Devil With a Gun (11 page)

Twenty

After showering and pulling
on fresh clothes, I phone Stoogan at the
NOW
office to let him know I'm still pursuing the Father's Day piece.

“Care to share any details with your stressed-out, death-by-a-thousand-meetings editor?” he asks. “Just so I'm not throwing out random cover-my-reporter's-ass, made-up-bullshit promises of content forthcoming.”

“You'll love it,” I say with a chuckle. “Adoring daughters searching for their missing father. Kittens and balloons.”

“Kittens and balloons?”

“OK. Maybe not balloons.”

Stoogan sighs. “Why don't I believe you?”

“Because you're a distrusting and cynical man?”

“With a nose for bullshit,” he adds.

“Have I ever steered you wrong?”

“You've never steered me straight.”

I guffaw at the same time there's a knock on the apartment door.

“I have to go, but keep the cover slot open. I have a lead on the missing dad to give you that squishy, feel-good ending the publisher craves.”

“Squishy?”

I chuckle. “That's why you're such a good editor, boss, you pick up on words like that.”

Stoogan sighs heavily again and hangs up.

Roxanne is in the shower with the door closed. No radio, no singing, just running water. I find it oddly unsettling, like sleep without dreams.

A shower is my favorite part of the day, a time to align my mind and set the mood. Upbeat music helps get the blood flowing and replace some of the worries with fresh and positive thoughts. Bathing in silence, or alone for that matter, does nothing helpful—
except get you clean.

I answer the knock at the door to find Mrs. Pennell standing in the hallway.

“I didn't want to bother you last night,” she says without preamble. “With all the police and such. The nice officer downstairs filled me in and told me everybody was all right, and I'm so glad to hear that. Last time there was trouble, you had that great big knife stuck in your hand and what a mess that was.” She tuts. “But guns? Guns! What's going on, Dixie?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Pennell.” I squirm. “I don't know what to say. The police are looking for the man who broke in.”

“Why is it always your place?”

I shrug, not wanting to get into the whole story and cause unnecessary panic. “Maybe they think a single woman is an easy target.”

She clucks her tongue louder in disgust.

“Well, I hope they find him and throw away the key. I'm lucky I have King William on guard, but a gun in my home! Indeed.”

The sound of the shower clicks off.

“Do you need anything else?” I ask.

“Yes, one thing. And I don't want you to get too self-conscious, but Derek and Shahnaz have asked if they can move across the hall to the empty apartment above Sam and Kristy.”

“Oh? Why? It's not any bigger.”

Mrs. Pennell points over my shoulder to the ceiling, and when I turn around I immediately see a ray of light from the apartment above shining through a stray bullet hole.

“I can patch that,” I say sheepishly.

“I don't think that's exactly their worry, dear,” says Mrs. Pennell.

“No,” I admit. “Guess not.”

The phone rings as Roxanne opens the bathroom door in a barely there towel. She's at the age when all awkward teenage plumpness should have turned into luscious, head-turning curves, but the woman in front of me is little more than a skeleton wrapped in grayish flesh.

The barbed wire tattoo on her back has companions on her front that make her look like a sadistically stitched doll. The ink speaks to me in a voice that pricks at my heart and sends electrical filaments of doubt deep into my soul. There are wounds here too deep to heal.

The phone continues to ring.

“Do you have clothes I can borrow?” she asks. “My old ones feel dirty.”

“Of course.” I lead the way to the bedroom. “Let's see what we can find.”

The answering machine clicks on. It's Stoogan.

“Dix, pick up, what the hell? I just received a police report on a shooting last night—at
your
address. You didn't think to mention that? Are you OK? What's going on? You need to get a cellphone. Jesus, call me.”

I don't.

Twenty-One

Kristy allows me to
borrow her precious VW Bug in exchange for not asking her to look after Roxanne again and a promise that I won't leave it unattended anywhere near the Sandford Hotel.

I park around the corner from The Russian Tea House and get out to feed the meter. When Roxanne opens the passenger door, I tell her to stay in the car.

“She's my sister,” argues Roxanne. “I want to come.”

“And what good will that do?” I squat down beside the car to meet her at eye level. “Lebed's men will take you back, and there's nothing I can do to stop them. The only leverage we have is the worth he believes you offer as bait for your father. If Lebed decides you're no longer worth keeping alive, then walking into his hands is suicide.”

“Maybe he'll take me in exchange for Bailey.”

I shake my head. “He already had you and your father didn't come.”

Her voice rises in alarm. “What the fuck does that mean?”

I wince, wishing I had a better filter between my brain and mouth.

“Tell me,” she presses.

“OK,” I relent. “But this is just a theory and I could be completely wrong.”

“Tell me,” she repeats.

“It's what you said this morning about Lebed keeping an eye on both you and your sister. He left Bailey alone while he set you on a destructive path to the gutter. Any father worth the name would have tried to rescue you; but if he felt he couldn't, he might reach out to the daughter who had already escaped. Your father did neither, so now it's time to switch things up. Lebed lets you go free, but—”

“He punishes Bailey,” Roxanne finishes.

“It's just a theory,” I repeat.

“But you're smart. Like him.”

“Not like him. Not like that.”

“You're wrong.” Bailey's eyes fill with warm tears and she can no longer hold my gaze. “That's exactly how he thinks.”

The handsome ma
î
tre d' isn't trained well enough to keep the look of surprise off his face when I walk through the front doors of The Russian Tea House.

“We're not open yet,” he barks, moving quickly to block my progress.

“Then you should lock your doors,” I quip. “Gals like me get desperate for a good pot of tea and a Russian crumpet in the morning.”

I flash him one of my get-down-on-your-knees-and-beg smiles, but it bounces off his crisp white T-shirt as though it's made of Kevlar. I like the way his shirt suctions to his abs to form a six-pack of kissable muscle, although the tightness also reveals a wide patch of some kind underneath that covers his left side. I wonder if it's used to hold a gun against the small of his back, but figure he won't give me a twirl—even if I ask nicely.

Last time we met, he was in a white tuxedo that made him look good enough to take home to meet the parents; this time his tight jeans and T-shirt say forget the parents and let's head straight to the bedroom.

“Are you straight?” I ask before the professional side of my brain can kick me in the kneecaps.

The question flusters him. “You have to go,” he says.

I straighten my shoulders to fix my posture, which also makes my breasts ride high and proud, but his eyes don't flicker below my neck. Admittedly, they're small breasts, but they still deserve a glance.

“Do you remember me?” I ask. “I gave you my card last time I was here.”

“I know who you are.” His eyes shift nervously and his hands clench and unclench at his side.

“You didn't call,” I say. “So, I thought—”

“You're here to see me?” he blurts, his confusion deepening.

“Relax, it's just an ice-breaker. I need to see the Red Swan.” I smile again, but with a little more innocence this time. “I just love that moniker, don't you? I was thinking of calling myself the Ginger Fawn. What do you think? Too threatening?”

The skin on his nose furrows into deep wrinkles and his voice is laced with fire. “Mr. Lebed isn't receiving visitors at this time.”

“No offense, cute cheeks, but I'd rather hear that from him.”

“You are making a mistake.”

I unwrap a chocolate mint from a bowl on the reception desk and pop it in my mouth. “Wouldn't be the first time,” I say.

“I need you to go.”

“Not gonna happen.” I crack the candy with my teeth and suck out the chocolate filling.

He moves around the reception desk, but he's walking stiffly and I can see ripples of pain moving across his face.

“What'd you do?” I ask. “Try to clap your hands and stomp your feet at the same time? Tell me you didn't go for the hat trick and throw in gum chewing, too.”

He doesn't smile as he clears the desk and puffs up his chest to appear more intimidating. He points at the door.

“Leave. Now!”

I stand my ground. “Your body is beautiful, but your vocabulary seems somewhat limited.”

His face flushes with anger, but it's tempered by the pain. I glance down at the patch around his kidneys and see the outline of thick tape holding it to his flesh. My eyes drop to below his belt and notice that his jeans are also stretched tighter against his left hip than his right.

It's not a belt to hide a gun, I realize.

It's a bandage. And it's fresh.

With a snarl, I curl my right hand into a fist and jab it into his left kidney, aiming, as Pinch has taught me, for the center of his core.

The shock on his face is quickly replaced with a bone-white queasiness as he reaches for the counter and drops to his knees. The bandage on his side blossoms in a Rorschach stain of blood. I've torn his fresh stitches where shotgun pellets ripped into his flesh.

“You were in my apartment last night,” I hiss. “With a fucking gun. Were you ordered to kill us?”

With one hand gripping the counter, the ma
î
tre d' grabs my wrist with his free hand and squeezes so hard my bones rub together.

“Quiet your tongue,” he says between clenched teeth. “You have no idea what is going on.”

“Then tell me,” I hiss back. “And let go of my fucking arm before I punch you again in the same spot.”

He immediately releases my arm, which means I've made a good impression.

Dixie's Tips #17:
Don't make a threat you're not willing to follow through on. It's vastly more effective if even you believe you'll do it.

“Where's Bailey?” I ask.

“I don't know.”

“Bullshit!”

“No.” He holds up a hand to stop me lashing out. “She arrived earlier, but I didn't see her leave. I-I don't know where she is now.”

“Then let me talk to Lebed.”

From his knees, he looks up into my eyes. Fear glistens within dark blue orbs, but beneath it is a lead-lined layer of defiance. His voice is low, just above a whisper.

“Mr. Lebed doesn't know.”

“Doesn't know what?”

“About my visit.”

“Last night?”

He nods.

“He didn't order you to kill us?”

He shakes his head.

I curl my fist again and let him see it. “Then why?”

He swallows. “I need answers.”

“What answers?”

“To who sent you.”

A puzzle clears in my brain.

“The last time I left here, I was attacked in the street. It wasn't Lebed who sent him either, was it?”

He shrugs. “He was told not to hurt you.”

“So you cut off his hands?”

“It sends a message.”

“No shit, but why did you send him after me?”

“I need to know if the man's alive.”

“Who?” Another puzzle piece meets its mate. “Wait a minute. The sisters' father?”

He nods.

“Why?” I ask.

“He has evidence.”

“What evidence?”

He swallows again and pulls himself slowly to his feet. Despite myself, I help him stand.

He leans in close, his mouth next to my ear. “He can bring the Red Swan down,” he whispers. “He's the only one who can.”

I push him away.

“And why would you want that?” I ask.

His eyes burn as color returns to his cheeks. “That is for me to know.”

“So the enemy of my enemy is now my friend?” I ask.

He doesn't smile. “Perhaps.”

“Then get me in to see Lebed and maybe we can work together.”

He hesitates, but then nods. “Give me a moment to replace my bandage and I'll see if Mr. Lebed is available.”

“There,” I say, unwrapping another chocolate mint, “that wasn't so difficult, was it?”

Twenty-Two

The ma
î
tre d'—who tells
me his name is Mikhail, which is so stereotypical, I don't know if I believe him—leads me across the restaurant to the doors of the same private room where I met Lebed before.

“Wait here,” he says. “And I mean it. Unless invited, the guards won't hesitate to break your neck.”

I remember the two guards, so I stay put.

When Mikhail reappears, he flashes me a look of warning before holding the door open to allow access. He doesn't follow me inside.

Krasnyi Lebed, aka Red Swan, is sitting behind the immaculately dressed table with his twin computer geeks busy being nerdish with numbers at his back. He's eating a lump of pungent blue cheese with a curved knife, its tip split into a two-pronged fork, while sipping black tea from a china cup rimmed in gold.

Lebed stabs his knife in the direction of an empty chair at the table.

“Sit,” he says.

I observe the mountainous guards, one on either side of the door like Orcs guarding the black gates of Mordor, as I move to take the chair. Neither seems particularly worried or concerned about my presence.

“Are you hungry?” Lebed asks. “My chef is preparing fresh anchovies straight from the boat. Cherry smoke salt and lime zest.” He kisses the tips of his fingers. “Delicious.”

Although intrigued, I decline.

“I'm here to collect Bailey,” I say.

“Do you prefer smoked fish?” he asks as if I haven't spoken. “There is a town in Scotland named Arbroath where a man of Scandinavian origin prepares smoked haddock that has to be tasted to be believed. I have a box flown in every week.”

“Where's Bailey?” I ask.

“I know not of whom you speak.”

“Yes, you do. She stupidly came to visit you this morning. I want her back.”

He slices off a chunk of cheese and lifts it to his mouth on the tip of the knife. A pale pink tongue darts from between coral lips, its tip encircling the cheese like a snake before drawing it into his mouth.

“You intrigue me, Ms. Flynn,” he says, swallowing the cheese. “You seem to think that being a reporter offers you some kind of protection. It does not. With a simple command, my guards will bend you over this table, strip you naked, and rape you in unison. They will not care about your screams or whom you write for. If I invite more men, they will join in, too. If you do not have enough holes … they will make new ones.”

He stabs the knife into the chunk of cheese and twists the blade to cut out a cone-shaped plug. Placing the plug of ripe, veined cheese on a small plate, he pushes it toward me.

“This is neither a boast nor a threat,” he says. “This is truth.”

I want to say something tough and defiant to show that I can't be intimidated, but I worry that if I even breathe, my bladder will release.

I push away from the table and stand. My eyes are glowering, but my legs are weak. I plead for them not to buckle. Turning around, I walk to the French doors, keeping my head high and my fear hidden beneath an immovable mask.

As my hand turns the knob and pulls the door, I catch a glimmer of movement out the corner of my eye. It's immediately followed by the sound of the two guards unzipping themselves.

I lose all dignity and bolt from the room. If the guards are laughing, I can't hear it over the sound of my own internal scream.