The Birthday Girl (35 page)

A bird with dark blue plumage was winging its way over the trees. High in the air, the falcon shifted position. It was waiting until the jay was away from the trees. 'He'll be able to see it better 292 STEPHEN LEATHER when it's over the snow,' Freeman said. Mersiha felt suddenly afraid, as if she were the intended victim, as if it were her the hawk was stalking. 'There he goes,' Freeman whispered.

The falcon had tucked its wings in and was diving beak-first towards the jay. It accelerated rapidly. The impact was a blur to Mersiha. The jay didn't even have time to cry out. It fell in a flurry of feathers and blood and the falcon swooped down to collect its prize, ripping the flesh with its beak as it kept a wary eye out for other predators.

'It's horrible,' Mersiha said.

'It's life,' Freeman responded. 'Survival of the fittest.'

'The strong kill the weak.' She looked across at him. 'That doesn't make it right.'

Freeman put down his sandwich. 'Hey, I was talking about animals. I didn't mean ...'

'I know, I know,' she said before he could finish.

'Killing can never be justified,' he said.

'What about if someone threatens your family? Wouldn't you kill to protect Katherine?'

Freeman smiled thinly. 'Only if there was absolutely no alternative.'

'And if you did? Would you feel guilty?'

'Of course.'

Mersiha chewed her lip. Why didn't she feel guilty about Sabatino? Was there something wrong with her, was something missing, a conscience maybe, or a soul? Why was fear the only emotion she felt - fear of getting caught and fear of losing her family?

'Remember last night, what you said about your hair?'

Mersiha's hand instinctively went up to her head but she stopped herself. 'Sure. Of course I do.'

'Do you want to tell me about it? Do you want to tell me what happened?'

She looked at the falcon. It was ripping something long and red from the jay's guts. It hung from the falcon's curved beak like a rasher of bacon. 'I will, Dad. But not just now, okay?' She cupped her hands around her coffee as if trying to absorb its warmth.

Freeman nodded. 'Whenever you're ready, pumpkin.' They sat together in silence as the falcon fed.

Katherine Freeman opened the front door and dropped the carrier bags on the hall table, sighing gratefully. She took off her coat and checked the answering machine. The red light wasn't flashing. Then she carried the two bags containing food towards the kitchen. 'Supper's here, Buffy!' she called, expecting the dog to come bowling down the hallway, tail wagging and tongue lolling. The silence was a bad sign - Buffy liked nothing better than to go through the rubbish bin looking for scraps, even though she knew she wasn't supposed to. Left on her own, she'd poke through the trash to her heart's content, licking dirty cans and butter wrappers. She'd only be assuaged by guilt when she heard a key in the door. Then she'd go and hide, usually under the kitchen table.

'What have you been doing?' Katherine called, expecting to hear a guilty growl. Still nothing. Whatever she'd done, it must be really bad. She elbowed the kitchen door open, expecting the worse. The dog lay in a pool of congealing blood, one eye wide open and staring, the other lost in a mass of smashed tissue and bone. Her tongue looked impossibly big as if it had inflated and grown too large for her mouth. The groceries slipped from ^Catherine's arms and spilled on to the floor. A loaf of bread rolled into the puddle of sticky blood. Katherine took a step backwards. She looked around as if expecting to see the dog's killer standing in the corner, then her eyes were dragged back to the dead animal. There was no question that she was dead. Her one remaining eye had turned a milky white and the matted fur was quite still.

Katherine backed out of the kitchen, her breath coming in short gasps. She closed the kitchen door and leaned against it, resting her forehead on the painted wood. She couldn't think why anyone would want to kill Buffy, unless the house had been broken into and Buffy had been defending her territory.

She frowned and went into the sitting room. There were some valuable silver pill-boxes on a side table, untouched, and a pair of solid silver candelabra, a present from her mother. The fact that they were still there suggested that the house hadn't been burgled. She closed her eyes. Had the dog died of natural causes? she wondered. All she could remember was the blood, and the grotesque tongue. Perhaps Buffy had had a stroke, like Katherine's father. There was only one way to find out. She'd have to go back into the kitchen.

She took a deep breath and opened the kitchen door. For the first time she noticed the smell of urine and blood, and she put a handkerchief over her mouth and nose. Slowly, taking care to avoid the blood, she knelt down and examined the dog's head. There was a small black hole behind its right ear and most of its lower jaw was missing. There were bone and teeth fragments on the tiles and a strip of matted fur against the cupboard under the sink. It was no accident, and it certainly wasn't natural causes. Buffy had been shot. Without thinking, Katherine reached out to stroke the dog's flank, but she stopped when she felt how cold it was. Her hand came away bloody.

She wiped the blood off on her handkerchief as she went into the hallway to use the phone. She couldn't bear to stay in the kitchen. Buffy had been more than a dog; she'd been a member of the family. She dialled 911 with a shaking hand. A bored woman answered. It sounded to Katherine as if she was chewing gum. 'You've got to help me, someone's shot my dog,' she said.

'Name and address?' Katherine gave the woman her details, becoming increasingly frustrated as the woman insisted on double-checking every spelling. 'Now what happened, ma'am?'

'My dog. Someone's shot my dog.'

'The dog's dead?'

'Yes. Yes, the dog's dead.'

'What makes you think your dog was killed, ma'am?'

'What?'

'How do you know she didn't get run over and crawl into the house to die. I'm sorry, ma'am, but it happens.'

'There's an entry wound in the back of the head. I've been hunting, I know what a gunshot wound looks like.'

'And did you see who killed it?'

'No. She was dead on the floor when I got home.'

'Do you have any idea who did it? Have you had trouble with your neighbours recently?'

'My neighbour is a cardiologist at Johns Hopkins. I don't think he fits the normal profile of a dog-killer.'

The sarcasm was lost on the woman. 'Was anything taken from the house?' she said mechanically.

'Not that I can see, no.'

'And you're in no danger?'

'No,' Katherine said coldly. 'No, I'm not in any danger.'

'Well, I'll have a patrol car call around later today.'

'When?'

'Well, when we have someone available, Mrs Freeman. But to be honest, a dead dog isn't going to rank high on our list of priorities.'

'So what do I do? Do I leave her where she is for your forensic people?'

'You can if you want. I'm not sure that they'll send a forensic team out, though. Not for a dog.'

'But they'll want to find the bullet, won't they?'

'I really couldn't say, Mrs Freeman. It is only a dog, after all.'

'It's not only a dog!' Katherine shouted. 'She wasn't just a dog. She was ...' She realised she wasn't making any impression on the woman on the other end of the line, and she slammed down the receiver. She knew the woman was right. The police weren't going to be over-concerned about the shooting of a pet, not with the city's human murder toll. Baltimore had one of the country's highest murder rates, much of it drug-related, and barely a day went by without at least one murder. On weekends the toll was more likely to be in double figures.

She went to pour herself a drink, but stopped in her tracks, staring at the photographs spread out on the table. She was sure that when she left the house all the pictures had been in the manila envelope. She picked up one of the photographs, a close-up of Mersiha, and looked into her daughter's eyes. 'What's been happening, Mersiha?' she whispered. 'What the hell's going on?'

She carried the photograph with her as she went back to recheck the answering machine, just in case Tony had phoned. There was no mistake. The red light wasn't blinking; no one had called. She picked up the phone and dialled Maury Anderson's number from memory. He answered on the third ring. 'Maury? It's Katherine. Have you heard from Tony?'

'It wasn't my fault, there was nothing I could do,' he mumbled.

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'They made me, Katherine. You don't know what they're like. Utsyev's a killer. Just keep away from them ...' The line went dead. His voice had sounded strange, as if his mind hadn't been on what he was saying - the disjointed ramblings of someone having a nightmare. She grabbed her coat and ran out of the house.

The black limousine pulled up in front of the terminal in a space earmarked for handicapped drivers. 'You wanna wait here while I pick up the tickets, boss?' Kiseleva asked, tugging at the red scarf around his neck, but Utsyev was already reaching for the door handle. Kiseleva caught up with him after a few steps like an eager-to-please puppy. Vincenti followed behind, his gaze sweeping left and right, looking for trouble but finding none.

There was no queue in front of the first-class counter and within minutes they were heading for the departure gate where their plane was ready for boarding. A black family were loading their hand baggage on to the conveyor belt that fed the Xray machine while a bored security officer was making a young blonde girl remove her hair barrette before going through the metal detector a second time. Utsyev stood in line, tapping the tickets against his leg impatiently.

'Fuck,' Kiseleva cursed quietly.

'What's up?' Vincenti asked, chewing on his unlit cigar.

'Fuck,' Kiseleva repeated.

Utsyev looked at him sideways. His eyes narrowed. 'Are you THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 297 carrying?' he asked. Kiseleva nodded, shamefaced. Utsyev's face darkened and he glared at the man. 'Are you fucking stupid, or what?' he whispered.

'I forgot, boss, what with the rush to the airport and all.'

The family threaded through the metal detector without incident and the security officer beckoned Vincenti.

'Go see if Nikko's still outside. Give it to him,' Utsyev said, handing him a ticket.

'You can come through, sir,' the security officer said, waving to Vincenti.

'Yeah, yeah,' Vincenti said.

'You're not carrying as well, are you?' Utsyev asked. Vincenti didn't rise to the bait; he just smiled smugly. Utsyev put his face close to Kiseleva's. 'Is it traceable?' he hissed.

'No, boss. Definitely not.'

'So if Nikko's not there, dump it in the men's room. And if you fuck up again ...' Utsyev left the threat unfinished.

Vincenti went through the metal detector. It beeped furiously. Utsyev shook his head in amazement, but Vincenti pulled a metal keyring out of his overcoat pocket and showed it to the security officer. The officer made him put the keyring in a plastic tray and walk through again. This time he was clear. Utsyev went through without incident and the two men walked to the gate, where they boarded immediately. A stewardess with unnaturally black hair and an equally unnatural smile showed them to their seats and took their overcoats to hang up. Utsyev looked at his watch. The flight was due to leave within minutes.

'He'll make it, boss,' Vincenti said.

'Yeah? He'd better.'

A second stewardess, blonde with a painted-on beauty mark on her right cheek, appeared at Utsyev's shoulder. 'Can I get you a drink, sir?' she asked.

'Bourbon, on the rocks,' he said without looking at her. Vincenti shook his head.

'This is a non-smoking flight, sir,' she said mechanically, pointing at his cigar.

'I'm not smoking,' Vincenti said.

'Smoking isn't permitted, sir,' she said, her smile tightening.

'It isn't lit.'

'I'm sorry, sir.' The smile had now become a tight line.

Vincenti realised there was no point in arguing with her and he handed it over, wet end first. She took it between her thumb and first finger, holding it away from her body as she went back to the galley.

'Stepford wives,' Vincenti said.

'Huh?' Utsyev grunted.

'Robots,' Vincenti explained. 'They're not real women. They're fucking robots. Have a nice day. Fasten your seat belt. Tea or coffee. Thank you for flying with us. Bullshit.' He picked up a copy of the in-flight magazine and flicked through it.

The stewardess was just handing Utsyev his drink when Kiseleva rushed into the first-class cabin, his face flushed. 'Sorry, boss,' he mouthed as he took his seat at the rear of the cabin. Utsyev looked away in disgust. Kiseleva was a good man in a fight, an enforcer second to none, but if they handed out frequent flyer miles for brains, Kiseleva would never leave the ground.

'So, are you gentlemen flying to Denver on business, or for the skiing?' the blonde asked brightly.

Utsyev bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. 'We're going to a funeral,' he said.

'Oh,' the stewardess said. 'I'm sorry.'

'That's okay,' Utsyev said. 'I'm not.'

Katherine kept her finger pressed against the doorbell until Maury Anderson opened the front door. She pushed him in the middle of the chest and sent him staggering back into his hall. 'Right, Maury, what the hell is happening? You've got ten seconds to tell me or I'm calling the police.'

'Leave me alone,' he said, throwing his hands up to cover his face as if he feared being struck.

'Someone's been in my house. They shot Buffy.'

'It wasn't my fault,' Anderson said, shaking his head in denial. Katherine could see traces of white powder on his upper lip and his nose was running.

'You're on coke, aren't you?'

'So?' he said defiantly.

She slammed the door behind her. 'What's going on?'

'Stay out of it, Katherine.' He rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

'Stay out of what? You said someone was a killer. Who were you talking about?'

'Utsyev. Sabatino's brother.'

'The guy that's been trying to take over the company?'