On Best Behavior (C3)

by Jennifer Lane

  “So are you supposed to be Sigmund Freud or FDR?”

  “Neither.” Kirsten yanked her up from her chair. “Let’s go find some costumes for tonight,” she said, hooking her arm around Sophie’s elbow. “I’ll be a pig farmer, and you’ll be my date.”

  15. Conflate

  LIFE WAS GOOD on the outside. If Ricker had more cash in his pocket, then it would be perfekt. His payday from Enzo was still a ways off because that Fredrickson bitch had refused to talk about her brother-in-law last night. He’d peppered Ashley with questions about her dead husband’s family, under the guise of mourning their common losses, but she’d given him zilch. And she’d only allowed one prudish kiss before she shoved him out the door.

  But then he’d found a way to release his frustration. A most satisfying way. While writhing on the dance floor at a club in Boys Town, he’d met a bottom to his top—a skinny little Cuban piece of ass…and what a nice little piece of ass. The boy even had an apartment nearby, which Ricker had promptly commandeered and called his own. After a night of delicious debauchery, he’d left the boy to his chores, including laundering the sheets and scrubbing the kitchen floor. Little Daisy Fuentes’s naked body sported a smoking red butt as a reminder to keep busy while his boss was gone.

  Now he sauntered down the sidewalk, whistling Petula Clark’s golden oldie “Downtown” and perverting the lyrics in his head:

  Boys Town, can go down on sweet-cheeks in

  Boys Town, you’ll never be lonely in

  Boys Town, all fucks will be free for you…

  He stopped short when he noticed a tiny white furball shivering on the sidewalk, its leash tied around a street sign. Was that speck of fur a dog? If so, it was the smallest he’d ever seen.

  Scanning the surrounding area, he saw only a few pedestrians scurrying down the sidewalk. Bells jangled to his left, and a boutique door opened. Ah, here’s the owner. But the woman who stepped out simply turned and walked away without a look in his direction.

  He kneeled to inspect the little fella. The dog wore a white fluffy sweater, meaning its body was even scrawnier than he’d thought, under that layer. The owner must’ve given a damn about the creature. When he reached out to souse the dog’s ears, a growl rumbled in its throat.

  He laughed. “You’re a big beast, yah? You want a piece of my hand?”

  The little white shit’s lips curled back to bare its teeth.

  His smile vanished. At right was some frou-frou vegetarian restaurant, and two men were just getting up from the table near the window—maybe to pay their bill? Were they the tiny white fuck’s owners? Resuming his whistle, he casually untied the leash and scooped the dog into his jacket. He kept his hand clamped around the dog’s muzzle to prevent the little asshole from barking or biting. The dog mustered a soft whine, and he whistled louder to mask the sound as he strolled back the direction he’d come.

  A smile tugged at his mouth as he turned the corner, his theft undetected. He now felt one step closer to Grant Madsen.

  ***

  Grant glowered at Agent Bounter as he sat across from him in Mr. Remington’s office. His faux-girlfriend had just gone to the ladies’ room to collect herself for the evening’s show, and he already relished her absence. “I still don’t understand why you couldn’t get an agent on this,” he said.

  Bounter sighed. “I already told you, we don’t have the manpower available for something like this. Government cutbacks, you know. The only agent we could get to pose as your girlfriend won’t be appropriate.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “She’s kind of…” Lucas looked away. “Butch.”

  “As in gay?”

  “Well, yeah, but that’s not the problem. She’s pulled off straight before. I respect her abilities.”

  If Sophie ever found out about this, he’d much rather the woman bat for the other team. “So what is the problem?”

  “She’s just not pretty enough for you,” Bounter said. Grant couldn’t hide the blush that heated his face, and the agent grinned. “You’re doing great with the Russians, and we don’t want a plain-looking girlfriend to tip them off.”

  Grant groaned as he covered his face with his hands. “When will this be over?”

  “Hang in there. Tonight could be a lot of fun, if you let it.”

  “Yay. So you think this is going well so far?”

  “Very. Andrei planting that bug’s a sign they’re planning something big for you, I think. And he’s really opening up to you. What he told you about his father—it helped us put some pieces together.”

  Grant leaned forward.

  “We always wondered how Andrei’s loyalty to Vladimir developed. We knew they’d been part of the same boxing club in Solntsevo when they were younger—not a great neighborhood, and Vladimir was Andrei’s coach. But Andrei telling you his father killed his mother piqued the interest of our research guys. They looked closer and discovered something about Andrei’s father’s death.”

  “Andrei’s father’s dead too?”

  “Murdered five days after Andrei’s mother. Svetlana Kebin died in the local hospital from blunt head trauma on March twentieth, almost twenty-five years ago. Igor Kebin somehow escaped prosecution for his wife’s murder—we think he had friends in high places. But apparently his skating free didn’t sit well with his oldest son, Andrei, who was eighteen at the time.”

  “Andrei murdered his father when he was only eighteen?”

  “No, we think Vladimir killed him.”

  “Why’s that, sir?”

  “Vladimir had moved to Moscow by this time—he was a contender for the Soviet Olympic boxing team. Guess where a national boxing tournament was held March twenty-fourth of that year, one day before Igor Kebin was murdered?”

  Grant felt his throat tighten. “Solntsevo.”

  “Bingo. Apparently Andrei’s father was so beat up they had to use dental records to identify the body.”

  “But if Kebin had friends in high places, how’d Vladimir and Andrei avoid prosecution?”

  “The research guys speculate that’s how these two ended up in the States. They both went off the grid for about ten years before they resurfaced in Chicago. Maybe they went into hiding after the murder.”

  Grant nodded. “Makes sense. You’d told me Vladimir was a boxing champ in the Soviet Navy. Did he serve in the Navy before he moved to Moscow?”

  “Yep.”

  “But I didn’t know he was an Olympic-caliber boxer.” He remembered the chokehold the don had gotten him in that night with Innochka. “You think he gave that all up when he killed Mr. Kebin?”

  Bounter shrugged.

  “That’d be enough to make a man bitter—losing out on a dream to help a friend.”

  With a nod, Bounter added, “And that’d be enough to make that friend loyal to Vladimir for life.”

  The door to Mr. Remington’s office swung open, and in walked Grant’s date for the evening. His eyebrows lifted at her hot pink mini-dress, which clashed with her fiery red hair. So much for Bounter’s advice to keep a low profile.

  “You changed your clothes,” Grant said.

  “You keep a dress like that in your employee locker?” Bounter asked.

  Miranda grinned as she wiggled down next to Grant. “You never know when a hotel guest will ask you up to his room after your shift. Working at the front desk does have its perks.”

  Grant stifled a groan. How on earth had he arrived in a situation where he had to pretend Miranda was his girlfriend?

  “The Russians have landed,” Bounter said, touching his earpiece.

  Grant straightened on the sofa.

  Bounter looked at Miranda. “Let Mick answer their questions, okay? The less you speak, the better. We’ll debrief you when you go up to the room after the show.”

  Grant glanced at his watch. “I have to be on stage in ten minutes. We should head out.”

  “I wonder…” Miranda said.

  “Yes?” Bounter asked.r />
  She tossed her hair. “I think we should practice kissing before we meet the Russians. We gotta make it look real, you know?”

  A knot tightened in his stomach.

  “What do you think, Mick?” Bounter asked him.

  “I think, with all your experience with hotel guests, Miranda, that we’ll do fine making it look real.”

  She frowned.

  “Just follow my lead, and Mr. Remington will make sure you get a plum job in his Miami hotel.”

  Her frown turned upside down. “At least I get to live somewhere nice. Miami weather’s much better than the crapola Chicago winter.”

  A minute later he latched on to Miranda’s elbow and led her into Capone’s. Tony Bennett streamed through the speakers, and a healthy crowd had already gathered.

  Vladimir, Andrei, and their dates sat at their usual table, double vodkas half-full in front of the men. As Grant led Miranda toward them, she snuggled closer, tucking herself into his shoulder. He’d have to get rid of her heavy perfume smell before he got anywhere near Sophie.

  He noticed the stares of a few women in the bar’s seating area. When Miranda nestled even tighter into him, those stares became glares. Maybe the waiters wouldn’t deliver so many drinks bought for him tonight.

  At last they reached the table, which brought Vladimir and Andrei out of their seats. “We finally meet your lady,” Vladimir boomed, reaching over and planting a loud kiss on the back of Miranda’s hand. Grant glanced at Katya, but she only looked bored. Bored and vacant. She’d probably shot up on something before they left West Town.

  “Vladimir Federov and Andrei Kebin,” Grant said, extending his arm toward them, palm up, “may I present to you Ms. Samantha Smith.”

  Miranda giggled when Andrei kissed her hand as well. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  Andrei spoke Russian into Vladimir’s ear, something about wondering if Samantha was a true redhead. Grant pretended not to understand. No need to defend Miranda-Samantha’s honor so soon into the evening, with plentiful dangers ahead.

  “What did he say?” Miranda asked.

  Innochka gave Miranda a look of sympathy. “You don’t want to know.”

  A slight narrowing of Andrei’s eyes, and Innochka clamped her mouth shut.

  “Sit,” Vladimir ordered. Once Grant had guided Miranda to her seat, he took his own. “Samantha, tell me,” Vladimir dove in, “what time have you been with Mick?”

  When Miranda gave him a quizzical look, he answered, “We’ve been together a month or so.”

  “Time short,” Vladimir said, a glint of mischief in his black eyes. “Will last?”

  Miranda leaned forward. “Oh, yes.” She laced her hand into his and beamed.

  Andrei laughed. “Mick not look so sure.”

  “Of course I’m sure it’ll last,” Grant said. He drew Miranda’s hand to his mouth and kissed her tanned skin. From the corner of his eye he could see that Andrei still appeared suspicious. Grant rotated her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist as well, trying not to gag at the cloying taste of her perfume.

  He looked up to find her eyes darkened with lust. “You look beautiful tonight, Sam,” he told her.

  A smile spread along her lips. “Thank you. You’re scorching hot, Mickey.”

  He winced. Mickey? What was he—a freaking mouse?

  “How did you and Mickey meet?” Innochka asked.

  He stalled for time. “Why do you want to know?”

  Rosy pink crept up Innochka’s cheeks. “I…I picture somebody different for you, I think.” Her blush deepened when Miranda leaned back, appearing offended. “I am sorry,” Innochka rushed ahead. “You are very pretty.”

  “Samantha works at the hotel,” he said. Hearing tension in his voice, he took a subtle breath.

  “Da?” Andrei tilted his head. “Where?”

  Miranda smiled. “I work at the front desk. The best part of my job’s always been Mick coming to work every day. I kept trying to catch his eye, but he’s so shy. I called Mr. Remington to ask if Mick was single, and lucky for me, he was!”

  He wished he could plug her diarrhea of the mouth.

  “You close with Mr. Remington?” Andrei asked.

  She shrugged. “He’s my boss, so he can be kind of a jerk sometimes, but he’s pretty cool overall, I guess.”

  “He rich man,” Vladimir said.

  “Oh, yes,” she agreed. “He should pay me a lot more per hour!”

  “Well, I see the piano player summoning me,” Grant cut in. “Time for our first set.”

  Miranda turned to him and clutched his shoulder. “Go out there and kill it, Mickey honey.”

  “You bet, Sammie dear.” As he leaned in, she closed her eyes and her lips twitched with anticipation. At the last second his mouth darted to her cheek, kissing her on skin layered with makeup.

  He brushed off his mouth on the way to the stage. He felt the remnants of Miranda all over him—his lips, his skin, his clothes. He winked at Andy as he took hold of the microphone.

  Before introducing himself, he glanced at the table he’d just departed. To his dismay, Miranda made sweeping gestures as she talked, seeming to monopolize the conversation. All focused on her except for Vladimir, who stared at him with a small smirk.

  He swallowed. Please don’t blow it, Samantha.

  ***

  Sophie tucked a wayward strand of strawberry-blond hair under her black wig. Then she adjusted her red-framed glasses so they sat straight on her nose and stepped back from the bathroom mirror to view her plain black dress and sensible shoes. “I look like Janeane Garofalo.”

  Kirsten laughed as she finished applying lip gloss. “Except she’s about a foot shorter than you.”

  She looked at her friend’s long blond wig, black camisole, and tight red leather pants. “And you look like Britney Spears.”

  “Yes!” Kirsten raised her fist in the air and shimmied her breasts. “Just the look I’m going for. I’m testing out the blondes-have-more-fun theory tonight.”

  “No need for the test,” Sophie replied. “We do have more fun.”

  Kirsten tossed the lip gloss into her purse. “Got news for ya, Janeane…I’m the blonde tonight.”

  Sophie frowned at her reflection. “Maybe we should switch wigs?”

  “Not a chance, my little liberal activist.” She grabbed her purse. “C’mon. I hear McCrooner’s already started. Don’t want to miss the show.”

  As Sophie followed her out of the hotel lobby ladies’ room, she felt her stomach zing with butterflies. But when Kirsten opened the door to Capone’s Spirits, Grant’s sexy voice was quick to calm her. He sang one of her favorites—“I Get a Kick Out of You”—and she smiled and loosened her grip on her handbag. She wondered if he’d identify her, even in her disguise, but his attention seemed glued to the right of the stage.

  Kirsten led them to one of the only remaining empty tables, in the far corner. As they sat, Sophie scanned the semi-circle of tables around the bar and stage, but failed to identify any party looking particularly thuggish. Maybe she’d need to clean her fake glasses.

  “That guy’s staring at me,” Kirsten whispered as she tilted her head to the right.

  Sophie took her time looking in that direction and saw a heavyset man ogling Kirsten’s pants. “Apparently the red leather’s a hit, Britney.”

  Movement drew her attention back toward the stage. Grant and Andy had choreographed the ending to the song. Grant leaned down to croon to one of the women in the front row, leaving his backside stuck out for Andy’s boot to pretend to kick him off the stage. Grant wobbled before swiveling to glare at the piano player, then turned back to the audience to sing the final line. Laughter sprinkled in with the clapping.

  “Andy Beecham on the piano!” Grant announced, extending his arm. More laughter came when his hand curled into a fist, which he shook in Andy’s face.

  His expression sobered. “I dedicate the next song to a very special lady in the audience tonight.”<
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  Sophie gasped as the opening notes of another Cole Porter song came from the piano. Did he know she was there?

  But when he sang the beginning of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” he wasn’t looking at her. He gazed directly to his left. Sophie followed his line of vision to a table with two men and three women. When she noticed the hardness in the older man’s face and the menacing stare of the man seated close to him, she bristled. Russians? But when the woman with long red hair sat up and cradled her cheeks in her hands, gazing up at Grant with rapture, Sophie’s skin crawled. Who the hell was she?

  She heard Kirsten say something, but it wasn’t until she tapped her arm that Sophie peeled her eyes from the redhead. Kirsten pointed at the cocktail waitress perched next to the table. “What do you want to drink? I’m getting a cosmopolitan.”

  “Uh…” Sophie blinked up at the waitress, forgetting how to speak.

  “Just get her a cosmo too,” Kirsten said.

  “No. Just water for me.”

  “What’s your deal?” Kirsten asked as the waitress departed. “You’re no fun tonight.”

  “Didn’t you hear him dedicate this song to a special lady?”

  Kirsten gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “At first I was worried, but then I figured he says that every night. That Remington guy probably puts him up to it. Better for business to single out a lucky lady and pretend he’s into her.”

  “No,” Sophie hissed, leaning in. “I found the special lady. She’s real. She’s sitting with the Russians.”

  Kirsten’s face fell and her eyes darted around the other tables.

  “I thought you said there’s no way he’s seeing another woman!”

  Kirsten kept searching. “Where is the little ho-bag?”

  “Center-right of the stage.” Sophie felt her voice waver. “She’s a redhead, sitting with two men and two women.”

  “I’ll kill her,” Kirsten promised as she scanned the audience. “Then I’ll kill him.” Her mouth dropped open. “Her? Ewww.” She stared for a few moments with her nose scrunched up. “No way. No way he chooses her instead of you.”