The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4) (6 page)

Cop Killer

I park around the corner from the upper middle class brick home and sit for a moment, thinking through all that I want to accomplish tonight. Though the sky is lit up with stars and a full moon, I’m hidden in the best place a serial killer can be: behind the decadent facade of false security that suburbia offers its inhabitants. My visit tonight won’t change that illusion, not yet anyway. Tonight I choose not to destroy but merely to…disrupt. And take back what’s mine.

I open the car door and step out, making certain not to slam it. I toss the cigarette I’ve been smoking down on the ground and stomp it out. I reach down, picking up the butt and placing it in my pocket. I slink along the side of the house, using the landscaping to shield me from view. I lift the potted plant by the back door and roll my eyes as I retrieve the house key.
Fucking typical.

I venture inside. The familiar fragrance of air freshener and potpourri greet me and remind me of some of the more pleasant aspects of my previous life. I advance through the kitchen, dining room, down the hall, and into the master bedroom. Her rhythmic breathing tells me she’s in a deep sleep.

I imagine what her blonde hair would look like turning red with her blood after I slit her throat but I don’t give in to the temptation—not tonight. Tonight I’m here for a different reason. I consider the perfumes that are arranged on a small oval vintage mirror on her vanity table. One bottle is nearly empty, probably the scent she wears every day. I slip that one into my pocket with a smirk.
Obsession. How very trite.

I give the walk-in closet a cursory once over, looking for something that I had hoped would be easy to spot. Something of mine that entrusted to her keeping long ago, in what feels like another lifetime. I want it back. The lock box shouldn’t be that hard to find. At one time, she was one of two people I trusted in this whole world. But not anymore. Not now. I guess preserving the status quo was more important to her than our friendship. So be it.

When there’s no sign of what I’m looking for, I consider waking her up and demanding that she return it to me. But I’ve waited too long, just to fuck everything up by being impulsive. No, slow and steady wins the race, as the saying goes.

I step silently back over to the makeup table and move a few items around, changing their positions. Most people really are creatures of habit, repeating the same routines over and over with no conscious thought. It gives them a sense of control, which in turn creates a false sense of safety. Ah, the things we do for some semblance of wellbeing.

Next, the bathroom. I study the placement of the high dollar shampoos and conditioners. At first I consider putting the shampoo where the conditioner is and vice versa, but she might not notice that. I want her to know someone was here and then I want her to second guess herself. I want to disrupt her thoughts tomorrow even when I’m not nearby. I do love a good mind fuck, especially with the group of people I have in mind.

I toss around the idea of pulling my medical gloves off and tossing them in the small garbage can under the sink but think better of it. I don’t want to leave any proof of my presence here. What I do want is to cause this woman to doubt her sanity. After all…if you can’t believe in yourself, who can you believe in?

I ease over to the door and remove the small, Play-Doh- like substance in my pocket. I press her house key into it to get the impression I’ll need for a duplicate. I slide it carefully into a small matchbox I brought with me for just this purpose. With the box tucked safely in my pocket, I study the key to make sure none of the soft material has adhered to its grooves.

I leave as silently and emptyhanded as I came, frustrated at not finding what I was looking for. What the fuck did she do with it? I’ll have to return for a more thorough search when I don’t have to worry about being caught. I’ll make my presence known at a time of my choosing, and when I do it will be with a bang.

Nikita

If I’ve learned anything in my line of business, it’s that no one is ever what they seem. We all harbor secrets. The attorney-client relationship is sacred, as far as I’m concerned. The things clients have told me behind closed doors would raise the hair on the back of most people’s necks, or even turn a few stomachs. The fine, upstanding businessman who killed his wife to ensure she wouldn’t financially ruin him, when a prenup would have been so much easier. The soccer mom who put a hit on her husband to make sure she continued living a life of luxury. And those are just my few ‘civilian’ clients; that doesn’t begin to cover the secrets my family holds. My father has insulated me from knowing the specifics of secrets, but the ones I do know will go with me to the grave.

My family may be built on a foundation of secrets and subterfuge but we don’t kill off our own as a means to an end. For vengeance? Yes, as a matter of honor. But not to improve our personal circumstances. Maybe that’s why my conscience never bothers me.

If this guy had a personal vendetta against the dead cop, I want to understand why. The best way to find out more about the killer is to research his victim. My expertise as an attorney is going to make it easier for me to access any sealed records. The fact that I’m a Glazov is going to make it nearly impossible for the dead cop’s secrets to remain hidden. If she was dirty, I’ll find out.

“What are you doing?” Natasha asks as she sets a cup of coffee down in front of me. I can’t help but smile when I think about how my father drinks his coffee from china that once belonged to a Russian tsar. As kids, we thought it was so cool when Dad would tell us the history behind it. I still do.

“Sit down,” is my only reply. She sits next to me, holding her coffee cup with both hands as if it’s keeping her warm.

She watches as I type the cop’s name, Karen Conner, into the Louisville police department’s website.

“You think she was a dirty cop, don’t you?”

“That, I don’t know. I
do
think the killing was personal, even if nothing in the autopsy suggested rage or passion. And I agree with the governor, I think she knew the killer. Digging into every detail of her life is the only way we’re going to find out who’s doing this.”

“So it’s ‘we’? How does your father feel about you being involved?”

“Being that this isn’t anything illegal, he’s fine with it.” I turn in her direction and lock eyes with her. “Natasha, I don’t think you realize what a fine line you’re walking here. You’re accustomed to working with cutthroat criminals. White-collar criminals can be just as ruthless in their own way. These guys will smile in your face the whole time they’re plotting your demise. In our world if someone doesn’t like you, they just put a hit out on your ass. In the world of white collar crime, they bide their time and come at you in more ways than one -- they chip away at your reputation, they steal your clients, and they deliberately try to piss you off so when you react you end up looking like you’re the one with the problem.

“You’re not in this alone. We’re working this case together. You don’t have a choice because you belong to me and I’ll spend until my dying day protecting you.”

I brace for an argument from her, but she leans over and kisses me, murmuring against my lips, “I wouldn’t have it any other way, baby.”

Natasha

It’s a haunting image. We only had to click through a couple of links on the LPD internal employee website to find her. It’s a formal portrait of a fresh-faced police officer, her uniform pressed to perfection, her badge polished to a high shine. Her blonde hair is secured in a severe bun, her expression is clear-eyed and solemn.

How very jarring to see her alive and well, so unlike the unresponsive cadaver I examined at the morgue. This woman’s eyes shine with enthusiasm and purpose -- nothing like the unfocused, vacant eyes of her corpse.

According to her bio, she’s twenty four years old, a two-year rookie on the LPD. She joined up after a military stint in Afghanistan. Pretty standard stuff. Neither of us expects to learn anything new. This is just somewhere to start. Suddenly an idea hits me.

“We’re not going to find anything out like this. If you want to unearth someone’s closet skeletons, you’ve gotta go straight to their closet. Let’s check out her house.” I’m actually excited about the idea. This sitting behind a desk shit is boring, I need some action.

Nikita looks away from the screen with a devious glint in his eyes. The corners of his mouth turn up just enough to let me know he’s intrigued by the idea.

“Looks like somebody wants to take a walk on the wild side. C’mon, Nikita, it’ll be fun. Doing this together will be awesome! This might be the only time you get a free pass from your father to break the law. Don’t you get sick of being the only one in the family who always has to walk the straight and narrow?”

“You may be on to something. Let’s go.”

“We can’t go right now, silly. It’s broad daylight.”

“Yes, we can. We’ll be careful and she lives far enough outside the city that the nearest neighbor isn’t going to pay any attention to what’s going on anyway. It’ll be easier to search the house in the daylight. You’re not going to bail on me, are you?” he asks with a smirk.

“Hell, no, let’s go. But, uh, you should probably lose the suit.”

“Oh, really…”

He stands slowly and unbuttons his shirt. His chest is a tan mass of muscle and I lick my lips as I remember how good his skin tastes on my tongue. The shirt drops to the floor, followed quickly by his socks, tailored pants, and boxer briefs. He kicks the clothes aside and saunters over to me. His hands are warm on my shoulders, exerting firm pressure until I drop to my knees. He takes my hands and places them behind my head and pulls me to him.

I take his hardness into my mouth. I want to tease him and bring out the dark side of him that he keeps hidden behind his carefully crafted, civilized professional persona. He shudders when I lick that sweet spot of nerves just below the head and dip my tongue into the slit at the tip. He groans in pleasure, fists my hair and lifts me to my feet, leading me roughly to the bed and all but ripping my jeans off so that my ass is bare and exposed. Yeah, this is exactly what I need…to be taken.

He slaps my ass harder than usual as he plunges his cock deep inside me, then he abruptly stills. His breathing is ragged and he’s seething with barely restrained aggression as he presses down on my neck until my cheek is against the mattress.

“This is going to be hard and dirty, Tasha, to remind you who you belong to. This pussy? It’s mine. Always has been, always will be.”

I can feel my core clamping around him, agreeing to his words whether I will it to be so or not. His hands dig into the side of my hips as he starts to move, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, almost frantic. My body trembles as an orgasm simmers in my lower abdomen, and I can’t help the wail that escapes me as wave after wave of pleasure rolls throughout my body. I never tire of this man. Whether he’s fucking me rough and hard, or soft and sweet, the sex is always off the charts between us.

My Nikita is unaware that, in the same way that he is determined to watch over me, I will watch over him. If I find that the governor has pulled us into something that could harm my love or damage his career, the governor will not know a moment’s peace in this life. My aim is precise and my mental focus is relentless.