Devil With a Gun (14 page)

Twenty-Eight

The last person I
expect to bump into is coming down the stairs as I enter my building's lobby from the street. We both freeze in place, uncomfortable and awkward.

The bastard is still handsome in that stormy-eyed, kissable-lipped kind of way that normally makes my heart flutter. Unfortunately, the last time I saw this man, we had a little misunderstanding in which I held a knife to his throat after trashing the art gallery he owns.

“Declan,” I say to cleverly show I haven't forgotten his name even though I've tried. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes are more hazelnut than almond, in both shape and color, which tells me he was hoping to avoid exactly this situation. His loss for words is worse than mine.

“You didn't come to see me, did you?” I say.

“I … well … I was—”

Bare feet patter on the stairs behind him and Kristy bursts around the bend like Sonic the Hedgehog coming out of a loop. With a tiny eek, she grasps the handrail to stop herself from slamming into
Declan.

I fold my arms across my chest and flash a look of annoyance that is too close to my mother's for comfort, yet seems to fit as though custom made.

“Oh, hey, Dix,” says Kristy with a fake and awkward smile. “Thought you'd be at the office.”

“Why's he here?” I ask. “Does Sam know?”

Kristy sticks her lower lip out in an impressive pout. “Yes, Sam knows. We weren't doing anything inappropriate.”

“Such as?” I ask.

“Such as … anything,” Kristy jabs back weakly.

“I suppose he's consulting on your art collection.”

“No! We were … we're just—”

“I'm standing right here,” says Declan. “You don't need to talk around me.”

I lock onto Declan's gaze. His eyes are smoldering yet cold. “Were you having sex?”

He blushes slightly, and I wish he wouldn't. “No.”

I move my gaze to Kristy. “Were you?”

“No.”

“But even if we were,” declares Declan, “it's of no concern of yours.”

“I disagree,” I say. “Kristy and Sam are my friends. Anything that affects them, affects me.”

“That's sweet, Dix,” says Kristy. “We love you, too.”

“So what were you doing?” I ask.

Kristy sighs. “Declan's agreed to be our donor.”

“Sperm donor?” I ask.

“Of course,” says Kristy, her brow knitting in confusion. “What else would we need a man for?”

“Why?”

“Look at him,” says Kristy. “He's got good genes, and he's smart too.”

I look at Declan. “I've done nothing wrong,” he says.

“Don't be mad, Dix,” says Kristy. “It's just, you know, business.”

Declan takes the rest of the stairs until he's standing directly in front of me. “Can I go now?”

I keep my eyes locked on his as I step aside. “Keep it business,” I say as he brushes past. “I'm protective of my friends.”

“Except when you get your wires crossed,” Declan snarls back. “Then it's just Dixie for herself.”

I almost rabbit punch him in the back of the head as he pushes through the door, but I clench my teeth instead.

When he's gone, I turn back to Kristy. “Really?” I ask.

Kristy shrugs. “I want my baby to look that cute. Did you notice his dimples?”

I sigh. Yes, I had noticed the dimples, and the eyes, and the way his jeans …

“You want a glass of wine?” Kristy asks. “I've just opened a bottle.”

“Maybe later. I have some work first.”

“OK, just knock, I'm gonna watch
Ellen
.”

I knock on Mr. French's door and hear his parakeet, Baccarat, begin to chirp from inside.

“Is someone at the door?” I hear Mr. French say as he clomps down the hall. “Oh, what a smart girl you are. Yes indeed.”

When he opens the door, all three feet, ten inches of him twitches with delight. He's impeccably dressed, as always, in tweed pants and sporting one of his many colorful sweater vests. Between his lips is the stem of a briar pipe carved in the shape of a busty mermaid, and the smoke has the distinct aroma of licorice and orange.

But there's something new. Dusting his upper lip is the beginning of a platinum moustache.

I point at it and ask, “Errol Flynn?”

Mr. French beams. “To begin with, perhaps, but I'm planning for a bit more length so that I can twirl the ends
à
la Rollie Fingers. I've even bought a lovely jar of French moustache wax in anticipation.”

“I can see that on you,” I say.

His eyes twinkle. “Come in, come in, Miss Flynn—any relation to Errol?”

I only shake my head.

“Pity. Anyway, Baccarat must have known it was you, his chirp was particularly robust upon your knock.”

After following him into the main room and making appropriate kissing/cooing noises to Baccarat, I settle into the couch but decline his offer of tea.

“I'm afraid,” I begin, “that time is of the essence.”

“Intriguing, Miss Flynn. Do go on.”

“I need you to do a bit of spying for me.”

“Certainly. I have my walkie-talkies all charged from our last adventure, and I can get Clifford to help out if—”

“I have another assistant for you this time,” I interrupt. “A photographer named Victor who knows the people involved and why it's important to be careful.”

“Ah,” he says, “sounds ominous.”

I nod. “The people I want you to watch are dangerous. So your job, should you choose to accept it, is simply to observe and report back to me. You are not to engage them at any time and you are not to be seen.”

“Stealth is my specialty, Miss Flynn. When do I start?”

I give him a copy of the address where Bailey is being held. “I need to know what's happening there now. I've filled in Victor with what faces to look out for.”

Mr. French grabs a pair of two-way radios off the bookshelf and hands one to me.

“Channel seven,” he says. “If you can't reach me, drop to channel three. We'll be set up within the hour.”

Twenty-Nine

In the apartment, I
shake Roxanne awake and show her the photo of the uninvited guest at Izmaylovsky's funeral.

“Is this your father?” I ask.

Roxanne snarls at me and pushes the photo away. She tries to bury herself beneath the sheets again, but I yank them away.

“I've had enough of this,” I yell. “Look at you. You're killing yourself with this junk and you don't give a damn. People want to help—let them.”

Roxanne glares at me, her pupils enlarging and dilating as though attempting to journey back from a dark pit, until her throat suddenly bulges, then she grabs the bucket I left by the side of her bed and vomits into it.

“Charming,” I say before heading into the bathroom and retrieving a cold, wet cloth.

When I return to the bedroom, I press the cloth against her forehead as she dry heaves into the bucket. When she's done, I use a corner of it to wipe the sticky edges of her eyes and mouth.

“How is this helping?” I ask. “Your sister is being held by a Russian mobster and you're shooting poison into your veins.”

“Don't fucking judge me,” Roxanne croaks.

“Somebody has to. And better it's someone who gives a damn.”

“Why?” she snarls. “What the fuck do you care what happens to me or my sister? You're nobody to us.”

“I'm involved.”

“Who asked you to be?”

I shake my head. “No one.”

“Exactly.”

She sits up and attempts to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but her lower body doesn't cooperate and she ends up flopping back onto the pillows.

“What I do,” she continues in frustration, “is none of your damn business.”

“So you like being a whore and a junkie and a waste of space?” I growl.

“Maybe I do.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Well, too bad, because you don't know me from spit on the ground.”

“And yet I want to help you.”

“That's your problem.”

I sigh and show her the photo again. “Is this your father?”

This time she studies it. “Yeah. So what?”

“Do you know when he went missing? Was it before or after Alimzhan Izmaylovsky's funeral?”

“Who? I wasn't even born yet, how would I know?”

“Bailey never talked about it?”

Roxanne shrugs and looks away. “Yeah, OK, she did.”

“Did she mention a date?”

Roxanne's lips curl with the full intent of telling a lie, but then relax as though deciding the truth is easier.

“June twenty-first,” she says. “Bailey baked these chocolate cupcakes on the anniversary every year. They were supposedly dad's favorite and she thought if he smelled them baking, he would come home.” She wipes at her eyes. “For a while she even had me believing it, too.”

I flip the photo over to reveal the date of the funeral. June 28.

“He was alive when this photo was taken,” I say. “That's seven days after he left the apartment.”

“So?”

“If he was alive a week after his disappearance, there's no reason to think he isn't still.”

Roxanne's laugh is soft, dark, and laced with bile. “Maybe you should bake some cupcakes, then,” she says snarkily. “He might smell them and come running.”

When Pinch arrives, he's dressed in pristine head-to-toe black and sporting a fashionable pair of Winklepicker boots with pointed toes so sharp they look dangerous.

His eyes are hard as he steps through the door and takes in the room, and I worry that I've pissed him off by asking for yet another favor. Without saying a word, he brushes his hand over the shotgun-shell damage to the left of the door, his index finger flicking off traces of dried blood. My attacker's blood. Mikhail's blood.

Next, he glances up at the bullet hole in the ceiling as though calculating the angle, and finally he fixes his gaze on Roxanne, who's sitting on the couch nervously chewing her nails. I can read the same concern on his face that crossed mine when I wondered how Mikhail knew where to find us.

“The fresh air isn't doing you much good, darling,” he says. “You looked better with a three-hundred-pound sailor on your back instead of this monkey.”

Roxanne flashes him the finger.

Pinch turns to me. “Never trust a junkie, Dix. Ever. They'll take your good intentions and sharpen them into knives to throw back in your face. If she's involved, I'm not.”

“She's not involved,” I say, making the decision on the spot.

“Like hell I'm not! You're going after my sister. I need to be there.”

Pinch glares at me. “Have you told her what you're planning?”

“None of the details.”

“What about the address?”

I shake my head.

“I am still here,” Roxanne shouts.

“That's a problem we need to fix,” says Pinch.

“Hey, fuck you, shorty!”

I grab Roxanne's arm and yank her to her feet. “I need you to go next door—”

“Fuck you, too,” Roxanne snarls. “It's
my
sister.”

“But Pinch is right. You can't be trusted.” My voice breaks slightly, but I batten down the hatches and lock them tight. “I should have known better. I wanted to believe that nobody could possibly choose to live like you do. But you never wanted to leave, did you? That's why Bailey had such a difficult time finding you. The sister she remembers died a long time ago.”

“You have no right to keep me here.”

“I know,” I say. “But I can't risk you roaming free. Not yet. Once Bailey is back, you can choose your life. I won't stop you.”

I march her across the hall and knock on the door. When Kristy answers, I push Roxanne inside.

“Sorry,” I say, “but I need a favor. You still keep a set of handcuffs? Good ones?”

Kristy nods and Roxanne's eyes widen as I relate what needs to be done.

Thirty

On the drive over
to the
NOW
offices in Pinch's vintage Jaguar, I ask why he's acting so pissy.

“'Cause if it's PMS, tell me now,” I say, “and I'll bail. Hell, there are some months when I can't even stand myself.”

A small grin creases his mouth. “I'm not used to doing favors,” he says. “And I'm also not used to”—he pauses—“not used to finding that I enjoy them.”

“Awww,” I say. “Is that a compliment?”

“Yes. And that's unusual, too.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't like anyone.”

“Me either.”

His grin widens. “That's not true. Your problem is you like too many people.”

“I do?”

“You have a big heart.”

“And you don't?”

He shakes his head with minimal energy, barely a twitch. “I keep it small and wrapped in a full-metal jacket. Makes it harder to hit.”

I reach over and stroke his arm. “I don't believe you.”

“You should.”

The office is deserted when we walk into the newsroom and cross to my desk.

“You actually work here?” Pinch asks, taking in the rows of cluttered desks; low-walled, no-privacy cubicles; and lack of natural light.

“I'm out a lot,” I say. “Some reporters can work a phone like it's an extension of themselves, but I need to look people in the eye. I'm an adolescent dog stuck in the muck between the old newshounds and Facebook pups.” I chuckle. “A few months back one of the interns asked if I was tweeting, and I thought she was accusing me of being high.”

Pinch grins. “It's not like you see on TV shows, is it?”

I laugh. “Not even close. No smoking, no drinking, no swearing or cracking jokes. Hell, laugh too loud and the publisher might accuse you of creating a disturbance. The last fistfight I witnessed was back in my
Chronicle
days, and that was between the news editor and the ME over a front-page headline. As fucked up as it sounds, I sometimes miss that passion.”

“I'd go crazy.”

I wink. “Most of us do.”

Lulu has come through again, and the building's blueprints are waiting on my desk. I unroll them and weigh down the corners with the various odds and ends—
empty stapler, Mickey Spillane and Raymond Chandler bobbleheads, etc.—that litter my desk.

“Bailey is being held on the third floor,” I say. “There's one guard with her as bait, but four gunmen waiting on the fourth. Their plan is to lure Bailey's dad into the trap when the guard goes out for one of his frequent smoke breaks, and then the four move in for the capture or kill.”

“Who tipped you off?” Pinch asks.

“A gambler.”

“Can you trust him?”

I shrug. “Not really, but this has the ring of truth to it. He's not a fan of Lebed.”

“Money doesn't require friendship or loyalty, Dix, only opportunity. Never trust anyone where greed is the only binding factor. There's always someone who can outbid you.”

“Yes, Yoda,” I quip.

Pinch studies the blueprints, his finger running up and down the center staircase. He turns the page and studies the aerial view, too. The building has a flat roof, three exterior fire escapes, and another in the center that connects with the interior staircase.

“The Swan is too clever to set only one trap,” he says. “Four men can provide enough firepower for what he's expecting, but their location isn't ideal. Seconds will be wasted getting down those stairs.”

“He doesn't want them being seen,” I say. “Joe never showed up
for Roxanne. Lebed obviously wants to make this choice look easier.”

“Maybe.” Pinch sighs and turns his back on the map. He closes his eyes for a second, then turns back and studies the map once more. When he's satisfied, he straightens up, brushes some invisible lint off his sleeve and looks at his watch. “Ready?”

I nod, gulp, and follow him back to his car.

We park a short distance away from the building and I switch on the walkie-talkie. The static hisses for a second before clearing.

“Mr. French?”

“We're here, Miss Flynn. Eyes in the sky. All clear.”

“Any movement?” I ask.

“The guard appears to be trying to kill himself with a smoke break every twenty minutes. Regular as clockwork. If my bowels did that, I could cut back on my morning prunes.”

I grimace. “Any sign of the father?”

“None, I'm afraid. Victor has been scanning the streets with his telephoto lenses, but nothing yet.”

“When is the guard due to take his next break?”

“Twelve minutes. He exits the front door, lights his cigarette, and walks half-a-block to either the north or south. He's very predictable, which means he'll go north next time.”

“Any movement on the fourth floor?”

“Quiet as a church mouse, although Victor has noticed occasional wisps of smoke drifting over the roof. He thinks somebody is sneaking onto the rear fire escape for clandestine smoke breaks.”

Having heard enough, Pinch slips out of the car and opens the trunk to prepare.

“Is Bill here?” I ask.

“Mr. Bulldog is in position,” answers Mr. French. “And he's brought
friends. Very large friends.”

“Give him a two-minute heads up when the guard is about to show.”

“Roger that. Where will you be?”

“You'll see me.”

“Be careful.”

I swallow. “Stay out of sight. I'll be fine.”

I switch off the walkie-talkie and slip it under the passenger seat. If anything goes wrong, I don't want Lebed to know that I had any help.

Outside, I walk to the rear of the car to join Pinch.

“Change of plan,” he says, handing me a gun.

By the time I find my voice to protest, Pinch is dashing across the street and vanishing into the shadows.