Tell Me No Lies (21 page)

Yeah, he'd just bet. He hadn't forgotten the rest of what Alex had told him. Ex-KGB and probably cagey as shit.

"So, Detective ..."

"Bonner."

"Ah, yes, Detective Bonner. What can I do to help you?" Hank had heard him speak before on TV and at the party and though the accent was strong, me English was fluid.

"You are from Sokanan, as I understand. Perhaps you are looking for a donation to the department?"

Hank laughed and waved the offer the bribe? away. "No, no, nothing like that."

"Then what can I do for you? You are a distance from home." Translation: you're out of your jurisdiction. True, but Hank pretended otherwise.

"It's about this phone call." Hank began on a hesitant note, as if he wasn't sure how to begin.

"A phone call?"

"This man back home, Luka Kole, he made a phone call to you, and "

"To me?" He looked taken aback, but mildly so. "I do not know a what was the name?"

"Luka Kole."

"Ah yes. Kole. No, the name is not familiar."

"Well, he called Petroneft about two weeks ago. I have this list from the phone company here." Hank fumbled with the papers, slid them under Petrov's nose, then slid them away again before he could get a good look. "And it says right there that he made a phone call to you."

Petrov spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "We get a lot of phone calls here, Detective. Petroneft is a very large company."

Hank chuckled again as though Petrov had made a joke. "Well, I know that, Mr. Petrov, but the thing is, this man, this Luka Kole, well, he got himself shot a couple of days ago, and we were wondering, since he did call you, well, you know, what it was about."

"I have no idea. If he called the company, he could have spoken to anyone."

"So you never heard of this Luka Kole?"

Petrov smiled indulgently, a city cat staring down a country mouse. "I am afraid ... no."

Hank frowned. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Miss Baker, she'll be sorry to hear it, too."

His eyes sharpened. "Miss Baker?" That ruffled his fur.

"Yes, I believe you know her. A. J. Baker? Don't you and she have some kind of business thing together?"

"Yes. Renaissance Oil." His eyes had narrowed, his attention focused.

"That's right. Been reading a lot about that in the paper."

"And what does Miss Baker have to do with this man, Kole?"

"Well, seems she was Mr. Kole's daughter."

That got a reaction. Petrov took in a sharp breath, quickly controlled himself, and smiled. "I did not know Miss Baker had relatives in Sokanan. I understood she was from New England."

Hank shrugged. "I don't know about that, but she says she's his daughter. She's burying him today."

"Is she?"

"Well, not by herself, of course. We've got a cemetery, and they do all the heavy lifting, but she's paying for it. At least, the city's charging her for it."

Petrov looked at him, a sympathetic smile on his face, a smile that meant nothing. "I will have to send her flowers. I had no idea. She must be terribly upset."

Upset was an understatement, but not about Luka Kole.

"So, you're sure you never heard of the man?"

"Luka Kole? No, I am sorry. But I can have my secretary do some little research for you and see who he might have spoken with."

"Would you? That would be a big help." Hank handed him his card. "You can contact me anytime. Thanks."

"My pleasure."

He rose, walked Hank to the door. "Give your police chief my regards. We are playing golf next Sunday."

As if he might actually move in those circles. "Oh, sure. Will do." They shook hands, and Petrov released him into Yuri's custody. The bodyguard escorted him to the elevator and back down to the lobby.

At the door, Hank stopped, patted his pockets, and looked sheepishly at Yuri. "Spare a smoke?"

The other man looked as though he'd rather spare a left hook, but with a grunt he reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros.

Bull's-eye.

"American." Hank winked. "They're the best."

Yuri shrugged and shook the pack to free up a cigarette.

"Thanks, pal."

Hank stuck the cigarette behind his ear, walked through the revolving door and out into the street.

So Yuri smoked the same brand as the butt Greenlaw had found. So what? A million other nicotine addicts smoked Marlboros. And even if a DNA profile came back on Yuri, that butt could have been dropped anytime. Hank had a feeling it hadn't been, but he couldn't take a hunch to court.

He stopped outside the building and gawked up at the heights of glass like a rube from the sticks. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yuri leave to return to his master.

Okay, Miki. Let's see what you do next.

***

Ensconced in his office, Petrov stared at the case holding bis swords. The dragoon officer's saber grabbed his particular attention. It dated to 1841, and unlike the hilt of the regular soldier's weapon, the officer's sword glittered with gilt Petrov kept the gold highly polished, though it was mere decoration. A gloss hiding the base metal underneath.

Was it the same with Alex?

The information Detective Bonner had so casually dropped zipped through Petrov like a lit fuse.

Alex, Luka's daughter?

Impossible.

Kholodov had no children.

Even if he had married while in hiding, any child born could have reached a maximum of only thirteen years.

He opened the case, took out the dragoon's saber and frowned at it

A relative perhaps?

A niece maybe. That idiot detective had gotten mixed up.

But what if he hadn't?

Petrov took a fighting stance and whipped the sword through the air. The blade sang with sharpness. A deadly sound. A comforting one.

Why would Alex claim to be Kholodov's daughter? And if she was his daughter, why tell him she was raised in Boston by a physician?

He slashed the sword through space again, cutting it three times.

The last time he'd seen Kholodov had been thirteen years ago. The day Comrade Baklanov...

He stopped, midswing. A picture formed in his memory, fuzzy at first, but sharper as he brought it into focus.

Kholodov pulling someone away from the body. A screaming child. No, not a child. A girl. A young woman.

Petrov didn't quake often, but he was nearly quaking now. Not with fear, Miki Petrov was afraid of nothing. But something...

He stared at the sword, at its honed edge and gleaming hilt.

Gilt over metal.

There was meaning in that. But what?

He leaned over his desk, punched a button on his phone, and ordered Svetlana to find Jeffrey Greer.

In minutes, Greer's voice echoed into the office from the speakerphone. "Mr. Petrov. How nice "

"What have you found about our Miss Baker?"

He'd wasted no time on preliminaries, and Greer was slow to respond. "Uh... just a minute, let me get the file." The sounds of shuffling paper came through the receiver, driving a sliver of impatience through Petrov.

Miki rotated his wrist, watching the blade twirl. Would Jeffrey Greer enjoy seeing what could be done with a blade?

"Here it is," Greer said. "Okay, let's see. Graduated sumraa cum laude from Harvard Business School. Prior to that, she was at Princeton, where she also graduated at the top of her class. After Harvard she "

"I know all this. Where was she thirteen years ago?"

"Thirteen? I don't understand."

He gazed along the blade edge, contemplating the drag as it slid across Greer's throat "You don't need to understand. The question is a simple one. Where was she thirteen years ago?"

"Well..." More paper shuffling. "Oh, here we are. She was in Boston."

"She went to school there?"

"Well, no. Briarcliffe in New Hampshire. I have her senior transcript. Graduated with a 3.87 G "

"And before that?"

"Before that?"

"Yes,
before
that." He heard his voice. The tone was silky, calm. Deadly. "Where did she go to school
before
that?"

"You mean when she was what six, ten? You want to know where she went to school as a child? How can that possibly have any relevance to "

"Find out"

"But, Mr. Petrov--"

"Find out, Greer. I don't have to tell you the consequences of disappointing me." Idly, he drew the blade across a pad of paper on his desk, carving it in two.

"No, sir."

No, sir. Jeffrey Greer was becoming more and more to his taste.

Petrov disconnected the call and paged Svetlana again. "Send Yuri in."

Yuri poked his head in, looked from Petrov to the sword and back again. Fear sliced across the big man's face, and Petrov smiled.

"Come in. It won't bite. It's not hungry. At least... not yet." He replaced the sword in the case, closed the glass door, and locked it. Then he turned to Yuri, who stood like a lump of clay waiting to be shaped.

Petrov signaled for him to sit. "Comrade Baklanov what do you know of him?"

A flash of surprise in Yuri's eyes. Surprise he was wise enough to cover. "He was a thief and a traitor."

Petrov waved this away as irrelevant.

"He killed himself."

"Yes, yes, but what do you remember about him before he killed himself?"

Yuri's face brightened. "He was a big man. A fat man. I remember that. Probably splattered when he fell."

Petrov frowned. Subtlety never worked well with Yuri. He got directly to the point. "Did he have a daughter?"

Yuri thought about it. "I remember something about a child. Could have been a girl."

Could have.

"What happened to her?"

"I don't know."

"Find out. Call Moscow. Use the back door to Dashevsky if you have to."

Yuri's brows rose, but he was smart enough not to comment

Petrov swiveled his chair around to face the windows. From this vantage point all he could see were clouds and sky. He liked being up high. Liked the danger of it. And being above everyone. He'd worked hard to arrive at this place where he and the sky were one. He was not about to

risk his position.

"Kholodov is being buried today in Sokanan." He spoke

slowly, softly, thinking it through. "Send Vassily to the

cemetery. I want to know who goes to the funeral. Use the

camera."

Behind him, Yuri said,
"Da, tovarish 'nachalnik."
"And tell him not to let anyone know he's there."

12

The Sokanan cemetery was twenty miles or so from Apple House. Hank wanted to see who turned up at Luka Kole's funeral, but first he thought he'd stop by the farm and check on his mother.

He was five minutes away from the turnoff to the orchard when a black Ford slithered out of the roadside trees and caught up, butting against his tail.

A warning ticked inside Hank's head. He glanced in the rearview mirror, saw two men inside the other car. What the hell were they doing? It wasn't as if the road was heavily traveled. In fact, there was no one on the road but Hank and the Ford, which was sticking like glue to his rear.

He slowed down, waved the car to pass, but instead, the Ford sped up and bumped Hank's.

What the ?

He struggled to maintain control of the car, but a second hit sent him careening off into the side road.

Trees came at him in a blur. He gripped the wheel. Braked the shit out of the pedal.

And came screeching to a halt half an inch short of a thick maple tree.

Jesus H. Christ.

He caught his breath, lucky to be alive playing its old song in his head.

Weapon drawn, he bolted out of the car, the hot sting of adrenaline pumping madly. Using the vehicle as a shield, he called to them. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The two men were already approaching. They were big, bigger than Hank and he was a big guy. Both were dressed carefully in conservative suits. Dark blue, gray.

"That's far enough." Hank tightened his hold on the weapon, stopping the two before they barreled down on him.

The driver held up a hand.

"Calm down."

"Calm down? Fucking asshole, you almost killed me."

"But we didn't," the passenger said. "So put the gun away, Detective Bonner."

Like hell he would. "Who are you? How the hell do you know my name?"

As if he hadn't heard and didn't care that he was facing an angry cop with a gun, Driver peered at him, face expressionless. "We're here to deliver a little message."

"From who?"

"Stay away from A. J. Baker."

"You're kidding." He looked between the two impassive faces. "What are you more of Petrov's goons?"

"You have your suspect," said Passenger. "Follow up. Leave Miss Baker alone."

"Or what?"

"Or you're not going to like what happens," Driver said.

"Your family has a farm around here," Passenger said.

Hank's gut tightened. "You're threatening my family?"

Driver shook his head. "You're doing that by poking your nose where it doesn't belong."

The two men stared at him, faces cold and impassive.

Driver said,
"?Comprende?"