Your Eight O'clock is Dead

by Kat Jorgensen

  “Sure you can. It’s how you live to a ripe old age. Worrying and fretting will get you nowhere.”

  Okay, who stole my granddad and replaced him with this mellowed out clone?

  “You should meditate like I do. They brought someone in to church to teach the seniors. It works. I went over to Louisa Mae’s last night, and we meditated together.”

  The thought of Granddad and the widow Alcott-Smith doing anything together disturbed me more than I’d like to admit. “What do you know about the Russian mafia?” I pinged to a new subject to erase unwanted mental images.

  “I read the papers.”

  “No, I mean what have you heard at the barbershop or in church or one of your men’s groups?”

  He looked at me for a long time before replying. “Do you think the Russians are mixed up in these deaths?”

  “I don’t know. But it has come up.”

  “Have you told the police? Or Edna’s lawyer?”

  “I don’t have enough concrete evidence to do that. But as soon as I do…”

  “Not good enough. You can’t mess with these people. They’ll kill you just as soon as look at you.”

  Richmond had a high murder rate, but I couldn’t believe the Russians were responsible for that. At least, not all of it. True, a lot of the deaths were drug-related and if the Russians were behind the drugs, then maybe most could be credited to them.

  “Becca, I recognize that look. I forbid you to continue this crusade you’re on. You’re going to wind up getting hurt. Or worse.”

  Granddad dumped his beloved cat on the floor and came to stand by my chair. “Promise me that you’ll give up this investigation of yours.”

  I couldn’t do that. As much as I wanted to put his mind at ease, I knew I had to follow this to the end. Wherever it took me.

  “Becca, promise me.”

  What was one more lie today?

  “Sure, Granddad.” I hadn’t technically said the word promise.

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  Damn. He knew me too well. “Promise.” I crossed my fingers. Once I solved these murders, he would be proud of me, Daley & Palmer could get back to business, and Edna could resume her life without adding a prison jumpsuit to her permanent wardrobe. We could all rest easier. And Mrs. Alcott-Smith could go back to Atlanta.

  Four hours later, I still hadn’t heard from Max. Restless and worried about a lot of things, I decided to visit Edna in jail. Maybe she knew something about her husband’s drug habits or who he dealt with. A name, a clue. Anything.

  I was desperate.

  Besides, I wanted to know what the police had on her.

  When she came into the visitor’s room, it struck me how much this latest arrest had taken out of her.

  Her hair was unkempt and fell about her face in limp strands. Her pale face bore no traces of the flawless makeup she usually wore. In a word, she looked beaten.

  “Edna.” Her name caught in my throat. I cleared it and tried again. “It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s over, Becca. I give up.” Her voice was defeat personified.

  “Of course it isn’t over. I’m here to help you. And I won’t give up until the killer is behind bars and you’re free.”

  She tried to summon a smile but it faded before it reached her lips. “That’s sweet of you, but I’m afraid this time the evidence is overwhelmingly against me.”

  “You didn’t do it, did you?” I asked, alarmed.

  She shook her head no.

  “Not that it matters. My attorney says they have a very solid case against me.”

  “Jack is an idiot,” I announced a shade too loudly.

  Edna leaned back in her chair and the guard came toward me. I put my fingers to my lips to signify that I’d be quiet and behave.

  The guard resumed his post by the door.

  “Mr. Clemmons is my criminal defense attorney. Jack tried his best. It’s just not his area of expertise. But he is a dear boy.”

  “That dear boy is a jerk. I should know.” Oh boy, there I went again, giving more information than I should.

  Edna stared at me, apparently waiting for clarification.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think of Jack or anyone else. What do the police have on you?”

  Edna folded her hands primly on the table that separated us. “My prints were all over Anna Blake’s house.”

  I did a double-take. How could that be? Had someone cleverly lifted a set of Edna’s prints and sprinkled them at the murder scene to incriminate her?

  “A few of the neighbors saw my car and heard the tail end of the argument when I left. Anna was not the most civilized of people. When angry, she had a voice that could raise the dead.” Out of habit, Edna reached for her neck to finger the ever-present strand of pearls that weren’t there.

  “You saw Anna the night she died?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.

  “Afraid so. There were things I had to clear up with her.” Edna’s expression revealed her distaste.

  “What things?”

  “It doesn’t matter, dear. I can tell you though that she was very much alive when I left her.”

  “Then Mr. Clemmons can get those neighbors who saw you to testify to that.”

  Edna shook her head.

  “I’m afraid someone walking their dog saw my car back in the neighborhood later. Near the time of death, I’m told.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This meant that Edna not only had a motive but opportunity. “Why did you go back?”

  “You know how it is when you leave an argument unfinished. You want a resolution. You want closure. I knew in my heart that I’d never have it as long as that … that woman was alive. But I swear, as much as I hated her, I didn’t kill her. You’ve got to believe me. I know it looks bad. But I couldn’t kill anyone. Even her.”

  I studied Edna’s watery eyes and saw the pain that lingered there and something more. I saw the truth. She was either a consummate liar, or she was telling me the truth. I chose to believe the latter.

  “I want to help you. Please let me try.”

  “That’s very sweet, dear. But with Robert gone and my life in shambles, I just don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Maybe I am somehow to blame for their deaths. If they’d just gone away together…” Her voice trailed off, and I could see that she had mentally left the room.

  I had to get her back. “You’re an honest woman. I know you’re feeling guilty about what’s happened. But you didn’t cause this. You were only trying to hang onto your husband. Nothing you’ve done has brought about these deaths. There’s a murderer out there. If not stopped, he or she could kill again. I want to make sure that doesn’t happen. And although you’re happy to wear that hair shirt right now and wallow in guilt, guilt I might add that you don’t deserve, I’m not. I want to get to the bottom of this. Your mother and my grandfather are worried sick about you. Not to mention Dr. Dick. The man is going to need a psychiatrist of his own before this is all over.”

  “Dickie shouldn’t worry.”

  “Well, Dickie is. And you need to help me so I can bring relief to these people and get you out of here.”

  She stared off into space and I could tell I was losing her. I tried again. “If not for yourself, think about the people who love you. Think about a murderer getting off scot-free because you’re rolling over. Think!”

  She sighed and I knew I had her back again. “What can I do to help you?”

  That was more like it.

  “You can answer a few questions.”

  “If I can.”

  Not the cooperation and enthusiasm I was hoping for, but it would have to do. “Were you aware that your husband was involved with drugs?”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “I have credible information that he supplied Anna with drugs.”

  “That woman!”

  I rushed on. “What do you know about the Russians or the Russian mafia?”

&nbs
p; She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Just what I read in the papers or hear on the news.”

  “Anyone with a foreign accent ever contact Robert?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  Great. Another dead end.

  She pursed her lips.

  “Unless…”

  I sat on the edge of my chair and leaned forward to hear her soft voice. “Yes?”

  “I did find an entry Robert wrote in our personal checkbook before he died, an entry made out to a D. Ivanov. When I questioned him about it, he told me it was a donation and not to worry about it.”

  “Ivanov? And you don’t know the first name? Just the initial D?”

  “Yes. That’s all. I’m sorry I don’t have more. It may be nothing.”

  Nothing? No, I didn’t think so. Now I needed Max more than ever.

  Chapter 26

  I stared at the cell phone willing it to ring without success. Damn Max. He said he’d be there for me if I needed him. And I needed him now like never before. Flipping open the phone with a flick of my wrist, I punched in the single-digit code I’d created for Chernov. Yes, I’d resorted to putting his number on speed-dial, I’d called it so often. He was number 3, right behind Granddad, and moving up quickly.

  “Max, it’s Becca. Again. If you won’t help me, I’m going to have to go see Mr. Ivanov alone.”

  I flipped the phone closed and waited.

  Within two minutes the phone trilled to Lara’s Theme from Dr. Zhivago, the ring tone I’d picked for my elusive Russian.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Max’s voice came across the airwaves, his accent deep and measured.

  “No.”

  “Do not attempt to meet with Ivanov. You have no idea what you’re up against.” It sounded like he spoke through clenched teeth.

  “I’ll be fine,” I bluffed.

  “Becca,” he started and then the line went silent. I thought for sure I’d lost the call, and then he resumed, “If you’re that determined, I’ll take you to Dmitri. Where are you now?” He muttered something else under his breath that I couldn’t quite make out. It sounded Russian. It sounded pissed.

  “I’m at my granddad’s house.”

  “Stay there. I’m about ten minutes away.” The phone went silent.

  I smiled. Dmitri Ivanov. I did a quick Internet search and came up with nothing. Not that I’d expected to find anything, but one can always hope.

  Higgins twined around my legs in an uncharacteristically loving move. Hmm, must be hungry. The more time Granddad spent with Louisa Mae, the more Higgins showered his affection on whoever would open that can of food. If he’d had opposing thumbs, he’d be one happy cat.

  Popping a top on a can of smelly fish food that sent Higgins into purr central, I dumped the foul-smelling mixture into his bowl and quickly washed and dried my hands. The sound of Max’s car in the driveway sent me scurrying for my purse. And I was out the door without a backward glance.

  Max got out and opened the passenger door for me and closed it just shy of a slam once I settled in.

  Even angry, he managed to look good.

  A furrow creased his usually smooth forehead. When he settled those dark brown eyes on me, I almost lost my nerve and confessed that when it came to Ivanov, I was clueless, but an image of Edna in her prison clothes flashed through my mind and I jutted my chin forward. “Well, are we going to sit here all day?”

  Max put the car into reverse and we sped out of the driveway. The atmosphere in the car remained tense and I chose to look out the window instead of attempt conversation.

  The scenery blurred and I checked the speedometer. It would be a miracle if Max avoided a ticket. But I had to give him credit for being a competent, albeit fast, driver.

  Max hit the interstate and wove through traffic finally taking the 5th Street off-ramp into downtown Richmond. After a series of turns, we stopped in front of what looked like an abandoned warehouse in Shockoe Bottom. Parts of the Bottom had been reclaimed and housed some of the popular nightspots in the city. But where we were had been untouched by the wave of progress that had revitalized the rest of the area.

  “Let me do the talking, Becca.”

  He turned in the seat to face me and his expression left no room for argument. I gave a quick nod, secretly relieved to have him take the lead.

  “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” He slipped on dark shades even though there wasn’t an ounce of sunshine anywhere to be seen.

  While I made my way across the cobblestone street to his side, Max knocked in a series of staccato beats on a door that appeared to be ready to fall off of its hinges. Rapid Russian followed the special knock and then Max kicked the bottom of the decrepit door twice.

  To my complete surprise, the door opened and a burly guy in a black leather jacket opened it and embraced Max in a tight bear hug. I hung back a couple of steps while they spoke in low, hushed tones that I couldn’t quite make out. But then I probably wouldn’t have understood them if they’d spoken in normal voices.

  You know. Russian and all that.

  “Becca, come.” Max waved to me and we entered the darkened building.

  “Was that Dmitri?”

  Max stopped suddenly. “Ivanov doesn’t open doors, but then you’d know that if you’d done your homework.” He strode ahead not waiting for a reply. I had to hurry to catch up with him and at the same time be mindful of the old wide pine flooring beneath my feet. Falling flat on my face was not something I wanted to do. Not in front of Max and certainly not in front of Dmitri Ivanov.

  After what seemed like forever, Max stopped in front of a shiny black interior door. The warehouse was as dark as a moonless night and I had a horrible time seeing anything. How Max managed with the sunglasses escaped comprehension. He did that secret knock thing again and a huge giant of a man opened the door. Ah, Ivanov at last. But other than being big, this guy didn’t appear to be anything special.

  “Gregor, is he in?” Max asked and the big guy moved away from the doorway following us in. I edged past him.

  The contrast between the rest of the warehouse and the office we entered was dramatic. The room was huge, yet also light and airy despite the lack of windows. Expensive ivory wallpaper covered the walls. Artwork hung throughout the space, each painting lit from above. I gawked when I spotted a very convincing copy of a Monet. The original hung in a museum. Or at least I thought I’d read that it did. Now I wondered.

  Ivanov—and this had to be Ivanov—rose from behind a heavy and intricately carved wooden desk. He wasn’t a big man, but what he lacked in size he more than made up for with his personality. Power and danger poured off him like cheap perfume and I experienced the same choking reaction. One glance into his cold blue eyes told me this man could, would, and definitely had killed. I wanted to cower behind Max. Instead, I forced my shoulders back and threw out what little bosom I possessed.

  Breathe, I reminded myself, while you still can.

  “Max, my boy. So good of you to come. And who have you brought to see me?” Dmitri trained his gaze on me and it felt as if his eyes pierced my body as he examined me from head to toe.

  “Becca is a good friend of mine,” Max replied, standing at what looked like attention to me, as a subordinate might to an officer until told to relax.

  “Becca. That’s a strange name.” Ivanov selected a cigar from a box on his desk and fingered it. “But then you Americans and your names…”

  “It’s short for Rebecca.”

  I stepped forward. Max held out his arm to restrain me from moving any closer to Ivanov.

  “Rebecca. Much better. I will call you Rebecca.” He lit the cigar and blew smoke in our direction. Max didn’t flinch. My eyes watered, and I couldn’t suppress the cough the smoke triggered.

  Ah, this bothers the young lady. You’ll get used to it.” Ivanov continued puffing on the cigar and appeared amused, a look I translated as I’d either ge
t used to it or I’d get dead. “Where are my manners? Sit, sit. Gregor make sure our guests are comfortable.”

  Max must have taken this to mean he could stand down because I could feel some of the coiled tension escape his body. We took seats in straight-backed chairs that Gregor moved in front of the desk.

  “So my dear Max, what brings you to my door?” Ivanov’s blue eyes opened wider, and he smiled without warmth.

  I sensed Gregor’s presence behind my chair and felt trapped between him and Ivanov. The hairs on my arms stood on end. Instinctively I knew that under no circumstances should I show the fear racing through my body.

  “We need your help with Robert and Anna’s murders,” I blurted out. Oh no. Oh no, I didn’t. But it was my voice. I recognized it, and obviously, Max did too because he stared at me like I’d turned into the ugliest crone in the universe and grown a witch’s nose, wart and all.

  Ivanov leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands. Max continued to glare at me but remained silent.

  “And Rebecca why do you think I can be of help?” Ivanov asked in a pseudo-benign voice.

  “Because you’re connected,” I replied and winced when I heard the groan escape Max’s lips.

  “Am I? Gregor, did you realize I was connected? What does that mean?”

  Gregor shifted closer to me, so close I was practically breathing for him. I felt him shrug in response to Ivanov’s question.

  “Gregor and I are both at a loss, Rebecca. Perhaps you can enlighten us.”

  “The girl knows nothing. She has misspoken,” Max said and clamped a hand tight on my wrist to restrain me from moving or talking. I guess he’d come to the conclusion that I used my hands a lot when I talked and that unfortunate characteristic might lead to even more unfortunate consequences.

  “Murder is such an ugly word. There is enough unpleasantness in the world today without such talk. Don’t you agree, Max?” Ivanov reached for a pen and wrote something on a piece of paper.

  “Becca found O’Malley’s body. She still isn’t over the shock. That’s what causes her to speak out of turn.”