A headache was starting behind my eyes.
“Ash, tell me exactly what the police said.”
He frowned. “I have some papers they gave me.”
He rolled out of bed, moving more stiffly than I was used to seeing. He was normally so graceful and fizzing with energy.
He dug around in his discarded jeans and tossed a packet of papers onto the quilt, then sat back on the bed, watching me.
I unfolded the top sheet and as I started reading, blood drained from my face.
“Ash, it says here that there’s going to be an investigation. They’ll be gathering evidence from witnesses and you’ll be interviewed formally. We both will.” I bit my lip. “I don’t see how they can possibly charge you with anything—it’s ridiculous.”
Ash didn’t seem the least concerned.
“Your friend Angie left a message on my cell—she wants to talk to me.”
I nodded quickly. “Yes, that’s good. I’ll call her in a minute. But . . . I don’t know . . . why did that reporter talk about a ‘case’? There is no case.”
“I killed him. I don’t care what they call it,” Ash snapped, his jaw tight. “We could hear the police sirens and their voices. Sergei laughed, saying he’d be out of jail by morning and then he’d come after us. So, I pushed the gun in his face and pulled the trigger. He wasn’t laughing anymore. And I’d do it again. One of the policemen took the gun.”
I thought I was going to pass out—this wasn’t an open and shut case of self-defense. Could they call it murder? I didn’t want to believe that was possible.
The police would investigate then bring it to the DA. He’d decide if there would be any charges.
Oh my God, surely not. It was self-defense.
“Ash, you need to speak to Angie as soon as possible. This is serious.”
“I did what I had to!” he yelled.
He stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door, and a second later I heard the shower running. I hoped it was a cold one, because he had to cool down. He clearly had no idea how serious this was.
I called Angie immediately.
“Finally!” she said, answering on the first ring. “I’ve been calling and calling you! I’ve left messages!”
“I only just found out. Oh God, Angie. What are we going to do?”
“Firstly, don’t panic. I need to talk to Ash, but this is it in a nutshell: armed officers entered the theater. Boykov was on the floor and Ash was hitting him with his bare hands. They couldn’t see clearly because they were on the floor between two rows of seats. The next thing they heard was a gunshot. Boykov was dead and Ash was holding the gun. But the Russian had already fired at both of you. Personally, I don’t think there’s much chance that they’ll file charges.”
I was finding it hard to breathe.
“But there is chance?”
“Laney, calm down. We’ve got a few facts in our favor. One: even though two police officers shouted at Ash to drop the weapon, he didn’t appear to hear them. You know the drill—people usually look in the direction of sudden noise. Ash didn’t even flinch, which goes to suggest that he hadn’t heard the orders. Two: no one else saw what happened.”
“But . . .”
“Don’t tell me anything I don’t want to hear, Laney,” she warned. “Thirdly, during prior police interviews with Ash, they’d suspected that he was suffering from a post-traumatic disorder. This is all in his favor.”
“Okay,” I said quietly, trying to take it in. “What about this reporter? Why did you give him my number?”
“He’s a good guy, Laney. I’ve worked with him before—a real straight shooter. He’s been working on several mafia-related and people-trafficking stories. He’ll be fair, and Ash could use some good publicity—it’ll get the community on his side. The fact that he’s a foreigner and that he married you so quickly will look like all he’s after is a green card. Hey, don’t shoot the messenger!”
I huffed quietly, even though what she said wasn’t untrue—except that now it was.
“He needs to make sure he charms the hell out of everyone he meets from now on.” She paused. “Talk to Phil. I’ll brief Ash about what he can and can’t say. Okay?”
“Okay.”
There was a long pause, then she spoke more quietly.
“I’ll do everything I can.”
We ended the call, and I promised to speak to her reporter friend.
But first I had to talk to Ash.
Ash finally reappeared looking calmer, although I could see the lingering tension in his expression.
“We have a few things to talk about.”
For a moment I thought he was going to argue, but then his body sagged and he sat down on the bed.
I explained everything Angie had said and why she thought we should talk to the reporter. He wasn’t keen at first, but eventually agreed.
I reminded him to call Angie to talk through his approach while I contacted the reporter. But Angie had already been in touch and Phil Nickeas was already on his way over.
It didn’t give me much time to shower and dress, especially as I had a broken wrist.
Ash tidied the apartment, which didn’t take long as neither of us were particularly messy, and he hadn’t been around that much lately. Then I heard the coffee machine puttering in the kitchen. I hadn’t even had my first gulp before Ash was buzzing in our visitor.
Phil Nickeas was a good looking guy with sandy hair in his mid-thirties. I don’t know what I’d expected, maybe a grizzled older man.
“Thanks for taking the time to see me, Mrs. Novak, Mr. Novak.”
“Well, Angie spoke very highly of you, so . . .”
He grinned, looking much younger.
“Smart woman, Ms. Pinto.”
Oh, yeah. He was totally into my friend. Interesting.
I suddenly felt a lot better about the interview. Ash, on the other hand, was wary and uncomfortable, looking as if he was itching to pick a fight, or find a reason not to do the interview.
“Is it okay if I record this as well?” Phil asked as he placed his phone between us.
Ash glanced at me and I nodded.
“So, Mr. Novak, take me back to what brought you to the U.S. in the first place.”
Ash’s mouth twisted in distaste and I held his hand to reassure him. Or me. Probably both of us.
“It’s hard to talk about all this,” Ash said stiffly. “I keep trying to put it behind me.”
“I understand, but with all due respect, that’s not going to happen.”
“I just want to live my life!” Ash growled. “Be with my wife, dance. It’s not so much!”
His accent always became more pronounced when he was upset.
“Your best chance to make this go away is to give your side of the story now. Angie is a great criminal attorney and she wouldn’t have suggested that you speak to me if she didn’t think it would help your case.”
Ash bowed his head, staring at our hands.
“Okay.”
“If it helps any, I already spoke to Mr. Benson and Ms. Kuznets—they only have good things to say about you.”
Ash looked up. “You’ve seen them? How are they?”
Phil’s expression was sympathetic.
“You’ve all been through some bad stuff, and it’ll take time. Bratva are ruthless, vicious. But they’re clever, too. Good at covering their tracks—at least that’s true of Volkov. This Sergei character, it looks like he’d been a loose cannon for a while and Volkov was itching to get rid of him. Hell, you probably did the guy a favor.”
“He was evil. I’m glad I killed him.”
I squeezed Ash’s hand, warning him not to admit to anything. Yes, this reporter was on our side, but ultimately, he was here to sell newspapers—we had to be careful.
Ash took a deep breath before launching into his story, starting from seeing an advertisement for a job in Las Vegas. I chimed in with a few things about our escape: Ash’s memory of that was hazy.
I should have realized at the time that he was in shock, but I’d been too scared myself to fully understand.
Ash wouldn’t look when I showed Phil the photograph of his lacerated back, although he did agree to let the reporter see how it had healed. My poor boy’s scars were worse on the inside.
Ash stood in the center of our small living room and yanked his shirt over his head, breathing in humiliation as Phil took several photographs.
Then we talked about our relationship, and I even admitted that I’d been seeing someone else when I met Ash, but tried to downplay that as much as possible. I wasn’t proud of the way I’d treated Collin.
And because Phil was good at his job, he also worked out that Ash had taken the theater job before his green card had come through.
I winced, knowing that the same information would come out in the event of a court case.
“Ash came into the U.S. on an H-1B Specialty Occupations work visa. That was legitimate and he believed it was still valid,” I improvised. “We were already married when he realized that it was time-expired. It was a genuine mistake.”
I’m not sure if he believed me, but he didn’t challenge us on it either.
And then Ash was asked to describe what had happened in the theater. He started off calmly, but soon his voice rose and he started pacing the room, tugging on his short hair.
I threw him a warning look, but he was too locked in his memories.
“I saw Laney fall and my world ended,” he cried out. “I wanted to die with her—but I wanted him to die first.” He took a deep, satisfying breath. “So I killed him.”
Oh, Ash.
Phil’s eyebrows shot up. “Um, so you might want to practice that answer before the police interview you.”
“Why should anyone care?” Ash yelled. “He was evil! He was a murderer! He liked to torture people—who cares that he’s dead? He tried to kill Laney! I’d do it again!”
“Ash,” I called, holding out my good arm to him.
He threw himself at my feet, wrapping his arms around my waist as his knees bumped against the couch. Shuddering breaths wracked his whole body.
“I love you,” I whispered, tears pricking my eyes as I held him tightly. “I love you.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Phil stand up.
“I’ll see myself out,” he said quietly.
Ash
I had no ego left, no arrogance. It had all been stripped away. Stolen. And I was naked before her. There was nothing left, just Laney and her arms around me.
We stayed that way for a long time, her gentle fingers stroking my back, running through my hair, soothing, wordless.
Eventually, my knees protested about the hard wooden floors and I stood clumsily, wiping my eyes, too exhausted to be embarrassed that I’d broken down in front of that reporter.
I’d lost everything else—the loss of dignity wasn’t going to kill me. I wanted to laugh at the irony. No, I was wrong. I hadn’t lost anything, because my Laney was still here.
When I dared to look, her eyes were gentle, warm. It was one of those quiet, subtle moments, where words weren’t needed to communicate the deepest feelings.
We were together, through the good times and the bad. And I finally understood. Why have a beating heart if you don’t know why it beats—or for whom.
“I love you, too,” I said.
Laney
PHIL NICKEAS’ ARTICLE came out on December 28th, the morning of our police interview. Angie had given me a heads up that it was going to be published. Ash volunteered to run out and buy the newspaper, and he needed to get out of the apartment. Despite the pain from his fractured sternum, he was going stir crazy with nothing to do. He didn’t like reading in English and television bored him. He spent most of his time surfing the net and listening to music, exercising as much as he could—probably more than he should.
He returned ten minutes later, his cheeks flushed from the cold and snowflakes clinging to his long eyelashes.
He flung the paper onto my desk and stalked into the kitchen.
I was only four pages in when I found Phil’s article:
SLAVES OF THE SYSTEM
Murder, rape, drugs trafficking, people trafficking, a guerilla war of attrition. And it’s not a million miles away in some Middle Eastern caliphate; it’s right here in the U.S. It’s right here in Chicago.
Crime reporter Phil Nickeas’ met with three victims of the rise of the new mafia from Russia, three people who survived terrible oppression and modern-day slavery.
And there was a large black and white photograph of Ash mid dance, his intense gaze staring from the page, his powerful physique displayed. I recognized the costume—black pants and silver shirt slashed to the waist. It was from the tango he’d performed in Broadway Revisited. They’d cut Sarah from the photo—I bet she’d be mad about that. But then I remembered that she was 4,000 miles away in London.
The article was a powerful voice, crying out against organized crime and the way loopholes in the system were used and abused. From the general, it went to the specifics, telling Ash’s story alongside Yveta’s and Gary’s.
My cell phone rang and Angie’s name flashed up.
“Have you read it?”
“I’m reading it now. It’s good, really good.”
“Told you. I think this will really help the case. Phil wants to keep the pressure on the authorities both here and in Nevada. He’s got evidence that other cases have been swept under the rug, and victims who survived are just sent back to Europe or Africa or wherever. But Ash is too public—it’s just what was needed.”
I bristled at her excited tone.
“Ash is a person, not a story!”
She was instantly contrite.
“I know, I’m sorry. But if Phil keeps Ash’s case in the newspapers, it will help other people—you must see that.”
I sighed. “Yes, I do. But I also see the stress it puts him under.”
“Fair enough.” She paused. “So, I’ll see you both at the police station.”
“Yes.”
“It’s going to be fine, Laney.”
“Sure.”
And so for the fourth time since I’d known Ash, we spent the afternoon at the police station being interviewed.
I wasn’t allowed to sit in with Ash, or hear what he said, but Angie told me that he’d done well and hadn’t allowed himself to become emotional.
Now, all we had to do was wait.
“My best advice is to try and put this behind you both,” she said. “It’s New Year’s in a couple of days. You should go out—celebrate. After all, going into a new year you’ve got more to celebrate than most people.”
I laughed dully.
“Well, that’s definitely true. Actually, we’re having lunch with Gary and Yveta at his parents’ house on New Year’s Day. They’re up in Kenosha. We don’t want to do anything much for the next few days, so we’re staying in and keeping the TV company—low key is all either of us can take right now.”
We parted with mutual promises to meet soon and discuss additional publicity strategies. Would we ever put this behind us?
As the sun sank behind the city, and the clouds turned from purple to an ominous gray heavy with snow, we watched the old year fade into the past. Alone, but together.
“It’s been some year,” I said thoughtfully.
Ash slipped his arm around my waist as we snuggled on the couch, my head on his shoulder.
He shifted slightly so he could look at me.
“Do you regret it?” he asked cautiously.
“Yes, lots of things,” I said honestly. “I should never have let things go on so long with Collin. I hate the way he found out. He’s a good man—he didn’t deserve what happened. But you’re a good man too, Ash. I regret the way we met. I hate what happened to you, but I will never regret that we did meet, and I will never regret marrying you. We don’t make any sense, nothing about us fits, but we’re real.”
He smil
ed, his eyes the color of chocolate in the dim lighting, his sharp cheekbones casting stark shadows.
“You are the strongest person I have ever met, Laney. I am awed by you, my love.”
I shook my head.
“No, don’t give me false credit. But I will say one thing: I’m stronger with you. It’s like . . .” and I struggled to find a word that conveyed everything I felt. “It’s syzygy,” I said, finally.
Ash’s forehead creased. “I don’t know that word. Is it Polish?”
I smiled. “No, it’s from Ancient Greek. The psychoanalyst Carl Jung used it to mean ‘a union of opposites’. In astronomy, it’s an alignment of the sun, the earth and the moon—three celestial objects.”
I could see that the idea appealed to him. He pulled me against him more tightly.
“My sunshine,” he said.
I sighed. “I really want to make love to you right now, but I’m so tired and everything hurts.”
He was silent for a moment.
“Maybe I could make you feel good without fucking?”
“Such sweet words. You’re really turning me on,” I said, deadpan.
Ash laughed ruefully, then kissed my neck. “Does that mean yes?”
His fingers swept up my side, sending sparks shooting along my spine and settling low in my belly. I reached up to kiss him, but accidentally swatted his chest with my cast, making both of us flinch.
“Maybe not,” I winced, holding my broken wrist.
His eyes flattened with disappointment, but he didn’t argue.
Then he reached out to hold my hand and kissed it gently, his soft lips lingering.
“Happy New Year, my love.”
New Year. I liked the sound of that.
Snow had fallen overnight, transforming the city into a winter wonderland. Only a few cars and trucks had driven along the powdery streets, and the sidewalks were still fresh and clean. The long decay into slush and dirt wasn’t far away, but for now, I could stand on our balcony and breathe in the sharp, cold air and feel like everything was reborn.
Ash had been happy when Gary had invited us to his home, and I saw something spark inside him. Then he told me what he wanted to do, the thoughts and plans whirring through his incredible mind, I was awed. And so proud. But he needed Gary. And Yveta.
Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1) Page 31