by Jenni Wiltz
But no one answered Constantine’s knock.
Natalie turned to look at the street, scanning parked cars for raised heads. “Maybe Vympel got him already.”
Constantine knocked again, louder this time, and something moved behind the door. The handle turned, opening just enough to reveal a sliver of pasty skin and a single dark eye.
“Yuri Iosipovich Voloshin?” Constantine asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“I do.” Constantine kicked the door open and shoved his way inside. Natalie followed, pulling the door shut behind them.
“Who the hell are you?” Yuri growled. Short and stocky with bulging eyes and thick lips, he didn’t look to Natalie like the type to break into a foreign embassy undetected. He looked more like a child molester.
“I represent the government you’re attempting to blackmail.”
“Did Kadyrov send you?”
“Russia sent me. You will never speak to Kadyrov again.”
Yuri’s black eyes darted from Constantine’s face to the briefcase in his hand. “He told you what I want, right?”
“Just before I killed him, yes.” Constantine set the briefcase down. “You broke into my embassy, Mr. Voloshin. Consider yourself lucky I haven’t killed you, too. Show me the letters.”
Yuri snorted and reached for a lighter and a pack of Marlboros on the sideboard. His fingers were tipped with a perfect quarter-moon sliver of white. Rounded and buffed, each nail shone like a newly waxed car. “Until I get what I asked for, you don’t see shit.”
“How about this?” Constantine asked, palming the Walther. “Do you see this?”
Yuri blew a puff of smoke into Constantine’s face and shifted his gaze to Natalie. “Is he like this with you, too?”
“Worse,” she said. “I woke up handcuffed.”
“I bet you did. What’s your name, sweetheart?” Voloshin licked his lips as his beady eyes traveled from her face to her breasts.
The kitchen is full of knives, Belial said. Sharp ones.
Natalie tried to ignore Belial’s voice and forced her lips open in a smile. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize me, Mr. Voloshin. After all, you told the ambassador we worked together.”
Yuri’s eyes bulged. “You’re Professor Brandon? But I saw your picture online. It doesn’t look anything like you.”
“I got a makeover.”
“You looked better as a blonde.”
“So did your mother.” Then she turned to Constantine. “Hurry up and kill this guy. I need a drink, if you know what I mean.”
Yuri shook his head. “You can’t kill me, sweetheart. Not if you want those letters.”
Oh, I want them, Belial said. And I already know how to find them. Go ahead, little one.
Natalie stepped closer to Voloshin. She placed her palms on either side of his face and stared into his eyes, watching for the signs Belial had taught her. Voloshin clamped his lips shut and breathed heavily through his nose, flaring his nostrils. His pupils dilated and contracted in rapid succession. “You’re scared,” she said. “And you should be.”
“Of you?” Voloshin hissed. “You’re a suit.”
“Is that what you think?” She shook her head. “Belial taught me how to read people like you. I don’t need you to find those letters because you’ve already told me where they are. They’re here, someplace you can still get to them easily.” She snorted. “You probably put them in a sock drawer or a shitty wall safe hidden behind a painting.”
Yuri’s eyes widened. His pores began to release the smell of fear, sharp like unwashed flesh. Belial nodded his approval. Very good, little one. We can kill him now.
No, she thought. Then Belial tapped her with his wing, setting off a firestorm behind her eyes. She gasped and dug her fingers into the side of Yuri’s face to fight the pain.
“Enough,” Constantine said, pulling her back. “Are you all right?”
“It’s Belial,” she said. “He wants to kill him.”
“Let me deal with Voloshin. Go check the house and see what he’s hiding. If you find money or weapons, take them.”
She nodded, hurrying past Yuri into the kitchen and pulling open the freezer door. Please, she prayed, please let there be vodka. She reached for the plastic jug and gulped until the burn became a tingle that numbed her to Belial’s words and wings. As the pain subsided, she glanced at the yellow appliances and faded floral wallpaper. A Russian-language calendar hung on the wall, but it wasn’t displaying the current month—there weren’t enough days. On the counter, a pumice stone and cracked bar of Lava soap lay together in a plastic dish.
She tilted her head, remembering Yuri’s pristine fingernails—better cared for than most women’s. He wasn’t the one getting down and dirty, cleaning up with pumice and Lava. And why hadn’t he flipped the calendar to the right month?
Something’s not right, she thought. If the Romanov letters had been with this family for ninety years, why were they surfacing now? What had changed? Someone else obviously lived here, or had at one time. Someone who got his hands very dirty and still used a Russian calendar. Why didn’t that person have a say in what happened to them? Why wasn’t he here, participating in the negotiations? She didn’t think he was dead. Yuri didn’t seem like the sentimental type who would keep a dead man’s soap handy.
She pulled the calendar from its nail and flipped through it until she figured out which month it had been left on: June. This other person had been in the house until just last month. How long did it take Yuri to hire a thug who could break into the embassy for him? She put down the vodka bottle and headed for the staircase, where years of footsteps had worn a gray path up the center of the mustard shag carpet.
She found three bedrooms upstairs. The first was a makeshift home gym with free weights covered in dust and an over-the-door resistance system she recognized from late-night infomercials. The second room belonged to Yuri, filled with Patrick Nagel posters and dirty laundry. But the third bedroom lay virtually empty. A single row of black garbage bags sat lined up along the sliding closet door. She could still see indentations in the carpet where pieces of furniture had rested for quite some time.
She tore open the first plastic bag and lifted out a flannel shirt with large tortoiseshell buttons. When she held it up to her shoulders, the cuff hung limply three inches past her fingertips. It smelled warm, like almonds and musk.
The rest of the bag held more worn clothing, including a pair of pants with a photo in the back pocket. Its thin white border had been trimmed with pinking shears and although the points were dull and bent, the subject of the photo looked brand new: a 1964 Ford Falcon, parked in front of the house. Yuri, she calculated, hadn’t even been out of diapers in 1964.
As she inspected the bags, she realized there were several things missing: pajamas, socks, underwear, t-shirts, and sweats. The bags contained only work clothes, a few jackets, and blue jeans. As soon as her mind created the list, she knew. The missing items were the types of things her mother had sent her to her first sanitarium with.
A feeling of helplessness washed over her as she thought about what Yuri had done. He’d packed off his father or grandfather so he could steal his family’s legacy without anyone interfering. Maybe Belial was right, she thought. Maybe we should kill him.
She ran back to Yuri’s room and yanked open all the drawers of his dresser, searching for anything to confirm her hunch. It wasn’t hard to find, tucked against the right hand side of the top drawer. The letter, written on Seashore Oaks stationery, was filled with the kind of handwriting that wasn’t taught anymore, with slashes across the vertical length of the number seven and long curlicues on the first stroke of the number one. It was written in a mixture of Russian and English; the parts she could read made her want to cry.
Please come, the old man wrote. It is lonely and I have been ill. The nurses do not allow me to visit with the others while I am sick. I remembered that I did not clean out the garage. If you spe
ak to the doctors once I am well, you could arrange for them to let me come home, just for a weekend. Please, Yuri…I must see you.
“The hell with this,” she muttered, shoving the letter and photo into her jacket pocket. She hurried back downstairs, eyes locked on Yuri like a heat-seeking missile. He stood where she’d left him, with Constantine’s gun trained on his chest. She went straight up to him, fist clenched, and socked him in the jaw. “You fucking asshole! You didn’t tell him, did you?”
Yuri threw up his hands to defend himself against a second punch and looked to Constantine. “What the hell is she talking about?”
“Professor,” Constantine warned. “What’s going on?”
Natalie ignored him. All she could think about was a lonely and helpless old man who would die alone because he’d been sold out by his own family. “You’re going to keep all the money for yourself and leave him to die in that shithole!”
“You’re fucking crazy, lady.”
“Yes, I am, but I’m not disloyal! Belial was right. You deserve to be killed. He wants me to slice you open with a knife, and believe me, I do know how. See?” She held up her forearm, pushed back her sleeves, and ran her finger the length of her scar. “You can tell me what you want your obituary to say. I’ll write in blood on your wall.”
Yuri pulled his arm back, as if to hit her.
“Go ahead,” Natalie said, thinking of what Belial would do to Yuri if she let him. “You’ll only make it worse.”
“Shut up!” Yuri cried, loosing his arm. In an instant, Constantine tossed his gun away and picked Yuri up around the waist. Yuri’s blow glanced off Constantine’s shoulder, nowhere near its intended target. Constantine slammed Yuri to the floor and knelt over him, glowering. “If you touch her, I will kill you. Do you understand?”
She saw Yuri’s eyes fill with angry tears. “I trusted your government. I was trying to do you a favor.”
“Blackmail is not a favor. Give me the letters now.”
Yuri’s gaze flickered from wall to wall, as if searching for an escape. “This isn’t right! You can’t just steal them from me.”
“The way you stole them from your family?” Natalie asked. She picked up Constantine’s gun from the sofa and handed it to him.
Yuri flinched as Constantine clicked off the safety. “I didn’t know about the money until he was already in a home, I swear! Don’t kill me.”
“I don’t believe you,” Natalie said.
“This is your last chance,” Constantine said, pressing the Walther to Yuri’s temple. “Where are the letters?”
Yuri exhaled sharply, flinging spit onto his chin. His cheeks were red and puffy and Natalie could see sweat stains beneath his arms. “In the safe,” he mumbled. “Behind the painting.”
“I knew it,” she said.
“Bitch,” Yuri hissed.
“That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” Constantine rocked back on his heels, allowing Yuri to rise. “Now go get them.”
The smaller man rolled to his feet and made the sign against the evil eye as he passed her. She flipped him off and watched him scuttle toward the eastern wall of the living room. He lifted an ugly seascape from its nail and leaned it against a console table.
Natalie saw the safe and her heart began to pound. She was in the same room as letters written by two of the Romanovs. Beth is never going to believe this, she thought. I don’t even believe it.
She stepped up to Yuri’s backside and peered over his shoulder. A black combination safe had been built into the wall. With three quick twirls of the dial, Yuri opened the latch. He pulled the door forward slowly and Natalie held her breath as he reached into the square black hole. But he didn’t pull out a piece of paper—he pulled out a revolver, which he pressed to Natalie’s head. “I want my reward,” he growled, clicking off the safety. “I want what Kadyrov promised me.”
Constantine had already aimed the Walther at Yuri’s head. “You won’t get it by killing her.”
“Are you sure about that?” He jabbed Natalie’s forehead with the muzzle. “Reach into the safe and grab the box.”
Natalie swallowed thickly and looked to Constantine. He nodded. She followed Yuri’s directions and reached into the safe, pulling out a document-sized metal box. “Is there more?”
“No,” Yuri said. “Now go to the front door.”
Natalie clutched the box to her chest. “Where are we going?”
“Shut up and walk!”
Again, her eyes sought Constantine’s. His face was stretched taut like a trampoline. “Do it,” he said.
She obeyed, shuffling forward as slowly as she could. Belial, what do I do? she asked. The angel lay strangely quiet, wings outstretched over her brain. I can duck, I can run, I can trip and fall…please, help me…
Constantine’s face gave her no clues. His blue eyes trained a laser-sharp focus on Yuri’s trigger finger.
The barrel of the gun was cold where it touched her skin. The rest of her was sweating. She could feel drops of liquid plunging from her shoulders to the band of her bra. The door was only inches in front of her now. She reached out for the brass knob and gasped when it began to move.
The door flew open, knocking her backward into Yuri.
“Candy gram,” a deep voice boomed.
Chapter Eighteen
July 2012
San Francisco, California
The pounding on the door sounded like a medieval battering ram. Beth woke with the pirate book on her lap and one hand curled around Seth’s baseball bat. Flashbulb memories of the night before popped into her head: the prank calls, the 911 operator, the calm but patronizing deputy dispatched to assure her she wasn’t in any danger.
A second set of violent knocks echoed in the downstairs hallway. “I’m coming,” she grumbled, flinging back the covers and reaching for a fleece bathrobe.
Seth cracked his door as she passed by, one hand grasping Roosevelt’s collar. The dog barked and Seth hushed him with a nip to the shoulder. “Mom, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she said, tying the robe’s belt tightly around her waist. “Stay inside with Roo, okay?” She knelt down to pet Roosevelt, thinking the ordinary gesture might comfort her son. But the dog was impatient; he jumped up to meet her and scratched her across the cheek. “Ow,” she said as Seth pushed Roosevelt back behind the door. “I’m serious, kiddo. I’ll be back in a sec. Why don’t you guys practice ‘sit’?”
She waited until Seth closed his door and stumbled downstairs, groping for the doorknob. When she opened it, the morning sunlight blinded her and she raised a hand to shield her eyes. A uniformed man stood on her porch, clutching his belt uncomfortably. “Good morning, ma’am. Inspector Lopez, SFPD,” he said, holding up his badge. “I need to ask you a couple of questions about an incident that happened at an apartment leased in your name. We think it might be connected to your 911 call last night.”
“What are you talking about?” she said, rubbing her eyes. “What incident?”
“Do you currently rent unit #6 at 1490 Valencia?”
“My sister lives there. Is she all right?”
“Ms. Brandon, when was the last time you saw or heard from your sister?”
A heat wave rocked her from head to toe. She’d had hundreds of nightmares that began this way, with a police officer asking her to come and identify Natalie’s body. Beth swallowed hard and forced her voice to remain steady. “Three days ago. I called her last night around midnight, but she didn’t answer. Tell me she’s okay.”
“Your sister is missing, Ms. Brandon. I need you to tell me where she might be.”
Beth sank against the doorframe and clutched it until her knuckles shone. “Goddamn, I knew this would happen someday. Jesus Christ, Nat, why now?”
“Ma’am, what do you mean, you knew this would happen?”
“It’s my sister,” she said, trying to stay calm. How much could she tell this man? Would he understand if she tried to tell him about Nat’s condit
ion? “She’s…not like other people.”
Lopez shifted his stance. “Is she disabled?”
Beth looked up at the policeman but his hard eyes revealed no sympathy. To him, this was just another call. “She sleepwalks,” Beth lied. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
“I know what a sleepwalker is, lady. But let me tell you, a sleepwalker didn’t shoot up your sister’s apartment.”
“Shooting? You didn’t say anything about a shooting. What the hell happened?”
“We got the call early this morning. Shots fired, breaking glass, heavy footsteps, that sort of thing.” Lopez shrugged. “The neighbors thought it might be a robbery.”
“My sister doesn’t have anything worth taking.”
“No one outside the apartment knows that. I’d like you to come take a look and see if anything’s missing. Based on your 911 call last night, we think someone was watching your place while their buddies robbed your sister.”
“Give me five minutes,” Beth said, slamming the door before he could reply. She ran to the phone and dialed her neighbor, wincing at the early hour. When June’s husky voice answered, the words tumbled out in a rush. “June, I’m sorry to call so early, but Seth and I need a big favor.”
Chapter Nineteen
July 2012
San Francisco, California
Ivan Tarasenko watched the blond sister slide into the cop car parked in her driveway. “She’s moving,” he said, activating the transmitter in his ear. “She’s coming to you.”
There was a moment of silence before the headset transmitted a response. “You are sure?”
“Da. She is with a policeman. Do you want me to follow her?”
“Nyet. Maintain your current position.”
Ivan sank down into his seat. He hated stakeouts. The van stank of paint and cleaning chemicals and it was beginning to give him a headache. Sergei hadn’t said anything about a stakeout during the mission briefing in Moscow. They’d been told it would be in and out in less than two hours, but they’d arrived 12 hours ago and still had no cargo.