Changing the subject, I said, “Remind me, what time are Heath and Willem talking today?”
Gilley glanced at his phone. “They should be done right about now.”
I lifted my wrist and noted the time. It was half past one. “I wonder how it went. . . .”
As if on cue my phone rang. The number was Heath’s.
“Well, hello there, Mr. Whitefeather,” I said. “Gilley and I are having lunch and I was literally just asking him when you’d be done talking to Willem.”
Heath chuckled. “I have great timing.”
“How’d it go?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, seeming to gather his thoughts for a moment. “It was . . . interesting.”
“Is that good interesting? Or bad interesting?”
“A little of both. I have to admit I wasn’t expecting to actually find a curse on this guy, but, Cat, there is definitely something there.”
Gilley was leaning over and pressing up against me, listening to the call. The moment Heath said that, he sat up and bounced his eyebrows knowingly.
“So . . . he really is cursed?” I asked, putting the call on speaker.
“I think so,” Heath said. “It’s faint, but there’s definitely some negative energy attached to his aura. It’s almost like a cloud that follows him everywhere. And whenever he enters a new space, it rains down some bad juju.”
“Is it dangerous?” I asked next.
“Maybe,” Heath said. “But probably not overly dangerous.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that the curse doesn’t have the ability to start trouble on its own. But if it finds a flaw, it’ll enhance that so that little disasters can turn into big disasters pretty quickly.”
“And it only affects new situations?”
“Yes. That part didn’t surprise me, actually, because if you’re going to curse someone, you want them to suffer, you know? And the best way to cause suffering is to lengthen the time of that suffering. So, if the curse were more intense, more . . . deadly, then Willem wouldn’t have survived birth let alone growing into his adult years. So, this particular curse is subtle; it sends an initial shock, then it allows him to get comfortable again, but the older he gets the more afraid he is to venture out into the world, making his home his prison.”
“Terrible,” I said with a tisk. “Is there anything you can do for him?”
Heath sighed. “I can’t think of anything that I can do to free him from it, Cat, sorry. But there may still be a way to help him.”
“How?” Gilley and I both asked.
There was a startled silence on Heath’s end of the call. “Hey, Gil,” he said. “Didn’t know you were listening.”
“Please,” Gilley said. “That surprises you?”
Heath laughed. “No. And it’s good to know some things never change. Anyway, here’s what I’d do if you really want to help this guy. . . .”
“We do,” I said.
“Good. Like I said, the curse isn’t very strong. It can’t actively start trouble on its own, and when Willem enters a new situation, this curse uses some of its own energy to go search for something to mess with—the toaster in one of your office suites being a perfect example.”
I was nodding along as I listened to Heath. Gilley looked totally focused too.
“So, what I think you should do is take Willem to places where there’s likely to be very little opportunity for the curse to muck with stuff.”
“Like where?” Gilley asked.
“Like a wide open field. Or the beach. Places that are big without a lot of people nearby. If you push the limits of this curse, then it’s likely that, over time, you’ll weaken it and it’ll let go of Willem.”
I tapped the table thoughtfully. “I love it. We’ll do it.”
“We will?” Gilley asked.
“Of course!” I said. “We’ll start with the beach. We can easily take Willem there and not encounter a single soul this early in April.”
“Great,” Heath said. “Keep me posted on how it’s going, okay?”
“We will,” I promised.
When I hung up the phone Gilley hardly looked pleased. “What?” I asked.
“I hate that we’re messing with some gypsy juju.”
“We’ll be fine,” I assured him, and I was mostly . . . somewhat. . . sort of positive of that.
* * *
A bit later, as I was paying the lunch tab, I said, “I’ll call Willem and set up the beach excursion. If you can think of other places to take him, that’d be great.”
“Will do,” Gilley promised, already glancing repeatedly at the time. I knew he was anxious to be on his way. Getting a massage from Reese was a real treat. Or so I’ve heard.
“Go,” I told him, setting some cash in the check holder. “Have a lovely time. But not too lovely.”
Gilley bounced his eyebrows again, leaned over to kiss me on the cheek, then hurried out of the restaurant.
I watched him go with a sigh, wishing he could come with me to the office. It wasn’t that I was afraid of this meeting with Sam per se. It’s just that I was already feeling swept up in something that made me uncomfortable, and nervous.
Still, I managed to square my shoulders, strengthen my resolve, and head out to meet Sam.
When I reached the office, however, I stopped short. At the inner door to my suite was a bouquet of yellow, long-stemmed roses. They were gorgeous.
I unlocked the door and bent to bring them inside. Then I leaned over the blooms and took a good long sniff. They smelled heavenly.
It was as I was backing away again that I noticed something dark against the neck of the vase. Moving one of the rose leaves aside, I tucked two fingers against the glass and retrieved the object, which had been taped to the inside.
I think I was only a little surprised when I realized it was a flash drive. “Maks,” I said softly.
As I held the flash drive in my hand, I felt the need to look over my shoulder.
There are two doors to my office. The first—the front door—faces the street, and the other faces the inner hallway of the office building, which also leads to the stairs and the back exit. That’s the door where the roses had been left, and it was probably an easy thing for Maks to sneak downstairs after the roses were delivered and tuck the flash drive into the vase without being seen. I had to hand it to him that it was a clever ruse, albeit a bit risky. Anyone could’ve come along and snatched up the flowers after all.
I put the bouquet on a table next to the front door where I could see them from my chair in the center of the large space. And, even though I knew they were a delivery service for the flash drive, they still made me smile.
After all, Maks could’ve chosen to send me a pizza but instead he’d chosen flowers.
I then bustled around the office, tidying up a bit. I wanted to call Willem and speak with him, but I was a little nervous about my meeting with Sam and I was afraid I’d be distracted on the call if I did that before my three o’clock with the handler.
At exactly three p.m. the front door opened and in walked a man I hardly recognized from the evening before. He had the same hair color and silhouette, but breezing through my entryway was someone eminently more confident. More powerful. And perhaps, even more dangerous.
As he came through the door he looked immediately to his right, his left, then straight ahead to the exit behind me, and he did all this almost reflexively. I wondered if all agents did that—scoped out every room they entered for available exits.
“Hello, Sam,” I said as calmly as I could.
Sam’s gaze shifted to me. He nodded as he came forward. “Ms. Cooper,” he said. “It’s nice to see you again.”
He stopped in front of my chair and extended his hand to me. I took it and found his palm dry and relaxed, unlike mine, which I’m sure gave away how nervous I was.
Still, Sam pretended not to notice and he took a seat across from me, spreading his knees wide and cup
ping his hands between his legs. The posture was probably supposed to look relaxed, but I couldn’t help but think that Sam was the kind of man who could pounce on you before you even realized he was in motion.
“The dinner last night was delicious,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.
Sam chuckled. “That’s not the first time I’ve waited a table.”
That surprised me. “Oh? You mean that wasn’t your usual cover?”
“No,” he said. “My usual cover is accountant, and we thought about renting a suite here to make it easier on Grinkov, but your building is fully rented, and I’m positive the organization has already thoroughly investigated everyone in the building.”
“Ah,” I said, feeling goose bumps line my arms at the thought of the Chechen mafia investigating my tenants. Clearing my throat, I said, “How will this work exactly?”
Sam shrugged and sat back against the sofa. “Probably just like you’d operate if I really were your client. I’ll come in a couple of days a week for half an hour, we’ll sit here like this and talk for a bit so that it looks like we’re having a session together, and then you’ll walk me to the door. We’ll shake hands and you’ll slip me the flash drive. Then I’ll be on my way.”
“Sounds easy enough,” I said.
“It should hold up to any scrutiny.”
“And will there be scrutiny for each of our appointments?”
Again Sam shrugged. “Hard to say, but I expect there will be.”
“Am I in danger, Sam?” I asked next.
He shook his head. “If I thought you were in danger, Ms. Cooper, I wouldn’t have agreed to this arrangement. No, you’ll be checked out, verified, and left largely alone.”
“Who’s doing the looking, exactly?”
“Any one of a number of henchmen for Boris Basayev. Charming guy.”
“And by charming I’m assuming you mean big, bad mafia boss man?”
Sam winked and shot me with a finger gun.
“But I’m not in danger.” I said it as a statement rather than a question, because I wanted to be absolutely sure that I wasn’t inviting a big heap of trouble into my life.
“No. We’ve already checked you out. You’re exactly the type of person someone like Maks would want to acquaint himself with. You’re educated, accomplished, well-traveled, and stable. There’s nothing suspicious about you.”
“And the fact that my sister and her husband work for the FBI—that won’t be a problem?”
“They’re based in Texas, right?”
I nodded. “Austin.”
“Austin’s half a country away from here, and as long as they’re not scheduled to come for a visit anytime soon, you’ll be fine.”
“They’re not.”
“Good.”
I studied Sam for a minute. He was relaxed and there was nothing tense or staged about his words or mannerisms. He could’ve been a very good liar—in fact, I had no doubt he actually was, but I still trusted that what he was telling me was the truth. I didn’t feel like I was in danger from Boris Basayev, and as long as I didn’t have to accompany Maks to any mafia family shindigs, I thought that this whole handoff of secret flash drive thing might be okay.
And then I had another thought. In hindsight, it was my undoing, but at the time it seemed almost harmless.
“Sam?”
“Yes?”
“How long have you been assigned to this case?”
“Two years, four months, and sixteen days,” he said seriously, and then he smiled. “But who’s counting?”
“Oh, my. It’s been that long? And you’ve kept track?”
“We’re close to the end,” he said. “But, to your unspoken point, yes, it’s been a long time and I’m ready to end it. Maks is the key to bringing an indictment. With a little more time, we’ll have enough to bring in the whole organization.”
“Good,” I said. “But, can I ask you about someone who used to work for Basayev?”
“Who?”
“I only know her first name. Greta.”
Sam’s eyes betrayed a hint of surprise. “You got up close and personal to her not too long ago, right?”
“I did.”
“You don’t know how lucky you are to still be walking around, Ms. Cooper. As far as assassins go, she’s one of the best.”
“So I’ve heard. Still, is there anything you can tell me about her?”
“I can tell you what we know, which is very little. She’s from Croatia, abandoned by her mother at the age of six, and showed psychopathic tendencies at an early age. She was adopted by a couple here in the States when she was seven. They tried to return her six months later. When they couldn’t, they had her committed. She got out when she was eighteen, and within three months the primary psychologist assigned to her was found hanging in his living room. No one believes it was a suicide.”
I put a hand to my throat and fiddled with my collar. It was one thing to think that Greta was a cold-blooded killer, and an entirely different thing to learn that she was, in fact, clinically psychotic.
“From there,” Sam continued, “it’s a little sketchy. We think she mostly took low-level jobs around the city for a few years and began acquiring weapons and methods to murder people. One of her signature moves first appeared ten years ago when a couple was murdered in their Manhattan apartment. They were the landlords of a four-unit apartment in Brooklyn, and we suspect they rented one of the spaces to Greta before trying to evict her because of complaints from her neighbors about loud music and the company she kept. On the day the couple in Manhattan were murdered, witnesses remember hearing a series of gunshots coming from the apartment and they also distinctly remember a woman wearing flashy clothes exiting the unit, but no one remembered what she actually looked like. Some witnesses said she was tall, others said she was short, and the sketch artist assigned to the witnesses developed four completely different profiles for Greta’s face.”
“The clothes are the distraction,” I said. “You end up focusing on her getup rather than on her.”
“Yep. From there we can trace eleven more murders to someone with her profile—every time it’s the same scenario: woman murders someone in broad daylight, almost always there’s at least one witness who can describe the clothing, but not the person.”
“When did she start working for Basayev?”
“Five years ago. By then she’d amassed a certain reputation, and we think she gave herself the title of the Angel of Death because, in one of her flashier assassinations, she didn’t dress up, she dressed down. She wore a bra and panties and a set of angel wings in the middle of February at the entrance to the subway where she shot a bookie who was skimming a little off the top every month.
“There were over twenty witnesses to that one, and nobody remembered her face. But they all remembered her panty and bra number, and of course the wings.”
“She was dressed as a Victoria’s Secret model?” I said. “One of the angels?”
“Yes. She’s a clever one. At the time of the murder, there was a Victoria’s Secret modeling shoot just four blocks away.”
“She was actually one of the models?”
Sam shook his head. “Nope. But it served as a great cover for her getaway. When cops responded they had to interview twenty gorgeous models and run background checks on all of them. They were distracted for days. Meanwhile, Greta floated off into obscurity and adopted the Angel of Death moniker. That’s how she got Basayev’s attention, actually. He heard about the hit and, being your typical perverted mafia guy, wanted her and only her to do his dirty work.”
I sat with all that information for a long moment. I wondered if Shepherd knew any of it. “Have you ever shared this information with the local P.D.?” I asked, mostly out of curiosity.
“Nope,” Sam answered.
“Why not? Greta’s killed a few people here in East Hampton.”
“For two reasons: one, we don’t want the local police to know anything
about our investigation into Basayev, and two, we suspect that there may be an informant on the force.”
My palms grew a bit sweaty again. Sam’s eyes had hardened as he spoke—it was obvious that he didn’t like the fact that I was chummy with an East Hampton detective. And, of course, I knew that he knew I was chummy with Shepherd, because, if he’d already checked me out, how could he not?
Still, I decided to press on. “Do you know where Greta is now?”
“No clue,” Sam said. And for the first time I couldn’t tell if he was being honest with me.
“Would you tell me if you did know?”
“Probably not.”
“Even though she tried to murder me?”
Sam sighed and dropped the whole casual posture act. Leaning in toward me and resting his elbows on his knees, he said, “We don’t have any reason to suspect she’s back in the area. Once she botched the Heather Holland job and her cover was blown, Basayev ended his professional relationship with her. By now she’s likely off somewhere, trying to find other work on another coast or in another country.”
My shoulders relaxed a little. “That’s a relief.”
Sam nodded and looked around like he was ready to end our discussion and get back to doing what undercover agents like him do.
But I had one more question. “Sam,” I said, stopping him.
“Yeah?”
“Do you know why Greta killed Detective Shepherd’s ex-wife, Lenny?” It was the one question that I knew haunted Shepherd most of all, and perhaps the only one I might be able to shed some light on for him if I was very careful.
“No,” Sam said simply.
“No?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. That one’s a mystery to us.”
“So Lenny Shepherd didn’t work for or double-cross Basayev?”
“Not that we can determine.”
I thought of something that Maks had told me a while back. “I’ve heard that Greta always kills for money or revenge. That she doesn’t kill for fun, but maybe Lenny was the exception?”
“That occurred to us too, but it would be highly unusual for Greta to take such a risk for no reason. She’s psychotic but she’s not crazy, if you get what I mean.”
To Coach a Killer Page 7