To Coach a Killer

by Victoria Laurie

  Gilley switched to another photo, and this one made me sit up and take notice. Chanel and Lenny were at the same club, but in the background was a figure I recognized. Boris Basayev.

  “Whoa,” I said, pointing at the screen.

  “Yep,” Gilley said. “It’s this photo that made me wonder if Lenny knew Boris. He’s not looking at the girls, but he’s there. Present. So they obviously floated in the same circles. I checked all the rest of Lenny’s Instagram photos, but there wasn’t any other image of her out with Chanel, or any other connection to Boris, but then I got an idea and began to research Boris’s social media accounts, and wouldn’t you know, the Chechen kingpin loved to party, and documented all of it.

  Gilley changed to the next several images, which all featured Boris aboard a beautiful yacht, then out at a nightclub, then at a strip joint, then next to a private jet, and finally, driving a Bentley.

  “He really did like to live large, didn’t he?”

  “He sure did. And I’ve spared you the worst of it. There’s even a picture of him sitting on a golden toilet.”

  “Ick,” I said. “So gauche.”

  “Right? Anyway, amid the dozens and dozens of photos, I came across this series, which was at a party on his yacht taken about two years ago. . . .”

  Gilley flashed to an image of a group of people all toasting the photographer with glasses of champagne. Boris was there, and over to the right was Chanel. I sucked in a breath and pointed at the screen. “She knew Boris socially!”

  “Yes. Now look again,” Gilley said.

  I turned back to the screen and focused on the image. Standing behind Chanel, his face partially hidden by shadow, was a man with his arm snaked around her middle, in a sort of possessive hug. Her right arm was raised and her hand was cupping his face in a familiar and loving manner. His face was one I knew well. Intimately in fact. I sucked in another breath. “Oh . . . my . . . God!” I whispered.

  “Yep,” Gilley said. “It’s why I had to race through the rain to come down here and show you. Maks and Chanel were an item. I think he might’ve been the IO.”

  My heart began to pound hard in my chest. I could feel the bite of betrayal on the back of my neck, and I almost didn’t know where to look. Gilley switched to the next image, which again showed the same boisterous crowd, but Chanel and Maks were in the back of the group, huddled together intimately.

  “Maybe they were just hanging out at this one party, though,” I said weakly.

  “It wasn’t just this one party,” Gilley said, hitting the button on the remote to project another image of Chanel and Maks, sitting together cozily in front of a bonfire with Basayev and others. And then there was a photo of the two of them hanging out on a sailboat, with Basayev at the helm and no one else around.

  A mist of tears formed in my eyes. Maks had lied to me or, if not outright lied to me, he’d definitely purposely withheld the fact that he’d had a relationship with the partner of Lenny Shepherd, a woman whose death I’d told him I was actively trying to solve.

  And then my mind began to swirl around all the other connections that started to add up. He’d asked me to lie to Shepherd and provide an alibi for the night that Jason Sutton had been murdered. A murder where Maks’s car had been spotted leaving the crime scene . . .

  “Cat?” Gilley asked.

  I shook my head. I’d been lost in thought. Dark thought. “I have to show you something,” I said.

  “What?”

  Without explaining I grabbed Gilley by the hand and led him to the door, but then I stopped, looked over my shoulder at his desk, and retraced my steps to grab my Birkin. After locking up the office I motioned for him to follow me up the stairs.

  As we climbed the steps, the hallway lights flickered. The storm outside was getting worse by the second, but I couldn’t focus on that right now.

  We made our way up to the third floor and I inserted my master key into the lock on Maks’s door, letting us inside again. Flipping the switch, I lit up the interior because, by now, it was quite dark outside, which meant it was equally gloomy on the inside.

  “Why are we in here?” Gilley whispered.

  “Follow me,” I said, heading straight to the second office where I’d seen the paintings. Opening that door, I flipped on that light and the room lit up as well, exposing the dozens of art pieces lining the walls.

  Gilley walked into the center of the room and looked all around, his mouth ajar. “What does this mean?” he finally asked me.

  I shook my head and shrugged. “I don’t know. But, Gil, look at this!” Moving over to the painting, I lifted it and turned it toward him. “Seem familiar?”

  “We saw that in the Suttons’ gallery, right?”

  “Almost,” I said. “It’s a close rendition, but not the exact painting we saw. Bilmes’s work all looks very familiar, but there’re nuances and differences in each piece, which is why it surprised me to find . . .”

  I let the sentence dangle while I turned back to the row of paintings and pulled out the other painting signed by the same artist, which was a complete match to the one I already held. “. . . this.”

  Gilley blinked, and his gaze traveled back and forth between the two. “I don’t see a difference.”

  “Of course not. Because they’re identical.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Do you remember how Sasha told you that the word on the street is that the Suttons are selling fake copies of some artists’ works?”

  Gilley pointed to the two paintings. “Those are fake?”

  “I think at least one of them is. Hear me out: Maks goes back and forth between here and Canada. What if he’s in a partnership with Jason and Paul Sutton to ferry copies of pieces that’d sold here to a gallery in Canada? The art world is small, but it’s made up of individual markets that don’t always cross paths. The Hamptons–L.A.–New York City paths might merge into one, but would be unlikely to mingle with the Toronto–Quebec markets. Maks and the Suttons could pass off originals in both places with ease, and only pay the artist for one commission.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work,” Gilley said.

  “It could be, but it could also potentially be quite profitable.”

  “So what’s your point?”

  “My point is that maybe Maks and the Suttons had some kind of side hustle, and Basayev found out about it and wasn’t happy.”

  “So how does Chanel fit into this?”

  I set down the paintings and began to pace, working it out as I went. “Okay, so if I’m Maks and I’m sticking close to Basayev, and he somehow finds out that the Suttons are making copies of expensive art and selling them in Canada, and he ventures to the gallery to confront Jason Sutton—”

  Gilley gasped. “Yes! Remember how nervous Jason was when Basayev entered?”

  “I do,” I said meaningfully. “And I also remember the cut above Maks’s eye that showed up the night he and I had drinks. The night he also asked me to lie to Shepherd about where he was for the duration of the evening.”

  “Yes!” Gilley said.

  “Anyway, say Maks is worried that Jason’s going to rat him out to Basayev, so he takes care of Sutton, and then he also takes care of Basayev and gets revenge on his ex—Chanel—by leaving all that evidence linking her to the crime!”

  “My God,” Gilley said softly. “It’s so wickedly evil!”

  “Right?” I agreed.

  I then gasped as I began to put more of the puzzle pieces together. “Ohmigod,” I said. “Maks knew Greta! They were having dinner together the night Shepherd got shot!”

  Gilley put a fist to his mouth. “He ordered the hit on Lenny! It makes total sense! By ordering the hit on Lenny, he would’ve secured the Suttons’ loyalty by providing them a price on a house in the Hamptons they couldn’t refuse, and curried favor with Basayev by tying up Shepherd in the investigation into his ex-wife’s murder!”

  I could feel myself turn cold and clammy almost instantly, a
nd a violent shiver rattled my entire frame. “Oh, God,” I said breathlessly. “I slept with a psychopath!”

  Gilley and I stared at each other for a good ten seconds, absorbing all the terrible realizations as they seemed to explode like small grenades in both our minds. I opened my mouth to suggest that we needed to call Shepherd immediately when my phone rang.

  It startled both of us and I dropped the phone onto the floor, where it landed faceup, clearly showing the name of the caller on the screen.

  Gilley gasped so loud it sounded like a stifled scream. “It’s Maks!”

  I grabbed Gilley’s arm, clinging to him like a scared creature, staring down at a snake on the floor. “What do we do?” I said, my voice shaking in fear.

  “Don’t answer it!”

  We waited through the rings . . . five in total . . . until the call finally went to voice mail. Tentatively I picked up the phone and stared at the screen, waiting to see if Maks would leave a voice mail.

  Instead, a text appeared and the sound of it coming in made both Gilley and I jump again. But that was far less of a fright than the actual text from Maks:

  Why r u in my office?

  I dropped the phone again with a loud gasp of my own. Immediately, Gilley and I looked all around the room, finally spotting the camera in the far corner.

  “What do we do?” Gilley whispered.

  A surge of adrenaline coursed through me and I picked up the phone angrily. I tapped out a text of my own and sent it angrily on its way.

  We KNOW what you’ve been up to, you LIAR!

  I held the phone with shaking hands while Gilley pressed himself close to me, and we each stared at the screen.

  Stay there. I’m on my way. I’ll explain it all.

  Gilley squeaked. “What do we do now?”

  My posture was so stiff and tense that it hurt. I wanted to flee but I didn’t think it’d be wise to dash out of the room and run for our lives. Instead, I turned my head away from the camera and told Gilley, “We have to play it cool as long as he’s watching us. Follow my lead.” Lifting my face to the camera again, I glared at it, but then added a shrug and held up my thumb. Gilley mimicked my posture, and then we exited the room and Maks’s office at a nice, leisurely pace. Once we hit the stairs, of course, we raced down them at breakneck speed. Gilley led by a lot of stairs, so it was a surprise to find him at the first-floor landing, pulling himself back into the hallway and up one step toward me.

  “What?” I asked, panting. “Come on, Gil! Let’s get our things and get the heck outta here!”

  “There’s a man knocking on the door!” Gilley whispered.

  I froze and leaned over Gilley’s shoulder to listen. Sure enough, I could hear faint knocking. “Is that Maks?” I asked softly.

  Gilley shook his head. “No! It’s some guy—tall, thin, bland, forgettable. . . .”

  I moved around Gilley to take a very quick peek through the inner glass door. Sam stood outside in the pelting rain and wind. He was peering through the glass of my office, looking around for signs of life.

  Pulling my head back quickly before he could spot me, I said in a hissy whisper, “It’s Sam!”

  “Who’s Sam?” Gilley replied, also in a hissy whisper.

  “My client, remember? The FBI operative that I was passing information to from Maks.”

  “You never confirmed nor denied that’s what he was about.”

  “Well, that’s what he was about!”

  “So maybe he can help us. If he’s a Fed, he can protect us from Maks!”

  I put a hand to my mouth. “What if he’s not though?”

  “Not what?”

  “What if he’s not a Fed! What if he’s just some guy working with Maks to make it look like Maks is a good guy, when he’s really this very, very bad man?!”

  “Did he ever show you his badge?” Gilley asked. “Or identify himself in any way?”

  I shook my head.

  “Oh, crap,” Gil said. “We’re doomed!”

  I inched forward again and took another peek. “He’s walking away from the door!” I whispered. “We just have to wait for him to go, then we’ll need to grab our stuff and get the hell outta here!”

  “Okay,” Gilley said, but then he pointed to the door right in front of us. “In case he’s coming around to try this entrance, that door is locked, right?”

  I gripped Gilley by the arm. I didn’t think it was. Lurching forward, I turned the dead bolt. Five seconds later someone outside tried the handle.

  Ohmigod! Gilley mouthed.

  I put a finger to my lips—I was so afraid Gilley would let out one of his famous terrified squeaks.

  The rattling to the handle stopped and we both breathed a sigh of relief, until there came a strange clicking sound on the lock and it began to wiggle.

  My eyes widened. So did Gilley’s. He’s picking the lock! Gilley mouthed.

  I bit my lip. We had to get out of there! My gaze flicked to the hallway behind us which led to the parking lot, but if we exited there Sam might see us before we could make it to the car. The best chance at avoiding him seeing us was by exiting the front of the building through my office. Pointing to the office, I mouthed, Through that door! and Gilley nodded.

  Hustling over to the locked interior door, I inserted my key and got us inside the office, locking it again after we made it. “Come on!” I said, my voice just above a whisper.

  Grabbing Gilley by the arm, I pulled him to the door at the street entrance, but as we got close to the exit, he started to pull back. “Wait! My laptop! My projector!”

  “No time!” I told him firmly.

  “My keys!”

  “We’ll take my car!”

  Unlocking the door to the street, I grabbed Gilley again and shoved him out into the pouring rain. Locking the door one last time, I hunched stiffly against the wind and rain, then ran with Gil to the side of the building away from Sam. We ducked low behind the half wall that separated the parking lot of my building from an alley, where we both crouched low and peered over the wall. Sure enough we caught a glimpse of Sam entering the building after picking the lock.

  “Come on!” Gilley whispered loudly, and we made a break for the car.

  As fast as we could hustle inside, we did, and I started the engine, flipped on the lights, and clicked the windshield wipers onto full blast.

  As the water cleared from the windshield a figure came into view standing right in front of my sedan.

  Gilley and I both sucked in a breath as an angry Sam pointed something dark at us.

  “GUN!” Gilley screamed.

  Muscling back the gear shift, I stomped down on the accelerator and we rocketed backward, then I pulled hard on the wheel. We spun in a tire-screeching one-eighty until I hit the brakes, threw the car into drive, and stomped on the accelerator again. We bulleted out of the parking lot, jumping the curb and fishtailing our way out onto the street.

  Luckily, there was absolutely no traffic in sight, otherwise, we’d probably be dead.

  Wasting no time, I gunned the engine and we raced forward, both of us soaked to the skin and shaking like leaves. “Is he coming after us?” I asked. The rain and the wind were making it impossible to see out the rearview window.

  Gilley ducked his chin to look out the passenger side mirror. “I don’t see him!” he said. “But he could be coming anytime!”

  “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!” I cried, gripping the wheel until my knuckles were white. “What do we do?”

  Gilley turned to me with a sudden idea. “Call Shepherd! He’ll know what to do!”

  I nodded. “Grab my phone! It’s in my purse!”

  Gilley got my phone out, punched in the security code (it had always annoyed me that he knew my code, until that moment that is . . . ), and scrolled through my contacts. “Got it!” he said, tapping the screen. He then put the phone to my ear.

  “Shepherd!” the detective barked.

  “It’s Cat!” I said, weaving around a
fallen traffic sign and refusing to slow down. “I’m with Gilley and we’re in trouble!”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “The kind that’s trying to kill us!”

  “What?!” Shepherd barked. “Where are you?”

  “Fleeing my office!”

  “Dammit,” he swore. “I’m on the other side of town! Can you get to the East Hampton P.D.?”

  I was about to answer yes when a memory drifted up to my mind—the memory of Sam, driving past the limo I’d ordered for Gilley and me to take us home from the crime scene on the day that Basayev had been murdered.

  A terrible thought occurred to me and I followed the thread all the way to a wince-worthy conclusion. “That’s a negative, Detective!” I said. No way was I gonna walk into a trap with anyone I didn’t know or trust. And right now the only two people I trusted were Gilley and Shepherd.

  Shepherd growled. “I’m almost to my destination.... Can you come to me?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m headed to Basayev’s house. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  I wanted to ask him why he was going to the mafia boss’s house, but I’d have to save that for later. Right now all of my attention needed to be devoted to simply navigating the streets in this weather. “We’ll come to you,” I said, then I nodded quickly at Gilley and he hung up the phone.

  “We’re going back to the murder house?” Gilley asked. I looked over quickly and noticed that he looked as pale and frightened as I felt.

  “Yes,” I said bluntly.

  “Why aren’t we headed to the police station?”

  “Because Sam was at Basayev’s crime scene. He pulled up as we were leaving.”

  “So?”

  “So that means he’s very likely a Fed.”

  “I still don’t get why that makes seeking help from the East Hampton P.D. a bad idea.”

  “If Sam’s a Fed, and he pulled a gun on us and tried to shoot us, then he’s probably a dirty Fed. And if he’s a dirty Fed, he could walk right into the East Hampton P.D., claim we’d committed some sort of federal crime, take us into custody, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing anyone at the E.H.P.D. could do about it.”

  “Oh, God!” Gilley exclaimed. “You’re right!”