The Cleaner (Born Bratva Book 4) (20 page)

The Killer

I’m taking a chance by standing just out of sight so I can observe the woman with the short blonde hair and the guy in the suit who is always at her side. It seems I’m doing that a lot more lately—taking chances. I can only conclude that knowing my days are numbered is pushing me to the edge of sound judgement.

I lift my phone and zoom in to get a clear shot of the woman, and then I repeat the process for the man. Being married to a cop taught me a lot about researching identities. Of course the facial recognition software I stole from the man I was married to won’t hurt. Most people don’t realize how easy it is to discover someone’s identity. Any photo can be searched on Google. If either of them have ever been in the newspaper or have a professional website, I’ll have their identity in a matter of seconds.

I pull the hoodie over my head, adjust my ridiculously large sunglasses, and stroll down the street unnoticed. It’s a short walk to my apartment, the place I hide away during the day while I research my next victim. Nowadays I only leave when it’s absolutely necessary.

A gathering sense of foreboding, perhaps of my own mortality, has sharpened my instincts to an almost feral degree. With each step I take, the shadows of my past fall away like dry, brittle leaves that tumble across an ancient and cracked sidewalk. I sometimes wonder if my humanity will be the next to go. Maybe it’s already gone. The season of my life is changing; the bitter chill of winter beckons the warning winds of my soon-to-be demise. My time is running out.

I jog up the steps and into the dim lighting of my apartment building in old Louisville. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust as I unlock the heavy gate that covers the flimsy plywood front door. I speak to my elderly neighbor as she struggles with the small cart on wheels that she uses for her groceries.

“Mrs. Harris?” I ask tentatively when her hand shakes as she tries to unlock her door. “Here, let me help you.” I grab the keys, not giving her a chance to say no.

I open the door and gesture for her to precede me. The cart’s wheels creak and whine as I pull the cart in after me. Mrs. Harris wheezes and coughs as she struggles to catch her breath. The brief walk from the corner mart takes more out of her than it used to. I efficiently put her groceries away and turn to see her hanging up the coat and scarf she wears every day of the year, whether it’s cold outside or not. Today, it’s not.

“Enjoy your youth,” she wheezes. “Everything becomes a monumental effort when you get old.”

“That’s why you have me here to help you.”

“You shouldn’t be helping old women. You should be out having fun with young people, but you stay holed up in that apartment working all the time. It’s not good for you.”

She continues talking, her voice becoming little more than a distant hum in my ear as my thoughts turn to the identities of the well-dressed man and the blonde woman.

After checking to make sure her windows are locked and replacing a lightbulb over the sink, I put away a few dishes and wipe down her kitchen counters. When everything is spic and span, I return to the front room to kiss Mrs. Harris goodbye. She pats my cheek with a soft hand that’s riddled with age spots, her stiff fingers bent at unnatural angles by arthritis — but it’s her eyes that haunt me, they’re so sincere. So kind.

“Enjoy life while you’re young, dear. None of us is promised tomorrow, you know.”

Truer words have never been spoken.

Nikita

There’s a part of me that’s glad I stood up to Agent Turner. I take that back; every cell in my being affirms that I was right to look out for the real victim in this sordid tale of corruption. The more I know, the easier it will be to figure out what to do.

This is the first time I’ve ever felt like I needed to rescue a client. I don’t see this woman as a cold blooded killer. As far as I’m concerned, she was backed into a corner and forced to kill. I have a problem with how the police are portraying her as the big, bad,
Cop Killer
, when they’re the ones who are corrupt. The way I see it, if you’re going to be corrupt then fucking own it—my family sure does.

I give Natasha time to gather the evidence she’s after before I tell her it’s time to go. If Agent Turner thinks she’s taking orders from him, he’s sorely mistaken.

Evidently she feels the same way because she wastes no time striding briskly toward the SUV. As I turn to join her, the cutthroat lawyer in me rears his ugly head. I say in a low voice intended for Agent Turner’s ears only, “I expect a phone call filling me in on any details that may come up at the morgue. I consider that handshake to be our verbal agreement. You would do well to honor it.”

I know I’m pushing the envelope by the way he bristles and cuts his eyes at me, acknowledging my words without seeming intimidated by them. I just don’t give a shit anymore.

Agent Turner is nobody’s pansy, even if he does let his woman have the upper hand in the bedroom. My father’s very good at researching people and he knows all of the agent’s kinky little secrets. Glazov is a man who is not just adept at physical torture, he enjoys a good mind fuck too. Either way, such information can come in handy when put to the right use.

I come from a long line of men who will do anything they have to in order to get what they want. I can assure you if Alexander Glazov wasn’t above blackmailing my mother to marry him, he’ll think nothing of using any information he’s privy to, to come out on top with the governor and his cronies.

I don’t look at Natasha as we drive away; I just begin to fill her in on all the things swimming around in my head right now.

“Let’s see what the feds do from here. I don’t trust them. I think it’s time for us to come up with a plan of our own. What did you get?”

I laugh when she holds up her phone and I’m greeted with an image of the guy’s cock smothered in scarlet red lipstick.

“If this wasn’t a legal case we’re working, I’d say this was a TMI moment. That is exactly what I want to see you doing; getting information those agents don’t know you’re getting. I’m sure your sneaky ass got that picture without them seeing you—you better hope Herb doesn’t tell them.”

“Herb doesn’t know. You know I waited till his head was turned. They’d have a fit if they knew I captured photographic evidence on my phone; the rebel in me loves it.” She blows on the tips of her fingers and rubs them lightly on her shirt, her grin and arched brow as good as saying
Damn, I’m good.
“So what’s your plan?”

“It’s time to act on the information we have.”

“Nikita… Acting on information no one else knows about is dangerous at best, and deadly at worst. When Glazov finds out we know this woman was married to a cop—probably the cop who was her third kill, he’s going to be livid we kept the information from him. There are very few people I’m scared of and your father is at the top of the list.”

“You think
you’re
scared of him? Try being his kid. I’m terrified of the man.”

“Then why risk his wrath by sticking up for a woman you don’t even know?”

“Because Glazov raised me to trust my instincts. He also raised me not to come to him with guesswork. Up to this point all we’ve done is sit on some information that may or may not be true; we’re not sure of the killer’s identity yet, no matter how strong our suspicions are. If he confronts us about it, we just tell the truth – that it isn’t verified and we didn’t want to bother him with it until it we had confirmation.”

“Yeah… Well, as far as I’m concerned you’re taking this whole childhood
pinky promise
to the brink—this is nothing short of dangerous!”

She jumps when I slam my hand down on the steering wheel, hitting it so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break.

“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! I’m just as frustrated as you are, Natasha. This case has taken on a life of its own. Regardless of how frustrated I am, I’m not going to allow myself to lose control. Now here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to find this woman and verify what we suspect. I’m not going to make any decision until I know who she is.”

“Then what?” Her voice has taken on a desperation I’ve never heard before. At the heart of her distress is fear—a fear reserved for only one man…Alexander Glazov.

Cop Killer

I boot up my laptop. While I wait, I do one more security check, which consists of checking the door, the gate, and the one window leading to the fire escape that offers me a planned route of escape if I ever need it. Even when I’m home the gate over my door stays locked, giving the appearance I’m not here. Necessity is the mother of invention—and survival is a must.

I’ve lived simply when it comes to things like housing and food, but not when it comes to my computer setup. I have everything I need to stay one step ahead of my enemies. I’ll die when I decide it’s my time, and no one will take that control away from me.

When I’m convinced I’m secure enough to do some research, I sit back down at my tiny desk that conceals so many people’s closet skeletons. I couldn’t care less about the personal power I hold by knowing so many secrets. Justice is all I’m after.

I download the picture of the handsome man from my phone. One Google search is all it takes to find out he’s a lawyer. I run a search on his name and what I find shocks me. It isn’t the fact that he’s a lawyer that concerns me, it’s who his father is.
Holy shit.
It doesn’t take a detective to know the suited man is an organized crime lawyer.

“Son of a bitch!” I hiss through gritted teeth. For the first time since I started down this path, I feel overwhelmed. My brain is firing off questions faster than I can process them. Things like, are the cops I’ve been killing hooked up with Russian mobsters? Why the hell would this man be working with the FBI to catch a serial killer? Am I facing possible retribution from the Russian mafia for my crimes?!

Then another idea hits me, a different angle. I do a search on the blonde and discover that she’s his fiancé, but that isn’t what gives me the ability to breathe a little easier—it’s finding out she was some kind of child prodigy – they both were, apparently -- and is now a forensics expert. That explains a lot right there, but no matter how hard I try to convince myself that she’s the reason they’ve at every crime scene, it still doesn’t put my mind at ease. There’s no way those federal agents don’t know about the lawyer’s ties to organized crime. What the fuck is going on here? It makes no sense.

I lean back with my feet on my desk and cross my arms over my chest as I contemplate my next move. I have a new goal now. I need to find a way to get that lawyer under my thumb. The best way to avoid blowback from the Russian mafia is to get them working
with
me.

What I’m getting ready to do is beyond dangerous, but what the hell. I’m a woman with a death wish and nothing to lose.