In Sheep's Clothing

Chapter Three

Toweling off after his frosty two-minute shower, Vicktor caught the phone on the third ring.

“Slyushaiyu.” He rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven skin and winced at a raw spot. The clock hands inched toward eight-thirty.

“You have some explaining to do, Shubnikov.” Comrade Major Mikhail Malenkov’s voice grated Vicktor’s already throbbing nerves.

“Come again?” Vicktor folded his towel and hung it over a straight-backed chair.

“Maxim. He’s supposed to be your partner. Yet you didn’t have the courtesy to call either him or me and let us know that one of your best informants is stone cold in the morgue?”

“He was a friend, sir, and unless I missed a memo, my understanding was Maxim just shares my office space.”

“Don’t get smart. You know he’s assigned to you.”

Vicktor’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed his closet. His voice grew cold. “I was walking my dog. I found Evgeny by accident.”

“Right. Next time call your own guys for backup. We don’t need the goats in the militia sniffing around our dela.”

“Since when are local murders our business?”

“Since they are mafia hits.”

Vicktor scrambled for balance, his sock halfway on. “Mafia hit?” Hope lit inside him. That meant the case would head to the COBRA force of the FSB. Roman’s division. Vicktor schooled his tone. “Sorry about the oversight, sir. Old habits die hard. I’ll call our guys next time.”

Malenkov’s voice softened to a cultured tone. “Aren’t you supposed to be here by now, Captain?” The phone hummed in Vicktor’s ear.

He slammed it onto the cradle and smirked. With Roman on the inside, maybe Vicktor wouldn’t have to kowtow to Arkady. He’d happily shove the raw memories and unending penance behind him.

He tugged on his black suit pants and white oxford. Straightening his tie in the mirror, he caught a glimpse of Alfred, sprawled on an armchair, tearing into the last of his loaves of bread.

Vicktor crossed the room in two strides. “You’re a menace, you know?” He tried to wrench the bread from the dog’s mouth, then gave up and scratched the dog behind his pointed ear. “Try not to eat me out of house and home, huh? No furniture, no pillows, no shoes and I promise to take you home tomorrow morning, okay?”

He thought he heard the dog sigh with contentment as he slammed the door behind him.

The sun had peeled off the initial chill of the morning. Vicktor flipped up the collar of his tweed sports coat while he coaxed his forest-green Zhiguli to life. He felt like flicking on his siren and parting traffic on his way to work. As it was, anticipation sent his accelerator into the floorboard and he soon found himself in the back parking lot. Screeching into his regular space, Vicktor hopped out and shut the door.

“Vicktor!” A feminine voice, high and smooth, sailed over car tops to greet him. Yanna strode over to him, hitching her leather computer bag and gym bag up her right shoulder. The satchels dwarfed her lean body, but she was crisp and pretty in a black leather skirt, hose and matching jacket. Yanna knew how to pull off European fashion.

“Do you have a game tonight?” he asked, melting into her stride.

“Against the Vladivostok Torrents. They’re still unbeaten.”

“Until tonight.” He winked at her. Yanna’s volleyball team had taken the championship for the city and was smoking their way toward nationals. Yanna’s serve could melt butter and her spike sent him to his knees in terror and admiration. He didn’t have a prayer when they played one-on-one down at the beach.

“Come and watch the game tonight. It’s at Dynamo Stadium.” Yanna flicked back her silky brown hair and looked up at him, those brown eyes so clear and genuine. His heart twisted. Why couldn’t he find a girl like Yanna? Roman was right: his life was desolate. Never mind about the Savior garbage, but maybe he could be persuaded to let someone quiet into his life. Someone supportive. Forgiving.

Yeah, that was likely. Especially if he let them close enough to get a glimpse of the real Vicktor.

He returned Yanna’s smile. “I’ll try and make it to your game.”

“Great!” She bounced through the door he held open.

They fell silent walking in the back entrance of FSB Headquarters. The mustard-yellow building covered nearly a city block and loomed five stories tall. The rumors ran as deep as the dungeons but few had involuntarily ventured lower than the first floor and lived to tell about it. Vicktor and Yanna walked through the gray corridor in silence, their feet echoing against the cement. They passed abandoned interrogation rooms and doors that led to the secrets below. Vicktor wondered at the wisdom of the FSB occupying the same building its predecessor, the KGB, had occupied for sixty years. Fear was embedded within the walls.

They climbed the stairs and entered the lobby. “I’m ducking into Personnel,” Yanna said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yanna, wait.” He caught her arm, a lump rising in his throat. His voice stayed low. “Sorry about missing the chat last night.”

She blinked twice at him, as if he’d dashed her with a bucket of ice. She gave a furtive look around the lobby. “No problem.” Whirling, she nearly sprinted away from him.

Vicktor stared after her. He was making all sorts of friends this morning.

He took the steps two at a time to his office on the second floor, then threaded his way through a minefield of desks to his office.

Vicktor snorted as he rounded Maxim’s desk, buried somewhere under an avalanche of paper. Yesterday’s teacup soiled a stack of notes and Snickers wrappers littered the floor, but the desk chair remained empty. Annoyance flooded him as he recalled the major’s words. The rookie was slightly difficult to mentor when he never showed up for work. Partners. The word made him cringe. Maxim didn’t have a clue what it meant and Vicktor didn’t have the time or desire to teach him. Vicktor shrugged out of his coat and hung it in his wardrobe.

Grabbing his coffee mug, the one with Mount Hood glinting off the side in gold etching, he scooped in a generous amount of instant coffee, added a spoonful of cream and plugged the samovar in, waiting for it to boil.

He turned on the ancient paperweight they assigned him a month ago, a.k.a. his desktop PC, coaxing it with a few sweet words. While it eased to life, he weeded through his phone messages. Two distraught families from cold cases who would never know what happened to their mafia-connected kids, and a call from Arkady. Filing the other two in the Maxim pile, Vicktor flicked his fingers on Arkady’s note while he dialed his father.

Nickolai caught it on the sixth ring. Vicktor didn’t know if he should be glad or brace himself for the inevitable.

“Slyushaiyu!”

Vicktor forced a cheery tone. He thought he’d make a great undercover cop. “Privyet, Pop. How are you?”

Silence.

“Do you need anything?”

“What would I need? A son who stops by and visits once in a while, maybe?”

Right. Okay. Nickolai had his happy face on today. “I’ll stop by later. Do you need some bread?”

He supposed he should be grateful his father still spoke to him after the accident. The old man hadn’t assigned blame, but he didn’t have to. The Santa Barbara reruns and the constant tapping with his metal cane turned the knife with precision.

Silence crackled through the line. “Pop?”

“Da. Da. Bread is all I need.” He hung up and Vicktor stared at the dead phone.

He was off to a great start this morning. Vicktor kneaded his temple. If his mother were here she’d know what to do. But Antonina had abandoned her men on a snowy night two years ago, and the grief and anger had driven the Shubnikov men apart long before Nickolai’s accident. The Wolf’s bullet had simply pushed them beyond reconciliation.

Steam fogged the room, obscuring the glass windows that separated Vicktor’s office from the rookies on the floor. Vicktor filled his cup and stirred the coffee. It wasn’t Starbucks, which he’d visited more times than he should have in Oregon, but at least it was coffee. Sorta. Okay, it smelled the same.

A cup and a half later, he had read through his e-mail messages and reached for the phone. He hoped Arkady had eaten a full breakfast. He needed the man slightly sluggish when he needled him for information about Evgeny.

“Give us a break! Lakarstin’s body isn’t even cold!”

Nope. Probably had kasha. Even Vicktor would be on edge after a bowl of cold, lumpy mush. “I know, Chief, but what do you know? Tell me, anything.” Please, let him say he was handing the case to the COBRAs. He didn’t want to be caught in the middle of a range war.

Vicktor heard Arkady snuffle, and could almost see him lean back in his tattered desk chair and take a pull on his cigarette. “Well, let’s see what you can do with this, hotshot. His neck was slit.”

“I’m not quite that stupid, thank you. Tell me something new.”

“And he had a wad of paper shoved up his nose.”

“What?”

“You mean you goats in the ‘FezB’ don’t know a mafia hit when you see one?”

“What mafia? That’s not the Russian signature for a hit.”

“It’s a North Korean superstition. They shove the paper up a victim’s nose to keep their spirit from haunting them. Even a rookie would know that.”

Vicktor thumbed his coffee cup handle, ignoring the barb. “What would the North Korean mafia want with a veterinarian?”

Arkady’s chair creaked as the Bulldog shifted his weight. Probably putting out that cigarette.

“That is a good question. Was your buddy into drug smuggling?”

“Now, how would I know that?”

Arkady laughed. Vicktor tensed.

“You said that dog of yours was a bit sluggish…maybe he needed a fix?”

“At Alfred’s age, following a cute poodle just about does him in.”

“Your pal was into some sort of tyomnaya delo, some nasty business, for the mafia to track him down. They were searching for something, too. We found a charred notebook in the garbage can, like he tried to keep something out of their hands.”

Vicktor remembered the orange peels. “Maybe it’s some sort of ledger.”

Vicktor heard the flick of a lighter.

“Are you doing an autopsy?” he asked.

“Cause of death is pretty obvious.”

“Not to the FSB.” As soon as the words left his mouth Vicktor wanted to bang his head on his desk.

A chill blew into Arkady’s voice. “Something you want to tell me?”

Vicktor’s stomach knotted. Why, oh why, couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? “I heard the word mafia and…well, it’s not personal, Chief.”

“Your COBRAs have been banging on my office door all morning. You tell them this is my case and I’ll hand it over if and when I want to.”

“It’s not your jurisdiction anymore.”

“I’ll say what’s my jurisdiction. You just remember, you chose to leave. Nobody forced you out.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

Silence stretched the moment taunt. Then, in a voice so thin Vicktor hardly recognized it, Arkady whispered, “You watch your back over there, Vita.”

Vicktor opened his mouth. Nothing emerged.

“I gotta go round up the boys,” Arkady said, his voice fully recovered. “They’re probably out stealing the hubcaps off cars.”

He hung up and Vicktor clutched another dead phone in his white-knuckled fist.

Gracie fumbled with the ropes that bound Evelyn’s wrists. She couldn’t look at Evelyn’s ashen face.

Evelyn’s body lay at a contorted angle and her head had lolled back to reveal a jagged cut just below her chin. Gracie kept her gaze on the rope. Her fingers were slick, her eyes flooding. “It’s almost loose, Evelyn,” she soothed, as if her glassy-eyed friend could hear.

When the knot slid free, Evelyn’s still hands remained a sickly gray, the blood refusing to flow into the gnarled fingertips. Gracie wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked. Her breath wheezed through dry lips.

“What happened?” she moaned. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, her body shuddering with shock. “What happened?” She heard a wail, and with horror realized it was her own. “Oh God, help me.” She covered her head with her hands, scraping up control. Her breath came in hiccups, hard, fast.

An eerie silence invaded the room. Gracie’s skin chilled. What if the murderer still lurked nearby? Fear drove her to her feet.

She had to call the police.

Her head spun as she wiped tears from her face. The phone. Stumbling to the desk, she picked it up and dialed 9-1-1.

The dead tone buzzed in her ear. Fool! Russia didn’t use 9-1-1. For the first time in two years Gracie dearly wished she lived in America. She held the receiver against her forehead. “God, help,” she whimpered.

Her eyes latched on to the phone list. Andrei. She left a trail of red on the number pad. “Be there!” she demanded, sobbing. She slammed down the receiver on the tenth ring, then grabbed up the telephone, shaking it. “Be there!”

Larissa. Gracie grabbed the handset. Crumpling to the floor, she pulled the phone into her lap and dialed. She hugged her knees to her chest as she closed her eyes and listened to the ring.

“Aeroflot Travel. This is Larissa Tallina. Hello.”

“Help.”

“Gracie, where are you?”

Thank the Lord, Larissa recognized her voice.

“Help. Evelyn…” Gracie’s voice sounded reed thin, unrecognizable. Her head spun. Acid pooled in the back of her throat.

“Are you hurt?” Larissa’s voice held panic.

Gracie shook her head.

“Are you at home?”

Gracie shook her head again, beginning to tremble.

“Gracie, talk to me! Where are you?”

Focus. Gracie steeled herself, inhaled deeply and formed speech. “Evelyn…was…murdered.” She felt a sob roiling to the surface.

Larissa gasped.

A floorboard creaked; the refrigerator hummed from the kitchen. “Larissa, don’t leave me! Are you there?”

“Da, Da, Da. I’m here.” Larissa’s voice sounded pinched, perhaps with grief. “Stay right where you are. I’m calling the police. Stay put.”

Gracie’s plea lodged in her dry throat and surfaced in a ragged whisper. “Don’t hang up.” The dead tone buzzed in her ear. Oh please, Lord, no. Please don’t leave me here all alone. She pushed the phone receiver into her cheek and blew out, fighting the panic clogging her mind.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.”

Gracie curled into a ball, ignoring the comfort that could be hers, covered her hands with her face, and wept. Her sobs echoed through the flat and drowned the rasp of the steel door as it eased open.

Chapter Four

The Wolf had grown to like the alias. He liked to think of himself as a hunter. “Where is it?” He slammed his hands down on his desk and leaned forward in his rickety chair. The flimsy piece of laminate trembled, as did the weakling sitting in the straight chair across from him.

“I don’t know.” The man’s face paled. He turned up his fraying collar.

The Wolf saw the quiver in his hands, and rolled his gaze up to the ceiling. The ceiling fan swirled the stale air through the tiny office. Dust rose from the matted red rug and mixed with the sour smell of mold clinging to the walls of the cement and log building. The place should have been destroyed years ago. Someday it was going to come down, but he hoped to be long gone before then.

He rose, rounded his desk and leaned against it, folding his hands on his lap. His stress was beginning to manifest itself in the flesh of his knuckles. His fingers screamed as dry skin cracked and bled. He needed a bottle of Smirnoff and a good massage. But not here, not now. Pleasure would have to wait until he’d finished what he’d started. That’s what commitment meant. Putting off ’til tomorrow the delights of the flesh, staying the course until the job was complete.

That much he’d learned over the thirty years of his virtual imprisonment.

He watched the man fidget, play with his leather key chain. Idiot. The man had all the markings of a new Russian—cocky on the outside, kasha for stuffing. Flighty. Uncommitted. Men like the one before him made the Wolf physically ill. They had no idea what it meant to sacrifice for the Rodina, the Motherland. Men like him were like a virus, infecting the motherland with greediness and a lust for westernism. He despised the leather jacket, the black shoes, the clink of keys to a fancy Japanese sedan.

He despised the next generation. Their idealism, their selfish dreams. The Wolf smiled. He’d shattered some of those illusions today.

He let the kid sit in silence, watched a line of sweat drip down the angular face.

“It’s your own fault.”

The younger man looked up, eyes lined with red. “How’s that?” The tough tone was belied by an edge of horror.

“If you’d dug deeper, none of this would have happened.”

“He didn’t have it. He knew nothing!”

Weakling. “He knew.”

“He died rather than tell you?”

“Yes.”

The man rose and went to the window. “I feel sick.”

The Wolf knew just how the kid felt. He remembered the day not so long ago, when everything he built his life on dissolved like salt in water.

He’d been left to drown.

The Wolf clamped a fat hand on the chauffeur’s shoulder. The younger man jumped. Outside the grimy window, a group of blue-gray pigeons wandered through the garbage of an over-flowing Dumpster, picking at juice cans and hard bread. The wind blew a plastic bag through the rutted dirt yard. It caught in the branches of a budding lilac.

“Find what I need and you’ll feel much better. I promise.”

In the wake of Gracie’s sobs, the whine of the steel door on its hinges ignited her adrenaline like tinder.

Someone was here.

Gracie held still, letting the saliva pool in her mouth. She heard nothing but the whistle of a draft from the outside hall, yet she felt a presence slink toward the bedroom. Gracie drew in a slow, noiseless breath, trying to ignore the sound of her pounding heartbeat. The presence edged closer. Clamping down on her trembling lower lip, she moved the telephone to the floor. It jangled.

Gracie froze.

Glancing around the room for a weapon, her heart sank. The Youngs had nothing more dangerous than a couple of oversize pillows in their room. Her slaughtered body would be found clutching a feather pillow like a shield. Revulsion sent an unexpected streak of courage into her veins. She wasn’t going to let Evelyn’s murderer kill her without a fight.

Her eyes fell on the crystal vase Dr. Willie had given his wife for Christmas. Gracie eased to her feet and grabbed the vase. The faux flowers went airborne, scattering the potpourri Evelyn had tucked inside.

Gracie heard a brushing sound, as if the intruder had skimmed his jacket along the wallpaper. She gritted her teeth, willed her pulse quiet, raised the vase.

The door cracked open.

Gracie wound up.

A fuzzy white paw clawed at the invisible.

The vase crashed.

Gracie’s heart nearly rocketed out of her open mouth. Shaking, she sank onto Dr. Willie and Evelyn’s double bed and wheezed deep breaths.

She’d nearly killed a cat. What if it had been the killer? What was she supposed to do, bean him with a pot of flowers? The absurdity of her defense sent heat into her face. She was a fool. And she might be in danger.

Glancing at Evelyn’s butchered body, she pushed a hand against her pitching stomach and released a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Evelyn. I have to get out of here.”

Gracie grabbed her satchel from its landing place near the door and stepped out into the hallway. Nothing but shadow and the plink of water from the kitchen sink. On noodle legs, she ran to the door, just daring someone to leap from the kitchen or the living room. She’d send him out of the window and into the next country.

She stepped into the hallway, strode to the landing and started down the stairs. One step at a time, skipping two, then three, feeling the hem of her dress catch as she hung on to the rail and flung herself down every flight until she stumbled, breathless through the entrance and out into the clear, blue-skied day.

Her gaze landed on a babushka, still attired for January, sitting on a bench near the door. The old woman scrutinized her with a slit-eyed stare. Gracie stalked away, her strides not nearly long enough for the speed she needed. The cacophony of sirens, horns and car engines on the street played her tension like a drum.

Footfalls streaked up behind her. She ducked her head. Panic made her stiffen, yet she glanced up.

A teenager ran past, his backpack slapping against his hip. He frowned at her as he whizzed by. She lowered her eyes and repositioned her satchel on her shoulder, increasing her stride.

Color caught her eye. Dark red. She slowed and examined her hands.

Blood. Her breath stuck in her throat. Blood welled in the creases of her palms, smeared her hands, stained her shirt-sleeves. It saturated her denim skirt, lined the hem of her trench coat.