Vicious Justice

by Tobi Doyle

  “You think she can handle the police?” Dima opened his laptop.

  Adrianna had looked uneasy, maybe even frightened about talking to the police “I know she doesn’t trust them.”

  “What’s her name?” Dima asked.

  I cringed, hating to share even a little bit of her. “Adrianna DelToro.”

  He typed and then frowned. “Shit.” Dima waved us over.

  He turned the laptop, making the screen easier to read. An online newspaper website was open and the headline read, Retired Officer Found Dead in Prison Cell.

  Dima grunted and pulled the laptop in front of him. His accent thickened as he paraphrased the story. “Her father’s an ex-cop, Will Miller. Put the wife into a coma the night he was arrested. Years of domestic abuse proven. Six calls to the police from neighbors the month before he killed her. Cops never arrested him.” He grunted again. “Hospital records indicate he beat the girls, too. Adrianna and her sister legally changed their surnames when they turned eighteen.”

  A tendril of hate slowly twisted around my heart, heated it, and spread until the rage licked at my brain, plotting death for those who failed Adrianna.

  Dima looked at me and sneered. “Fell through the cracks, the cops said. Bastard was killed the first night in lockup. No witnesses, no suspects.” He pushed back from his desk, disgust rolled off him and slammed into me.

  I closed my eyes and saw her on the ground. Herndon choking her, and her clawing, kicking, never giving up. She’d survived. It wasn’t enough. I wanted revenge.

  Vanya squeezed my shoulder. “Do you think Herndon knew about her past?”

  “I don’t know.” I tamped down the rage, calmed myself. Emotions made mistakes.

  Dima spoke, his voice measured and calm. Experience told me he’d made a plan. “I don’t think she will tell the police anything. When are you seeing her again?”

  “Today, for lunch.” I rubbed my forehead as if I could push out the knowledge she’d been abused.

  Dima leaned back in his chair. “I need to know what she tells the police. Everything. Herndon never broke because he was more scared to give me a name than death.” His pale blue eyes gave me his dead glare, usually reserved for interrogations. “If she talks to the police about you and my uncle hears, there will be repercussions.”

  “Dima, I chose to take her from the alley. This is on me.” My heart was heavy, the consequence of my kindness could be her death or disappearance. Don’t harm her, my eyes said.

  Dima stared, his eyes cold-hearted killer and soulless.

  “It’s on all of us.” Vanya stood, moving to the front of Dima’s desk. “We chose Herndon. We knew the police would investigate his disappearance. Adrianna was Herndon’s victim. You wouldn’t have left her unconscious in the alley.”

  Dima leaned back in his chair, scrubbed his hands over his face and finger-combed his hair. “Fuck.” He pointed at me. “Find out about her police interview and then say goodbye. No more complications.” His eyes warned me.

  “Understood.” I stood, clapped Vanya on the shoulder and left.

  Chapter Seven

  The morning dragged on. I sat at my desk staring at expense reports on my laptop. The numbers blurred in front of me, my concern over Adrianna making it impossible to focus. I gave up and called my lawyer, Abe Finowitz. He didn’t call himself a criminal lawyer, and yet I knew many of his clients were Dima’s associates.

  He answered on the first ring. “Mr. Bykov, how may I assist you today?”

  “I would like to discuss a hypothetical situation.”

  “I’m happy to help.”

  “If, hypothetically, a witness is present, but does not see a crime taking place, let’s say they are unconscious, can the police interrogate them?”

  “The police can ask to question anyone, but the witness can refuse.” Finowitz’s tone was clipped but professional.

  Frustration jabbed at me and I pictured Adrianna cuffed and scared, sitting alone, and interrogated. “If the witness refuses, what happens?”

  “If the witness refused, the police could harass the witness with an obstruction of justice charge because they are hindering the investigation.”

  A slick sliver of fear curled around my spine. The police harassing her at her place of work would bring attention to her. “Is there a way to protect the witness from needing to testify?”

  “Is the witness amenable to not testifying?”

  “Yes.”

  Finowitz was silent, either from surprise or strategizing. He cleared his throat. “The witness could disappear before the police interview. Or, hypothetically, let’s say the witness saw a crime and was married to the person perpetrating the crime, the witness has the right not to testify against their spouse.”

  My hand slapped my desk. “Mr. Finowitz, in this hypothetical discussion, the witness has not seen an alleged crime. Still, if the witness marries, would she be protected from any information she learns after she is married?”

  “Yes, sir. Spousal privilege considers communication between the couple to be confidential. Also, she cannot be forced to testify against her husband for anything she witnesses while married.”

  I leaned back in my chair. This was good news.

  “Also, if you were to marry a US citizen you could petition for naturalization in three years instead of the five required by your EB-5.” Finowitz seemed to have warmed to the marriage idea. “Furthermore, with your current permanent resident status you could file for the I-130 green card VISA. This would give you leeway if your EB-5 VISA investment failed or you chose to reinvest in a different business. Or, if you were inclined, once you obtained the I-130 VISA, you could sell your restaurant to your brother and he could move here with the EB-5 VISA.”

  Misha could move here now? Why hadn’t Finowitz mentioned that first?

  “It may have tax benefits, as well,” Finowitz added.

  “I see,” I said, annoyed Finowitz spoke as if he was paid for each word uttered.

  “Should I put together a prenuptial agreement in case you require one in the future?”

  “No.” I spat the word out.

  Finowitz paused. “Can I assist you with anything else?” His professional tone returned.

  “No.” I ended the call.

  Grateful I’d wasted enough time and could see her now, I grabbed my car keys and headed to the garage. If I had interpreted Finowitz’s cryptic response, marrying Adrianna would give her spousal privilege and she would be protected from ever having to speak to the police. Second, I could sell Konstantin’s to my brother, Misha, and he could immigrate immediately. Third, I would be a naturalized citizen two years sooner.

  And I would be married to Adrianna.

  And she would be protected from the police and Dima’s family.

  I parked a block from Kincaid’s coffee shop. Adrianna approached, her chin up and aware of her surroundings. I got out of my car and met her at the door.

  “Good afternoon, Adrianna.” Her name fit on my tongue.

  She smiled and my day improved. “Hello, Alyosha.”

  My name was soft on her lips. She stepped inside, and I rested my hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the counter. She smelled of fruit, citrusy and fresh, and something sweet, like brown sugar and vanilla. I wanted to wrap her up and devour her. She was the perfect height for her cheek to rest against my heart; a sentimental thought that I whisked away.

  Questions bubbled in my brain. What had she said to the police, if she was seeing anyone, if she wanted me? The last thought caught me off guard and I stepped back, away from her intoxicating scent. The distance did nothing to clear my head.

  “Some lunch, Adrianna? They have paninis.” She looked at me from under her lashes, sexy, like she would after we’d kissed.

  “That sounds good.” Her warm voice was inviting, but her shoulders held tension.

  She turned to the chalkboard menu hanging behind the counter, studying it. Her cheeks grew rosier under m
y inspection. She attracted the interest of a prissy man waiting at the end of the counter. I stepped closer, crowded her, and glared at the meticulous beard until he dropped his eyes. I could feel the heat from her, but she stilled as if to brace herself to receive a blow. Swallowing my sigh, I rocked back on my feet.

  After we placed our orders, I escorted her toward the back, past the men suffocating themselves in vests and ties, past the women suited androgynously, past the students overcrowding their table with technology. I slid into a booth and she sat across from me, my long legs stretched out barring her exit. A book dropped and she turned, wincing.

  “How are you, Adrianna? I can tell you are in pain.” I kept my voice low, and measured each word to remove my accent.

  “It’s better today.” Her answer seemed sincere, but she remained rigid.

  “I should have been there sooner.” It was an honest statement and she rewarded me with a shy smile.

  “You were there. That’s all that matters.” She relaxed and her beauty stunned me. Dark eyes, assessing and intriguing. Her skin golden, like warm caramel and I wondered if it would taste as sweet. Waking up next to her for the next three years would be a gift—assuming she was single, and a naturalized citizen.

  “Are you married?”

  Her expression said she found me amusing. “No.”

  “Were you born in California?”

  “Yes.” She narrowed her eyes, as if trying to find the connection to my questions. “Why?”

  Now was not the time to have this conversation. Instead, I asked, “Did you speak to the police?”

  “Yes. Detective Gallo interviewed Kendra and me at the salon separately.”

  “I hope it wasn’t too unpleasant.”

  “It was quick.” She leaned back and the waitress dropped off our sandwiches. She looked away, pushed her hair behind her ear, and I knew she was holding something back.

  I kept my tone cautious. “Was he polite?”

  “Yes. It was fine.” A secretive smile flashed across her face, like she remembered a private joke. The warmth from her smile heated my blood. She continued, “The best part was he kicked Marlo out of her own office.”

  “Marlo?”

  “She’s the salon owner and was desperate to have no degrees of separation between her and good gossip. But Gallo threatened to take Kendra and I downtown if Marlo didn’t give us privacy.” She bit her lip. “I know it’s petty, but I really enjoyed watching her leave.”

  My kotyonok was not happy with her employer. Maybe having her own salon would appeal to her. “I understand. Aside from having her leave, is there anything I should know about?”

  She lowered her voice. “Detective Gallo talked with Kendra first. She told me she said she left to get a coffee when Herndon arrived. When she returned, Herndon was leaving. Gallo asked if she saw anyone outside and she said no. He called me into Marlo’s office next and went through my timeline. I admitted that Herndon asked me out every time—”

  “Did he?” The bastard probably stalked her. I bit into my sandwich, wishing I had more time to torture Herndon.

  “Yes.” She frowned, her mouth drew tight and her lines puckered between her eyebrows. I hated that I’d put the expression on her face.

  “What then?” I controlled my voice, hid my anger that Herndon had hurt her. She took a bite from her panini. I waited, my body on edge like a rubber band stretched too tight. I needed to calm the fuck down. My sandwich bread was too hard, the cheese too cold, the meat tasteless.

  She put her sandwich down. “I told Gallo when Herndon came for his appointment, he asked me out, and I declined. He left after I washed his hair. I said I thought he was planning on meeting someone else.”

  “Good. That was very good. Kendra corroborated it. They needed his timeline.” I gave Adrianna a reassuring smile. “Did Gallo ask if you saw Herndon again?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ask about your injuries?”

  “No. I kept them hidden.”

  “Has anyone asked about them?”

  “My sister, Elena, but I told her I was mugged.”

  I rubbed my chest, easing the tension that settled.

  She looked at me, seeming to ask for assurance.

  “I doubt you’ll be hearing from the police again. If they do, call me and I’ll send my lawyer to be present. You can have a lawyer present, even for questioning.”

  “Okay.” She stared at her half-eaten panini. Her shoulders slumped, like she was retracting into herself.

  I put my hands, palms up, on the table, willing her to move, willing her to take them. She paused, then her fingers reached out, stroking my palms. Her tanned slender fingers looked delicate against my palms, and yet we fit. I curled my fingers gently around hers. I loved her hands; strong, skilled, sure.

  “Adrianna,” I lifted my eyes to hers. She deserved more than me, and she wouldn’t want a man with an ugly past. “Please, do not hesitate to call me if the police come back, or if you’d like to talk.”

  She drew her hands back. Her eyes widened and flashed panic, but then she nodded. So trusting. It would be her downfall. She again put her hands in mine. “If you need anything… I owe you my life.”

  Those words struck hard. She offered help. She didn’t want anything from me, instead her instinct was to give. Sweet, brave, honest Adrianna collided with the wall I’d erected—and I felt the crack, a fissure, eroding the wall. She gave me hope, an emotion I hadn’t felt in more than a decade. I stood and offered her my hand. I pulled her against my side, and she burrowed in closer. This kitten liked to be held. We walked back to the salon and stopped a few doorways from her work.

  “Do you like working here?” I tilted my chin toward the salon.

  She stepped away, facing me. “I enjoy my regulars. I don’t love working for Marlo, but Kendra and Michelle are great. Fortunately, Marlo’s not here too often.”

  “Have you considered opening your own salon?” Perhaps we could trade, three years of marriage for her own salon.

  She tossed a look like I just asked if she liked to breathe. Still, her answer was tentative. “Maybe someday.”

  I reached for her, an overpowering urge to hold her again overtaking my common courtesy. I wanted to kiss her, but it wasn’t the right place.

  She took my hand in hers. “Thank you for lunch, Alyosha.”

  “You are most welcome, Adrianna.” I pressed a chaste kiss on her hand.

  She licked her lips.

  I wanted to lean in, to steal a kiss. But she would have to take from me. I’d offer her anything, deny her nothing, and hope for her acceptance.

  Chapter Eight

  It’d been more than two weeks since my mugging, a week since I last saw Alyosha, but about five seconds since I’d last thought of him. He didn’t haunt me, it was more like I pulled up his memory to keep the other ghosts quiet.

  I pulled my cardigan tighter around me against the morning chill and headed toward the car. My car door groaned when I opened it and the vinyl seat creaked when I sat down. Please, God, just a little help. I prayed and turned the key in the ignition.

  Zhhh-zhhh-zhhh.

  “Oh please, St. Frances, I’ll buy a candle and pray a novena every night if you could please intercede on my behalf and start my car.”

  Zhhh. The check engine light blinked like an annoyed cyclops. I couldn’t even coax a wheeze out of the car. Dammit.

  I banged my head on the steering wheel, adding to my collection of bruises. “Come on, don’t give up. You know you want to leap to life.” I used my best motivational speaker voice, like I could Tony Robbins the car to life. I turned the key and it replied by clicking.

  Since the power of positive thinking was not an actual mode of transportation, I got out, left my car unlocked, and hoped the car fairies would magic it away. I trudged toward the bus stop.

  My neighbor, Mrs. Galvez, stood waiting in her uniform of khakis and navy-blue polo, a bleach stain at the waist. She greeted me with a
huge smile, her youthful face at odds with her salt and pepper hair gathered into a ponytail.

  “Adrianna, you look so pretty. How are you?”

  “Good, Mrs. Galvez. And you?”

  “Blessed with another grandbaby. Here, let me show you.” She shifted the mesh orange bag she’d recycled into a purse. The strap bit into her fleshy wrist, but she ignored it, pulling her phone out of her back pocket. “Lucy. Seven pounds, six ounces,” she said with honest pride.

  Lucy looked like a cross between a pug and spider monkey.

  “She’s adorable.” I looked carefully at the picture. Yep, two eyes, one nose. Just squished and ugly but wrapped in a colorful crocheted blanket. “Did you make that blanket? It’s beautiful.”

  “Yes. I finished it the night before she was born. I hope to make you one someday. Are you seeing anyone?” She threw the question out there and I ignored it. Her day job was cleaning houses but her passion was playing matchmaker.

  Mrs. Galvez flipped through her gallery of pictures on her phone. Lucy with her parents, with Mrs. Galvez’s other grandchildren, aunts, uncles, and her very eligible younger brother, Julio, holding the baby. Julio held his mini-twin. Poor Lucy. I’d hoped she had a chance of growing into that face.

  We boarded the bus together and Mrs. Galvez patted my arm. I enjoyed the maternal gesture. “Julio’s a good man. Takes good care of Mama.”

  Translation: he still lived at home.

  “That must be a comfort to you,” I said and meant it. But he was not the man for me.

  “I’ll set you up,” she said, winking like it was a secret favor.

  “I don’t have time to date, Mrs. Galvez.”

  She narrowed her eyes in that motherly I-know-you’re-lying glare. “You’re not getting any younger, Adri. When I was your age, I already had three children.”

  “Oh, my.” Yeesh, she must have started at prom. I was only twenty-four, and didn’t want to have a litter with Julio. I fought my facial muscles and turned my grimace into a smile.