On Best Behavior (C3) (27 page)

She flinched as she met Kirsten’s eyes. Evidently her phone call was over. “Is your client here?”

“Nope. And my next client had the decency to call ahead to cancel, unlike all my other college alcoholic no-shows.” She returned to her chair. “So, did you find your diagnosis?”

She shrugged. “I’m too much of a whack-job to fit one of their categories. I’m sorry to bother you with all of this. I’m probably freaking out about nothing. I’m just so worried about Grant, and we never get to talk any more—no counseling sessions, no nothing—and when I don’t know what’s going on…”

“It’s okay.” Kirsten’s voice softened. “Did you ask him about his phone call when it ended? Did he seem suspicious?”

“Well, not really. I, um, I sort of…seduced him. And then he left for the hotel.”

Her mouth widened into a huge grin.

“Exactly what are you smiling about?” Sophie demanded.

“I just read this article about how women behave when they suspect their men of cheating on them.”

“And?”

“Women flirt and make sexual advances much more frequently when they fear infidelity. It’s kind of a way to mark their territory.”

“Oh.” She smirked, thinking of the bite marks she might have left in more than a few locations. “I guess he knows he’s mine then.”

Kirsten giggled. “You little slut.” She lifted her hands, palms up. “Looks like my next hour’s free. What’re you up to?”

“I’m supposed to write my section of Anita’s manuscript.”

“Wow, you sound so excited.”

“Oh, yes. Can’t
wait
to get back to the office.”

Kirsten winked. “I have a better idea. Did I tell you about Cécile, the theater professor I met during new staff orientation?”

“Maybe? Is she French?”

“
Oui
. She’s totally adorable. Anyway, her office is right next to the storage space for all the costumes. We had a blast in there the other day, trying on hats.”

Sophie frowned. “What does this have to do with McSailor?”

“You said you can’t go to Capone’s because he doesn’t want the bad guys to see you, right?”

“Yes.”

Kirsten smiled as she raised her hands in front of her face, pinched her forefingers together, then ran them over her lips and down the sides of her mouth, stroking an imaginary handlebar mustache. “My dear Sophia, Dr. Holland has a therapeutic intervention just for you. We will examine your fear that your fiancé is cheating on you, and I’m sure you will find him to be faithful as always. We will face your anxiety head on. A little
exposure
therapy, you could say.” She rose from her chair, seeming inspired by her little speech, and pointed her forefinger in the air. “The only thing you have to fear is fear itself!”

“So are you supposed to be Sigmund Freud or FDR?”

“Neither.” Kirsten yanked her up from her chair. “Let’s go find some costumes for tonight,” she said, hooking her arm around Sophie’s elbow. “I’ll be a pig farmer, and you’ll be my date.”

15. Conflate

L
IFE
W
AS
G
OOD
on the outside. If Ricker had more cash in his pocket, then it would be
perfekt
. His payday from Enzo was still a ways off because that Fredrickson bitch had refused to talk about her brother-in-law last night. He’d peppered Ashley with questions about her dead husband’s family, under the guise of mourning their common losses, but she’d given him zilch. And she’d only allowed one prudish kiss before she shoved him out the door.

But then he’d found a way to release his frustration. A most satisfying way. While writhing on the dance floor at a club in Boys Town, he’d met a bottom to his top—a skinny little Cuban piece of ass…and what a
nice
little piece of ass. The boy even had an apartment nearby, which Ricker had promptly commandeered and called his own. After a night of delicious debauchery, he’d left the boy to his chores, including laundering the sheets and scrubbing the kitchen floor. Little Daisy Fuentes’s naked body sported a smoking red butt as a reminder to keep busy while his boss was gone.

Now he sauntered down the sidewalk, whistling Petula Clark’s golden oldie “Downtown” and perverting the lyrics in his head:

Boys Town, can go down on sweet-cheeks in
Boys Town, you’ll never be lonely in
Boys Town, all fucks will be free for you…

He stopped short when he noticed a tiny white furball shivering on the sidewalk, its leash tied around a street sign. Was that speck of fur a
dog?
If so, it was the smallest he’d ever seen.

Scanning the surrounding area, he saw only a few pedestrians scurrying down the sidewalk. Bells jangled to his left, and a boutique door opened.
Ah, here’s the owner
. But the woman who stepped out simply turned and walked away without a look in his direction.

He kneeled to inspect the little fella. The dog wore a white fluffy sweater, meaning its body was even scrawnier than he’d thought, under that layer. The owner must’ve given a damn about the creature. When he reached out to souse the dog’s ears, a growl rumbled in its throat.

He laughed. “You’re a big beast, yah? You want a piece of my hand?”

The little white shit’s lips curled back to bare its teeth.

His smile vanished. At right was some frou-frou vegetarian restaurant, and two men were just getting up from the table near the window—maybe to pay their bill? Were they the tiny white fuck’s owners? Resuming his whistle, he casually untied the leash and scooped the dog into his jacket. He kept his hand clamped around the dog’s muzzle to prevent the little asshole from barking or biting. The dog mustered a soft whine, and he whistled louder to mask the sound as he strolled back the direction he’d come.

A smile tugged at his mouth as he turned the corner, his theft undetected. He now felt one step closer to Grant Madsen.

***

Grant glowered at Agent Bounter as he sat across from him in Mr. Remington’s office. His faux-girlfriend had just gone to the ladies’ room to collect herself for the evening’s show, and he already relished her absence. “I still don’t understand why you couldn’t get an agent on this,” he said.

Bounter sighed. “I already told you, we don’t have the manpower available for something like this. Government cutbacks, you know. The only agent we
could
get to pose as your girlfriend won’t be appropriate.”

“And why’s that?”

“She’s kind of…” Lucas looked away. “Butch.”

“As in gay?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not the problem. She’s pulled off straight before. I respect her abilities.”

If Sophie ever found out about this, he’d much rather the woman bat for the other team. “So what
is
the problem?”

“She’s just not pretty enough for you,” Bounter said. Grant couldn’t hide the blush that heated his face, and the agent grinned. “You’re doing great with the Russians, and we don’t want a plain-looking girlfriend to tip them off.”

Grant groaned as he covered his face with his hands. “When will this be over?”

“Hang in there. Tonight could be a lot of fun, if you let it.”

“Yay. So you think this is going well so far?”

“Very. Andrei planting that bug’s a sign they’re planning something big for you, I think. And he’s really opening up to you. What he told you about his father—it helped us put some pieces together.”

Grant leaned forward.

“We always wondered how Andrei’s loyalty to Vladimir developed. We knew they’d been part of the same boxing club in Solntsevo when they were younger—not a great neighborhood, and Vladimir was Andrei’s coach. But Andrei telling you his father killed his mother piqued the interest of our research guys. They looked closer and discovered something about Andrei’s father’s death.”

“Andrei’s father’s dead too?”

“Murdered five days after Andrei’s mother. Svetlana Kebin died in the local hospital from blunt head trauma on March twentieth, almost twenty-five years ago. Igor Kebin somehow escaped prosecution for his wife’s murder—we think he had friends in high places. But apparently his skating free didn’t sit well with his oldest son, Andrei, who was eighteen at the time.”

“Andrei murdered his father when he was only eighteen?”

“No, we think Vladimir killed him.”

“Why’s that, sir?”

“Vladimir had moved to Moscow by this time—he was a contender for the Soviet Olympic boxing team. Guess where a national boxing tournament was held March twenty-fourth of that year, one day before Igor Kebin was murdered?”

Grant felt his throat tighten. “Solntsevo.”

“Bingo. Apparently Andrei’s father was so beat up they had to use dental records to identify the body.”

“But if Kebin had friends in high places, how’d Vladimir and Andrei avoid prosecution?”

“The research guys speculate that’s how these two ended up in the States. They both went off the grid for about ten years before they resurfaced in Chicago. Maybe they went into hiding after the murder.”

Grant nodded. “Makes sense. You’d told me Vladimir was a boxing champ in the Soviet Navy. Did he serve in the Navy before he moved to Moscow?”

“Yep.”

“But I didn’t know he was an
Olympic
-caliber boxer.” He remembered the chokehold the don had gotten him in that night with Innochka. “You think he gave that all up when he killed Mr. Kebin?”

Bounter shrugged.

“That’d be enough to make a man bitter—losing out on a dream to help a friend.”

With a nod, Bounter added, “And that’d be enough to make that friend loyal to Vladimir for life.”

The door to Mr. Remington’s office swung open, and in walked Grant’s date for the evening. His eyebrows lifted at her hot pink mini-dress, which clashed with her fiery red hair. So much for Bounter’s advice to keep a low profile.

“You changed your clothes,” Grant said.

“You keep a dress like
that
in your employee locker?” Bounter asked.

Miranda grinned as she wiggled down next to Grant. “You never know when a hotel guest will ask you up to his room after your shift. Working at the front desk does have its perks.”

Grant stifled a groan. How on earth had he arrived in a situation where he had to pretend Miranda was his girlfriend?

“The Russians have landed,” Bounter said, touching his earpiece.

Grant straightened on the sofa.

Bounter looked at Miranda. “Let Mick answer their questions, okay? The less you speak, the better. We’ll debrief you when you go up to the room after the show.”

Grant glanced at his watch. “I have to be on stage in ten minutes. We should head out.”

“I wonder…” Miranda said.

“Yes?” Bounter asked.

She tossed her hair. “I think we should practice kissing before we meet the Russians. We gotta make it look real, you know?”

A knot tightened in his stomach.

“What do you think, Mick?” Bounter asked him.

“I think, with all your experience with hotel guests, Miranda, that we’ll do fine making it look real.”

She frowned.

“Just follow my lead, and Mr. Remington will make sure you get a plum job in his Miami hotel.”

Her frown turned upside down. “At least I get to live somewhere nice. Miami weather’s much better than the crapola Chicago winter.”

A minute later he latched on to Miranda’s elbow and led her into Capone’s. Tony Bennett streamed through the speakers, and a healthy crowd had already gathered.

Vladimir, Andrei, and their dates sat at their usual table, double vodkas half-full in front of the men. As Grant led Miranda toward them, she snuggled closer, tucking herself into his shoulder. He’d have to get rid of her heavy perfume smell before he got anywhere near Sophie.

He noticed the stares of a few women in the bar’s seating area. When Miranda nestled even tighter into him, those stares became glares. Maybe the waiters wouldn’t deliver so many drinks bought for him tonight.

At last they reached the table, which brought Vladimir and Andrei out of their seats. “We finally meet your lady,” Vladimir boomed, reaching over and planting a loud kiss on the back of Miranda’s hand. Grant glanced at Katya, but she only looked bored. Bored and vacant. She’d probably shot up on something before they left West Town.

“Vladimir Federov and Andrei Kebin,” Grant said, extending his arm toward them, palm up, “may I present to you Ms. Samantha Smith.”

Miranda giggled when Andrei kissed her hand as well. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Andrei spoke Russian into Vladimir’s ear, something about wondering if Samantha was a
true
redhead. Grant pretended not to understand. No need to defend Miranda-Samantha’s honor so soon into the evening, with plentiful dangers ahead.