeny by accident.”

“Right. Next time call your own guys for backup. We don’t need the goats in the militia sniffing around our
dela.
”

“Since when are local murders our business?”

“Since they are mafia hits.”

Vicktor scrambled for balance, his sock halfway on. “Mafia hit?” Hope lit inside him. That meant the case would head to the COBRA force of the FSB. Roman’s division. Vicktor schooled his tone. “Sorry about the oversight, sir. Old habits die hard. I’ll call our guys next time.”

Malenkov’s voice softened to a cultured tone. “Aren’t you supposed to be here by now, Captain?” The phone hummed in Vicktor’s ear.

He slammed it onto the cradle and smirked. With Roman on the inside, maybe Vicktor wouldn’t have to kowtow to Arkady. He’d happily shove the raw memories and unending penance behind him.

He tugged on his black suit pants and white oxford. Straightening his tie in the mirror, he caught a glimpse of Alfred, sprawled on an armchair, tearing into the last of his loaves of bread.

Vicktor crossed the room in two strides. “You’re a menace, you know?” He tried to wrench the bread from the dog’s mouth, then gave up and scratched the dog behind his pointed ear. “Try not to eat me out of house and home, huh? No furniture, no pillows, no shoes and I promise to take you home tomorrow morning, okay?”

He thought he heard the dog sigh with contentment as he slammed the door behind him.

The sun had peeled off the initial chill of the morning. Vicktor flipped up the collar of his tweed sports coat while he coaxed his forest-green
Zhiguli
to life. He felt like flicking on his siren and parting traffic on his way to work. As it was, anticipation sent his accelerator into the floorboard and he soon found himself in the back parking lot. Screeching into his regular space, Vicktor hopped out and shut the door.

“Vicktor!” A feminine voice, high and smooth, sailed over car tops to greet him. Yanna strode over to him, hitching her
leather computer bag and gym bag up her right shoulder. The satchels dwarfed her lean body, but she was crisp and pretty in a black leather skirt, hose and matching jacket. Yanna knew how to pull off European fashion.

“Do you have a game tonight?” he asked, melting into her stride.

“Against the Vladivostok Torrents. They’re still unbeaten.”

“Until tonight.” He winked at her. Yanna’s volleyball team had taken the championship for the city and was smoking their way toward nationals. Yanna’s serve could melt butter and her spike sent him to his knees in terror and admiration. He didn’t have a prayer when they played one-on-one down at the beach.

“Come and watch the game tonight. It’s at Dynamo Stadium.” Yanna flicked back her silky brown hair and looked up at him, those brown eyes so clear and genuine. His heart twisted. Why couldn’t he find a girl like Yanna? Roman was right: his life was desolate. Never mind about the Savior garbage, but maybe he could be persuaded to let someone quiet into his life. Someone supportive. Forgiving.

Yeah,
that
was likely. Especially if he let them close enough to get a glimpse of the real Vicktor.

He returned Yanna’s smile. “I’ll try and make it to your game.”

“Great!” She bounced through the door he held open.

They fell silent walking in the back entrance of FSB Headquarters. The mustard-yellow building covered nearly a city block and loomed five stories tall. The rumors ran as deep as the dungeons but few had involuntarily ventured lower than the first floor and lived to tell about it. Vicktor and Yanna walked through the gray corridor in silence, their feet echoing against the cement. They passed abandoned interrogation rooms and doors that led to the secrets below. Vicktor wondered at the wisdom of the FSB occupying the same building its predecessor, the KGB, had occupied for sixty years. Fear was embedded within the walls.

They climbed the stairs and entered the lobby. “I’m ducking into Personnel,” Yanna said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yanna, wait.” He caught her arm, a lump rising in his throat. His voice stayed low. “Sorry about missing the chat last night.”

She blinked twice at him, as if he’d dashed her with a bucket of ice. She gave a furtive look around the lobby. “No problem.” Whirling, she nearly sprinted away from him.

Vicktor stared after her. He was making all sorts of friends this morning.

He took the steps two at a time to his office on the second floor, then threaded his way through a minefield of desks to his office.

Vicktor snorted as he rounded Maxim’s desk, buried somewhere under an avalanche of paper. Yesterday’s teacup soiled a stack of notes and Snickers wrappers littered the floor, but the desk chair remained empty. Annoyance flooded him as he recalled the major’s words. The rookie was slightly difficult to mentor when he never showed up for work.
Partners.
The word made him cringe. Maxim didn’t have a clue what it meant and Vicktor didn’t have the time or desire to teach him. Vicktor shrugged out of his coat and hung it in his wardrobe.

Grabbing his coffee mug, the one with Mount Hood glinting off the side in gold etching, he scooped in a generous amount of instant coffee, added a spoonful of cream and plugged the samovar in, waiting for it to boil.

He turned on the ancient paperweight they assigned him a month ago, a.k.a. his desktop PC, coaxing it with a few sweet words. While it eased to life, he weeded through his phone messages. Two distraught families from cold cases who would never know what happened to their mafia-connected kids, and a call from Arkady. Filing the other two in the Maxim pile, Vicktor flicked his fingers on Arkady’s note while he dialed his father.

Nickolai caught it on the sixth ring. Vicktor didn’t know if he should be glad or brace himself for the inevitable.

“Slyushaiyu!”

Vicktor forced a cheery tone. He thought he’d make a great undercover cop. “
Privyet,
Pop. How are you?”

Silence.

“Do you need anything?”

“What would I need? A son who stops by and visits once in a while, maybe?”

Right. Okay. Nickolai had his happy face on today. “I’ll stop by later. Do you need some bread?”

He supposed he should be grateful his father still spoke to him after the accident. The old man hadn’t assigned blame, but he didn’t have to. The
Santa Barbara
reruns and the constant tapping with his metal cane turned the knife with precision.

Silence crackled through the line. “Pop?”

“
Da. Da.
Bread is all I need.” He hung up and Vicktor stared at the dead phone.

He was off to a great start this morning. Vicktor kneaded his temple. If his mother were here she’d know what to do. But Antonina had abandoned her men on a snowy night two years ago, and the grief and anger had driven the Shubnikov men apart long before Nickolai’s accident. The Wolf’s bullet had simply pushed them beyond reconciliation.

Steam fogged the room, obscuring the glass windows that separated Vicktor’s office from the rookies on the floor. Vicktor filled his cup and stirred the coffee. It wasn’t Starbucks, which he’d visited more times than he should have in Oregon, but at least it was coffee. Sorta. Okay, it
smelled
the same.

A cup and a half later, he had read through his e-mail messages and reached for the phone. He hoped Arkady had eaten a full breakfast. He needed the man slightly sluggish when he needled him for information about Evgeny.

“Give us a break! Lakarstin’s body isn’t even cold!”

Nope. Probably had kasha. Even Vicktor would be on edge after a bowl of cold, lumpy mush. “I know, Chief, but what do you know? Tell me, anything.” Please, let him say he was handing the case to the COBRAs. He didn’t want to be caught in the middle of a range war.

Vicktor heard Arkady snuffle, and could almost see him lean back in his tattered desk chair and take a pull on his cigarette. “Well, let’s see what you can do with this, hotshot. His neck was slit.”

“I’m not quite that stupid, thank you. Tell me something new.”

“And he had a wad of paper shoved up his nose.”

“What?”

“You mean you goats in the ‘FezB’ don’t know a mafia hit when you see one?”

“What mafia? That’s not the Russian signature for a hit.”

“It’s a North Korean superstition. They shove the paper up a victim’s nose to keep their spirit from haunting them. Even a rookie would know that.”

Vicktor thumbed his coffee cup handle, ignoring the barb. “What would the North Korean mafia want with a veterinarian?”

Arkady’s chair creaked as the Bulldog shifted his weight. Probably putting out that cigarette.

“That is a good question. Was your buddy into drug smuggling?”

“Now, how would I know that?”

Arkady laughed. Vicktor tensed.

“You said that dog of yours was a bit sluggish…maybe he needed a fix?”

“At Alfred’s age, following a cute poodle just about does him in.”

“Your pal was into some sort of
tyomnaya delo,
some nasty business, for the mafia to track him down. They were searching for something, too. We found a charred notebook in the garbage can, like he tried to keep something out of their hands.”

Vicktor remembered the orange peels. “Maybe it’s some sort of ledger.”

Vicktor heard the flick of a lighter.

“Are you doing an autopsy?” he asked.

“Cause of death is pretty obvious.”

“Not to the FSB.” As soon as the words left his mouth Vicktor wanted to bang his head on his desk.

A chill blew into Arkady’s voice. “Something you want to tell me?”

Vicktor’s stomach knotted. Why, oh why, couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? “I heard the word mafia and…well, it’s not personal, Chief.”

“Your COBRAs have been banging on my office door all morning. You tell them this is my case and I’ll hand it over if and when I want to.”

“It’s not your jurisdiction anymore.”

“I’ll say what’s my jurisdiction. You just remember, you chose to leave. Nobody forced you out.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

Silence stretched the moment taunt. Then, in a voice so thin Vicktor hardly recognized it, Arkady whispered, “You watch your back over there, Vita.”

Vicktor opened his mouth. Nothing emerged.

“I gotta go round up the boys,” Arkady said, his voice fully recovered. “They’re probably out stealing the hubcaps off cars.”

He hung up and Vicktor clutched another dead phone in his white-knuckled fist.

Gracie fumbled with the ropes that bound Evelyn’s wrists. She couldn’t look at Evelyn’s ashen face.

Evelyn’s body lay at a contorted angle and her head had lolled back to reveal a jagged cut just below her chin. Gracie kept her gaze on the rope. Her fingers were slick, her eyes flooding. “It’s almost loose, Evelyn,” she soothed, as if her glassy-eyed friend could hear.

When the knot slid free, Evelyn’s still hands remained a sickly gray, the blood refusing to flow into the gnarled fingertips. Gracie wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked. Her breath wheezed through dry lips.

“What happened?” she moaned. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, her body shuddering with shock. “What happened?”
She heard a wail, and with horror realized it was her own. “Oh God, help me.” She covered her head with her hands, scraping up control. Her breath came in hiccups, hard, fast.

An eerie silence invaded the room. Gracie’s skin chilled. What if the murderer still lurked nearby? Fear drove her to her feet.

She had to call the police.

Her head spun as she wiped tears from her face. The phone. Stumbling to the desk, she picked it up and dialed 9-1-1.

The dead tone buzzed in her ear. Fool! Russia didn’t use 9-1-1. For the first time in two years Gracie dearly wished she lived in America. She held the receiver against her forehead. “God, help,” she whimpered.

Her eyes latched on to the phone list.
Andrei.
She left a trail of red on the number pad. “Be there!” she demanded, sobbing. She slammed down the receiver on the tenth ring, then grabbed up the telephone, shaking it. “Be there!”

Larissa.
Gracie grabbed the handset. Crumpling to the floor, she pulled the phone into her lap and dialed. She hugged her knees to her chest as she closed her eyes and listened to the ring.

“Aeroflot Travel. This is Larissa Tallina. Hello.”

“Help.”

“Gracie, where are you?”

Thank the Lord, Larissa recognized her voice.

“Help. Evelyn…” Gracie’s voice sounded reed thin, unrecognizable. Her head spun. Acid pooled in the back of her throat.

“Are you hurt?” Larissa’s voice held panic.

Gracie shook her head.

“Are you at home?”

Gracie shook her head again, beginning to tremble.

“Gracie, talk to me! Where
are
you?”

Focus.
Gracie steeled herself, inhaled deeply and formed speech. “Evelyn…was…murdered.” She felt a sob roiling to the surface.

Larissa gasped.

A floorboard creaked; the refrigerator hummed from the kitchen. “Larissa, don’t leave me! Are you there?”

“
Da, Da, Da.
I’m here.” Larissa’s voice sounded pinched, perhaps with grief. “Stay right where you are. I’m calling the police. Stay put.”