Tell Me No Lies (8 page)

Petrov returned to the desk, sat down, and steepled his ringers together. Over his clasped hands, he scowled at Yuri, stabbing him with a look Petrov had used on countless victims. A look that said you were standing there by his leave, and if he wanted to, he could make sure you never stood again. "What did you find?"

Yuri squirmed. "I tore Kholodov's place apart. Emptied drawers, cabinets. I searched everywhere, even pried up floorboards. There was nothing about you."

Petrov growled. That could mean Yuri was an incompetent fool.

Or Kholodov had been bluffing, and there was nothing.

Or they just hadn't found it yet.

None of which were options Petrov liked.

"I did find this." Yuri trudged over, took something from inside his coat, and with two fingers slid it carefully across the desk as though afraid Petrov might cut the digits off.

A photograph of Alex.

Petrov glanced sharply at Yuri. "Where was this?"

"In a nice silver frame on top of the TV."

What did this mean? How would a runt like Kholodov come in contact with one of the most talented businesswomen in the country?

Petrov studied the photograph. In black and white, it looked like a blowup from a newspaper article. Well, Alex was a beautiful woman. Maybe Kholodov just wanted a picture of her.

Maybe.

He felt Yuri's gaze on him. "Stop hovering."

The man tensed. "What do you ..." Yuri licked his lips. "What do you want me to do?"

"When I decide I'll let you know. Get out." Yuri started to obey. "Wait. Go over to Miss Baker's building and tell me when she arrives. And don't let her see you."

Yuri bowed slightly, a relieved expression on his face. He backed out, and Petrov had forgotten him before he disappeared through the door.

He picked up the phone. "Get me Jeffrey Greer."

While he waited, he stared at the picture. Alex stared back at him, her smile cold and meaningless, for the camera only.

He would like to warm that smile. Melt it. Heat it.

Discover the mystery behind it.

"Greer." The State Department aide's voice broke into Petrov's thoughts.

He didn't say hello, didn't identify himself. "What do you know about Alex Baker?"

"She's a brilliant mind who made a name for herself in the newly formed Russian market?" He turned the statement into a question, as though this were a game.

Petrov growled. The only games he played were of his own making, and this wasn't one of them. "What do you know about her that I don't know?"

"I I'm not sure I understand." Greer hesitated, and Petrov pictured the man shoving back the black frames of his glasses. "What is this about, Mr. Petrov?"

"I want you to find out everything you can about Alex Baker."

"Why? Is there a problem?" Worry edged Greer's voice. Renaissance Oil was his project, the first he'd been given to handle from start to finish, and he had a personal stake in seeing it through to a positive outcome. "She's perfectly respectable, has all the right contacts, speaks "

"Just do it. And Greer?"

"Yes, Mr. Petrov?"

"If you want to ensure the future of Renaissance Oil, don't tell anyone what you are doing."

"But-"

"Am I clear?"

"Yes, Mr. Petrov."

"I'd hate to tell your superiors you haven't been cooperative."

"No, Mr. Petrov."

Miki grunted in approval. "Good." He appreciated a man who was easy to manipulate.

***

Hank's morning hadn't gone well. Neither he nor Klimet had found any of the mopes McTeer had alibied up with. At ten, he got a call from Ricky Garza at Juvie. Trey had got into another fight at school and, while supposedly cooling his heels in the principal's office, had managed to cut out altogether. A patrol unit had caught him downtown, breaking windows and spray-painting the back of the municipal building. They'd brought him in, and Hank spent the rest of the morning dealing with the damage.

A good portion of that time was used up in a fruitless attempt to talk to Trey about what had happened, but the kid clammed up like McTeer in the interview room with Klimet, and no appeal to the Knicks or any other topic broke the kid's silence.

Hank didn't want Trey to end up a tough guy like McTeer. And he didn't want himself to turn into a bully like Klimet. But if things didn't improve, he was afraid they were both headed down that road.

After dropping Trey off at Apple House, where he was put to work under Rose's watchful eye, Hank drove back downtown to pick up the keys they'd found in Luka Kole's pocket. Through a cable TV bill, Fenelli had tracked down Kole's home to a west side apartment complex in a scruffy part of town,, once solidly blue-collar, now edging lower. A lot of GE plant workers had lived there, and when the plant closed the neighborhood had slowly deteriorated. Riverside Towers was no exception.

He stopped by the manager's office for directions, got back in his car, and cruised slowly down the road toward the back end of the development. He found the apartment easily enough, on the top floor of a two-story structure in need of a new coat of paint.

He inserted one of the keys from Kole's key ring in the lock, but the door swung open. A human sound, like a gasp, hit him and without thinking, he pulled back against the outer wall and drew his weapon.

He faced the sun, which simmered and pulsed, a bright ball of Mojave heat. Sweat beaded up. The last time he'd burst into an enclosed space where he knew someone was waiting for him, people had died. Deep inside his head he heard his brother-in-law's taunts, the tinny sound of a heavy weight hitting metal. He hadn't known it then, but that had been Maureen going down, her body bouncing off the side of the toolshed.

The scar on Hank's chest seemed to throb beneath his shirt, and he rubbed the place where Tom Stiller had plunged the screwdriver in. Christ, his hand-was shaking.

Unless whoever was in Kole's apartment wanted to risk breaking a leg or worse by jumping out a window, there was no way out except the stairs, an exit he now controlled.

"This is the police," he called. "Come out, hands on your head." Silence.

Who was inside? Rapidly he ran through the options. The killer coming for more. A burglar. A relative. Harmless, not harmless. Armed, not armed. He'd been lucky once, would his streak hold? He thought about the randomness of the universe, the sad, sick fact that no matter what he did, survival boiled down to chance and fate.

He had to move. Had to stop debating, second-guessing and just plain move. A year ago he wouldn't have been having this little heart-to-heart with himself. He'd already know what to do and done it.

He made himself breathe. Steady. Too much adrenaline, and he'd be no good to anyone.

He inhaled. It was like taking in his own life force shivery, icy hot. Pushing through the terror, he forced himself around the corner and back outside. What had he seen?

A woman frozen in place holding an empty picture frame.

A familiar woman.

Relief flooded him. He grabbed a moment to compose himself, then, mouth dry, he stepped into the apartment, gun still drawn.

Alex Baker stared at him, face flushed, gray eyes wide with shock.

Well, at least he'd gotten his answer she'd lied. As the totality of her deceit washed over him, he saw her stiffen. The disbelief in her face mutated into haughtiness. He had to hand it to her the look she gave him made him seem the trespasser.

But they both knew who didn't belong. And all her Russian millions couldn't change it.

5

What are you doing here?" Hank holstered his weapon but gave Alex a look that was equally intimidating.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

He fisted his hands, opened them. "You know, I'd like to wring your neck, but I'll take this slow and easy. One, you obviously knew Luka Kole, or you wouldn't be here. So you lied to me." A beat of silence. "Don't say anything," he said dryly. "Just nod when I get it right." She didn't move. "Fine. I'll take that as a yes. Who is he? What is he to you?"

"I... I don't know what you're talking about."

A lousy bluff if he ever heard one. "You just happen to be here ravaging a dead man's apartment? A dead man you claim not to know?"

Her skin, already pale, was nearly dead white. She dropped the picture frame she'd been clutching and began gathering things a tote bag, a purse. "I don't have to answer to you. I haven't done anything wrong." Her voice was cold; that lady-of-the-manor thing again.

"Except lying to the police, breaking and entering. Oh, and destroying private property."

"I didn't do this." She made a move toward the door. He blocked her way.

"Yeah? Who did?"

She didn't reply.

"Who is Luka Kole? What do you know about him? What's your relationship to him?"

"Let me pass."

"Dream on, Countess."

"You can't keep me here." She was quivering, the fine tremors rippling through her. She struggled with them, raising her head and squaring her shoulders, working'to conquer the fear. He admired that, but admiration wouldn't get him where he wanted to go.

He stepped forward. She backed away. "Who is Luka Kole, Alex?" Her jaw tightened, but she didn't answer. He took another step, she stepped back. "Did you have anything to do with his murder?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I... I "

He raised his voice. "Dammit, who is Luka Kole?" She bumped up against the remains of the couch. A small push, and she landed on it. Braced on the sofa's arm and spine, he loomed over her. "Talk to me, Alex, or I'll cuff you and take you to the station and put you in a holding cell."

She gazed up at him, cool and resentful. But below the surface he saw something else, despair or hopelessness. An opening, one he took.

"Who is Luka Kole?" He bore down on her, voice hard and unforgiving. "Why did you lie to me? What do you know about his murder?"

"Nothing."

"Stop lying."

"I'm not lying."

"Yes, you are. Who is Luka Kole?" He shook the couch, and her body jerked forward and back. He shouted at her. "Who is Luka Kole? What do you know about him? Who is he?"

"My father," she shouted back. "All right? He was my father." Her voice cracked. "He was my ... my father." She looked away, out toward the chaos of the room, as though she didn't want him to see the tears.

Slowly, Hank released her. Jesus Christ... "Your father? Luka Kole was your "

"Yes. How many times do I have to say it?"

"His name is Kole. Yours is Baker."

"My stepfather's name. Luka and I... we are were estranged. I haven't seen him in years."

He sank on the couch beside her. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you lie?" Her hands were clasped tight as though holding her together, and he fought against a surge of pity.

"You come to me on one of the most important evenings of my life with a scandal that could have led to bad publicity or worse. What did you expect me to do? My father was not a nice man. I don't care who murdered him. He probably deserved it. I don't want to have anything to do with him."

"Why are you here, then?"

She was silent for a moment. Figuring out her story or steeling herself to tell the truth?

"He had something that belonged to me. I wanted it back."

"What?"

She held up the empty picture frame. The silver sides caught the light "A picture of my mother."

Hank studied her. Was she lying again?

"She died when I was six. I have no photographs of her. Luka refused to give me one."

"So you ripped the place apart looking for one?"

"I told you, I didn't do this. The door was open. This was how I found it."

"If that's true "

"It is."

"Then who did do this? What were they looking for?"

"How am I supposed to know? I told you, I haven't seen Luka Kole in years."

He appraised her. Even in distress she dazzled. The color had returned to her face, and the exotically slanted eyes, now gray, now blue, had a bruised look. He had a swift urge to pull her against him, tell her it was okay, he believed her.

But he didn't.

"Where were you yesterday around five o'clock?"

"You can't seriously think I had anything to do with "

"Where were you?"

She gazed down at her clenched hands, and as though realizing they were a sign of weakness, she pried mem apart When she looked back up, whatever softness or vulnerability he'd seen in her face had vanished. The ice princess was back.

"I was at home getting ready for the party. At least twenty people can attest to that." She looked at him as though he were some lower order of insect.

He didn't let it bother him. Instead, he pulled out a pocket notebook and a pen. Tossed them in her lap.

"Good. Write them down."

Alex picked up the pen and prayed he couldn't see her hand shaking. Her brain was thick with confusion; desperately she tried to keep all the lies she'd told straight in her head. And she fought to remember even one name the florist, the caterer, bartender, waitstaff. Plenty of people had seen her. They filed by inside her head in a blur. Sonya. There was always Sonya.