Woman Chased by Crows (50 page)

“Perhaps Mrs. Lytton exaggerates my reputation,” Anya said. “My career was somewhat brief.”

“But incandescent, my dear. Besides, you represent what is great about the Russian ballet tradition, training, technique.”

“Pain, loss.” Anya smiled to take the sting out of the words.

“We won't lose you this time,” Mrs. Lytton said. She turned to the candidate. “I do hope you'll find the time to look over the plans I sent you,” she said. “Our list of supporters is growing every day.”

“I'll have to get back to you on that. After election day.” He was already tugging his wife's elbow and stepping back. “Nice to have met you, Ms. Daniel,” he said as he turned away.

“Zubrovskaya,” she said to his retreating back. She turned to Mrs. Lytton. “Daniel was my alias, for a time. I wonder where he might have heard that.”

This night was becoming a trial for Cam Gidrick. Not only was the annoying little blonde woman still hanging around, schmoozing with the old doll in the flowered hat and making nice-nice with his candidate's wife, the man himself was getting increasingly nervous about something, snapping at him about nothing. Barb was no help; she was thumbing her damn iPhone off in a corner somewhere, probably blogging or tweeting — that's all she did these days. And now these people? Three new arrivals who obviously didn't belong: some gawky beanpole in a trenchcoat for Christ's sake, another one who looked like a biker chick in a leather jacket and paratrooper boots and an obvious pansy filling his face at the buffet table. Whoever they were, they had to leave, even if it meant calling out the storm troopers.

The tall one was heading his way. Where the hell were the rent-a-cops when you needed them? He took a deep breath. “Something I can do for you?”

“For a start, how about getting out of my face?”

“I'm sorry, you'll have to leave. Mr. O'Grady has a speech to give in about three minutes.”

Adele flashed her badge. “This won't take long.”

“Look here, Officer . . .”

“
Detective
.”

“Detective. This is hardly the appropriate time.”

“I
know
. If it isn't one damn thing it's another, right?” She leaned closer to read his nametag. “But I promise,
Cam
, not to get all
official
, and
loud,
if your boss meets me over by the punchbowl in about thirty seconds. Okay?”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“You do that.”

Cam made his way back to where the candidate was pretending to laugh at some idiot's lame jokes. He wiped his brow. Police?
Detectives?
An immediate sinus headache unfocused his eyes and made him stumble.
What
in God's name was going
on
? He felt overwhelmed by guilty knowledge, but knowledge about
what
? His ability to do his job depended on knowing the details, and there were details he didn't know, and for the first time in the campaign there were things he didn't
want
to know.

Adele was tempted to load a plate with goodies from the dessert table but restrained herself when she saw Dylan coming toward her, trying to look like he wasn't ready to blow up. “Hey, Dilly, how's it going?” she asked sweetly.

“Del. Didn't read the invitation? Formal, you notice?”

“My prom dress has barf stains on it. I just need a minute. Lacsamana's been trying to track you down. Wants you to come in for a sit down about that
DOA
in the Beaches.”

“The
what
?”

“Case you and Paulie worked eight years ago. Something about jewels. Guy named Vassili Abramov. Shot in the back. Twice.”

“Doesn't ring a bell.”

“Sure it does.”

“Lissen, why don't you go down to campaign headquarters and talk to my guys and we'll work something out, all right?”

“All these people all kicking in to your war chest, Dilly?”

“It's a real bad idea sticking your nose into the political snakepit, Del, know what I mean? You don't want somebody calling up Rosebart, telling him you're being a pain in the ass.”

“Trust me, he knows I'm a pain in the ass.”

His smile was brief, insincere and dismissive. “Gotta go.” He started walking away.

She raised her voice, just a notch. “Hey, we found Paulie's gun. Was that what you were looking for last Friday night at Louie Grova's? The one he didn't have any more.”

He stopped in his tracks. His whisper was deadly. “Get your ass out of here.”

“How do you figure a guy looks like you flies under the radar? You aren't exactly hard to spot.” She grinned. She was having a great time. “We've got a witness.”

“Witness to what?”

“You at the scene, coming out of Grova's around three in the morning, about the time the
ME
says the poor shmuck left for that big pawnshop in the sky. Not very smart for a high-profile political wannabe. I don't think Lacsamana has that information yet.”

“Are we done?”

“
Hell
no. Got a whole lot of shit we need to straighten out. We're still talking to some people.” She pointed. “Way at the back there? Chomping on chicken parts? You know Sergei, don't you? Turns out Louie's sneaky stepson was taping all your meetings upstairs. Got the two of you on record talking about another
DOA
. Guy named Nimchuk. Also shot. Remember him? Motel room on the Queensway?”

“You've got nothing.”

“But fuck, have I got a lot of it. All sorts of interesting shit. There's Louie's brother in Montreal. Remembers you and Nimchuk doing a deal with some diamonds. Back when you were playing football. Ring a bell?”

“We're not doing this here.”

“And the woman. Her name was Ludmilla. Remember her? Russian? Friend of Nimchuk's? Turned up in a dump site inside a fridge. Your old linemate Nate Grabowski says he saw you sneaking her into the hotel that night.”

“None of this sticks.”

“Sure gonna fuck up your trip to Ottawa though, ain't it?” She watched him consider his next move. He didn't seem to have one. “You should have got rid of the sapphire, Dilly. That wasn't smart. I bet your wife'll be really pissed when I have to pull it off her finger.”

She could tell by the way his mouth started to open that he wanted to yell at her but he remembered where he was and instead snarled. “You go near my wife . . .”

“And what?” She pulled her jacket back far enough to expose the butt of her weapon. “You'll stuff me in a freezer?”

Cam was coming to get him. He had a worried look on his face. “Getting ready to introduce you. Everything okay?”

Adele smiled. “What do you say, Dilly? Everything okay? Might as well go make your speech. I'll stick around. We're not quite done yet.”

Keasha glanced in Adele's direction as she rose to meet her hubby. She straightened his tie and dabbed his forehead, whispered a question. He waved it off curtly. She stepped back as if slapped.

Cam stepped close to Adele. “Is there something I should be concerned about?”

“Depends. You haven't been aiding and abetting have you, Cam?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you know, covering things up. You're not involved in anything illegal, are you?”

Cam blew his nose noisily and winced. “Excuse me,” he said. “The air in here is bone dry. Gives me a headache.”

“Oh you've got a headache all right. Big headache. You might have to start beating the bushes for a new candidate.”

It was odd, she thought, that Sergei Siziva had been dragooned into joining the campaign as an ally. It should have been difficult, if not unthinkable, that an arch enemy of almost thirty years could be this close without her fearing him, or loathing him, or at the very least wanting to push his fat head into the platter of shrimp on ice. And yet there she was, standing beside him, as she had done for so many years, and feeling a certain . . .
kinship
was the only word that came to mind. After all, in his way Sergei had been as much a victim in the initial affair as the other gypsy smugglers. His response had been understandable, if not wholly admirable, and the tragic aftermath, as it turned out, had not been his responsibility. And he too, as he made quite clear in a whispered aside, was there to “see justice done.” Besides, his presence allowed her a certain latitude, since he was more than willing to assume responsibility for keeping Mrs. Lytton entertained.

“This man partnered me for six years with the Volga company,” Anya announced as she introduced them.

“I believe my husband and I once saw the two of you dance
Giselle
. I remember you as very . . . stalwart.”

“You are too complimentary, Madame Lytton. I was never of the first rank, I admit that, but not once did I drop a ballerina on her derrière.”

“Bless you, Sergei, that is true,” Anya said. “Always strong.”

“Well, this is a pleasure,” said Mrs. Lytton. “One doesn't expect to find genuine artistes at these affairs. What brings you here tonight?”

“It is more a question of
who
, Madame
Lytton. I am the reluctant guest of the local gendarmerie. I am, as they say, helping them with their inquiries.”

“How exciting. Is it top secret?”

“Hardly, Madame, they believe the gentleman at the microphone may be guilty of a crime. More than one, actually.”

“Really? My goodness. This evening is turning out to be much more fun than I anticipated. I think I'll have a small glass of wine.”

Sergei was full of juicy gossip about Rudolph Nureyev and Erik Bruhn and other stars of the ballet world, and Mrs. Lytton was hanging on every word. Anya decided it was time for her to visit the man again. The candidate was about to make a speech. Anya wasn't interested in the substance, she'd heard it before, only in the manner of its delivery.

He's developed a twitch, she thought. He's started wiping his palms on his jacket, he has to refer to his notes in order to locate the next talking point in a speech he's given many times before. Each time she applauded he lost his place. Or perhaps it was what was happening on the other side of the room that was bothering him. The campaign overseers appeared to be having a heated discussion about something. Anya could only guess what was so important, but the sight had a cheering effect.