He handed back the phone. “Thanks,” he said and gave a little wave and then left the cafeteria.
Petra’s bones hurt. Her eyes itched. She wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep. “What now?” she asked.
“I want to check Martinez’s alibi.”
“How are you going to do that?” Petra asked with a laugh. She added, “Hack into Gamblers Anonymous?”
Ian looked her in the eye and lifted one brow.
It was exactly what he planned to do.
Within a minute, he had managed to locate the check-in list for the GA meeting Luis had claimed to attend, using the RMJ software on his smartphone. The detective had been third on the list to sign in.
“It’s not conclusive. I mean, someone might have signed in with his name. We still have to speak with a representative of the organization who can identify Martinez and verify that he attended the meeting,” said Ian. “But for now, it corroborates his story nicely.”
“Which means he had nothing to do with Joe’s attack. And if we can’t find anything new on Hatch, then there really isn’t anyone left.” She swallowed. “Besides me.”
“I still don’t like the connection to Yuri Kuzntov.”
“The dead Russian.”
“The way you say it makes him sound like a drink.”
“With lots of vodka, I’m sure.” She smiled, but it felt unfamiliar. Gritty with fear. She pressed her lips together.
Ian reached across the table and held her hand. “It’ll be okay.”
“I want to believe you,” she said.
“Then do,” he answered.
* * *
Ian didn’t like Rick Albright, not at all. Then again, the team doctor had some interesting theories about what happened to Joe Owens.
He needed to find another suspect for the attack on Joe. The need to do so—for Petra’s sake—filled him with determination. Maybe he had been too hasty when discarding Yuri. Maybe there was some information he’d overlooked on Joe’s phone.
He scanned the cafeteria. At this time in the afternoon, it was almost completely empty. There was certainly enough privacy at the table to do a little sleuthing.
He opened a secure Rocky Mountain Justice app and remotely accessed the server. There was a new message. The information he’d gotten from the laptop at the raid had been opened. Ian’s finger trembled as he pulled up the notice.
A single document had been accessed. It was an email from two months prior, sent to Yuri Kuzntov and written in Russian. Otets saitsya na prospekete 1434 Zapaadnyy Arvada. Zhdite dal neyshikh. Ian mentally translated it into English. The sire is staying at 1434 West Arvada. Wait for further instructions.
Just as Ian first suspected, the trio of Comrades had been waiting for Nikolai Mateev, who was commonly referred to as otets, or sire.
“I have something to check out,” said Ian. “It’ll be dangerous, so I’m going to take you back to my house.”
“Does it have to do with my case?”
“Possibly,” he admitted.
“Then don’t treat me like a child. I can’t be shut out of my own life.”
Ian began to speak, a refusal on his lips. He wanted to protect her, to always keep her safe. Nikolai Mateev was a dangerous man—deadly, really. But Petra had a right to clear her own name, and besides, Ian wanted her with him. He stood and held out his hand. She reached for him. Her palm was soft and she smelled of lavender.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he pulled her to her feet.
Honestly, Ian didn’t know. The email was two months old. Nikolai might very well have moved on. Or otets could refer to someone else entirely. “I have an address,” he said. “It came from the dead Russian’s computer. And if it’s who I think it is, this could be extremely dangerous, Petra.”
She lifted the forgotten cup of coffee on the table. “To success,” she said.
Ian took the cup and discarded it in a trash can. “If we get lucky, then we’ll have a proper toast of single malt Scotch. Or better yet, champagne.”
“And if we don’t get lucky?”
Ian just shook his head. The light banter was nice, but what they were about to do—where they were about to go—was no laughing matter. Petra was right to wonder what would happen if they didn’t have luck on their side. And though he’d never share it with her, there were two possible unfortunate outcomes. The first was that they’d find nothing. And the second was that they’d end up dead.
* * *
Petra leaned forward and peered out the windshield. The late day sun shone down on the road and waves of heat undulated from the pavement. Before her was an apartment complex arranged in a horseshoe of three-story buildings, with a courtyard in the middle. She sat back in the seat. “Who are we looking for again?” she asked. In truth, he hadn’t told her who he was after in the first place.
Ian gestured. “See that apartment? Third floor. Second one from the left.”
Petra found the balcony. “Yeah.”
“What do you think?” he asked. “Is anyone home?”
Behind the balcony was a sliding glass door. The curtains were opened and the room beyond was dark. “It looks empty to me,” she said.
“That’s just what I was thinking. The intel I got on this place is old—as in months old. I don’t even know if the suspect is here.”
“Suspect?” The word grabbed Petra’s attention. “Do you think whoever’s in there tried to kill Joe?”
Neck bent to look out the window, Ian shook his head. “Not exactly... But this might be the guy pulling all the strings. He’d know who attacked Joe and why.”
“And let me guess—you want to know if it’s safe to break in to that apartment.”
“Exactly,” said Ian. “But if someone is home, I might be recognized and shot on sight.”
His words were glib and yet chilling. “I can go,” she said. “I can knock on the door and see if anyone answers.”
“No way,” said Ian. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Let me do this, Ian. If it helps to find out what happened to Joe, then I want to. Besides, how much of a problem is it to knock on a door?”
“It’s not the knocking that bothers me,” said Ian. “It’s who might answer.”
“And who are you expecting?” she asked, suddenly afraid of what he might say.
“It’s the associate of Yuri Kuzntov’s. The man I knew from my days with MI5. His name is Nikolai Mateev and now he runs the world’s largest criminal enterprise.”
Nikolai Mateev. There was that name again. It was the same person Ian had been pursuing two years ago and the single most important person in Ian’s life.
She never knew why and bit the inside of her lip to keep from saying more. There were more immediate problems than all the secrets Ian was willing to keep, especially if he was willing to talk now.
“And you think he tried to kill my client?” she asked.
“I don’t know what to think. That’s why I want to get into that apartment and look around.”
“Then let me go.”
Ian shook his head. “I’ll figure something out, but I’m not asking you to put yourself in danger.”
“I’m not looking for your permission, Ian. I’m going.” He began to speak, to argue. She held up her hand. “This is a job that needs to be done. If not, we may never know what happened to Joe.”
“This isn’t a game, Petra.”
“I know. I’ve seen the dead Russian. I’ve also knelt next to my client while he bled out, with his blood all over my hands. I can’t just walk away.”
“I wasn’t planning on walking away, just not using you as a decoy.”
Petra quickly devised a plan. “I’ll knock on the door. If someone answers, I’ll ask for Tammy. If need be, I’ll give them the apartment one flight down.”
&
nbsp; “No,” said Ian.
“No? Why not?”
“First, those Russians are dangerous and smart. They’ll see right through any ruse.”
“And second?”
“Your safety is the only thing I care about.”
Ian’s words deserved to be examined. But not now. Now they had to get into that apartment—Petra’s life depended on it.
“If you can’t go, and I can’t go—call someone else.”
“Like who?”
“Call Roman,” she said.
“Mateev knows Roman.”
“What about Julia?”
“So she can ask if Tammy’s home, too?”
“Do you have a better plan?”
Ian leaned back into the seat and rubbed his forehead. “We wait. We watch. We see if anyone shows up.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then I’m going in and I’ll lay a trap for those bastards.”
* * *
Ian used a set of high-powered binoculars that he kept stowed in the SUV to watch the apartment. It had been two hours since they arrived, and nothing had changed.
After years of working in the field, Ian knew there was no such thing as surety, but he was fairly certain that there was no one at home. Had it been abandoned? Or was it simply that the occupants were away?
“I’m going up there,” he said, handing Petra the binoculars. “You stay here. If I’m not back in five minutes, call the police.”
“Ian,” said Petra, her voice breathless. “Don’t leave me.” Despite the air-conditioning, a bead of sweat dotted her upper lip. She wiped it away. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I don’t want to be left alone.”
It was residual terror from blacking out and finding her injured client, he knew. A fear that if left alone, she wouldn’t be able to control herself. Sure, taking her with him might slow down Ian’s search of the apartment, yet he couldn’t leave her in the car to have a full-blown panic attack.
“Come with me,” he said before he could change his mind.
They quickly crossed the street and climbed to the third-floor landing.
Ian pressed his lips to Petra’s ear. “Wait here. If you hear anything, and I mean anything, walk away. Call the police but keep going. Promise me.”
“I promise,” she whispered back, her breath washing over his neck.
Ian’s body reacted with memories of her passionate whispers. He refocused his attention and turned for the apartment. A railing ran the length of the walkway, but Ian kept close to the building to decrease his profile. He stopped at the door. Tarnished brass numbers were affixed to the wall: 346.
He knocked. There was nothing. He knocked again. Still no answer. After withdrawing a file from his jeans pocket, he jimmied the lock, and within a second, the door swung open.
Ian stepped into the small apartment and the scent hit him full in the face. Trash mixed with body odor, and underneath it all was something more—sweet and rotten. Decay?
Carpet, which might have begun as any color but was now gray with filth, covered the floor. The apartment was a single room. Living area, kitchen, a hospital bed. A bathroom was tucked into a corner. Litter was strewn everywhere. Newspapers were piled on the floor in teetering stacks. Dirty dishes sat on the counter. Half-filled beer bottles stood sentry in the corners.
Was this where Nikolai Mateev lived? Truly, Ian had a hard time imagining such a powerful man residing in this dump of a flat. At the same time, it was a brilliant way to avoid detection—just like when Mateev took a Greyhound bus into the country from British Columbia.
“Ian?” Petra stood on the threshold. She watched him, her brows drawn together. “I couldn’t just stay on the landing. I know what you said. I’m sorry.”
He held up his hands, traffic-cop style. “Wait there,” he said. “I don’t want you to come inside.”
“Why not?”
It was a reasonable question. And yet this place was tainted of Mateev. Ian didn’t want any of it to touch Petra.
“I need two minutes, Petra. You’d be safest in the car.” He doubted that she’d agree.
“Just do your search. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
Ian turned from her and picked up a newspaper. It was a copy of the Novaya Gazeta dated two weeks ago. Goose bumps broke out on Ian’s skin.
He knelt next to the pile of papers and began to shuffle through the copies. They were Russian, all of them. The Commersant. Informpolis. There were even copies of the Red Army’s official newspaper, Krasnaya Zvezda. But the most recent one was from last week. Was it because no one lived here anymore or because Russian papers weren’t readily available in Denver?
Ian stood and searched the table. There, under a ketchup-stained napkin, was a yellow-gold prescription bottle. And another and another. On the end table there were two more. He jerked the covers from the bed. Three more pill bottles rolled across the floor.
Ian picked one up and read the name: John Smith. Another prescription was made out to David Carpenter. A third to Robert Edgars. Ian didn’t believe that there were several sick people living here—all with Anglo-sounding names and who just so happened to read Russian papers. It was one person, with enough influence and cash to get prescriptions under several different aliases.
It was Mateev. It had to be. Now Ian needed to figure out how to turn Mateev’s lair into his coffin.
* * *
Nikolai sat in the back of the car. The latest doctor’s appointment had proved to be more painful than he’d anticipated. He longed for relief from the unending fatigue and relentless pain.
And yet...he knew the prognosis. Knew the likely outcome. Did he have the strength, under these conditions, to continue this fight?
Head slumped against the tinted window, he watched his reflection superimposed on the passing traffic. Fast-food restaurants. Used car lots. Strip malls with frozen yogurt stands and laundromats. His eyes hurt and his head pounded. He leaned back in the seat and pinched the bridge of his nose. The twang of a country song blared from the speakers.
“Pickup trucks and beer. That isn’t music, just noise. Turn that crap off,” he ordered. “I can’t listen anymore.”
“You need anything else?” Ilya asked, silencing the music. “Something to eat? It’s lunchtime.”
“There is nothing for me in America,” Nikolai said. “It’s a wonder this country became a superpower at all. They are stupid and lazy. They take offense at everything and are easily distracted by the next vice.”
“But that makes them good customers,” said Anatoly.
Nikolai gave a quiet laugh.
“Drugs. Booze. Prostitutes,” he said. “Their weaknesses have made me a rich man.”
“Do you want to go home?” Anatoly asked.
He didn’t mean to the nasty apartment they’d all been sharing for the past two months, but rather to Russia. At home, Nikolai was treated like a king. In America? He was forced to hide, like vermin in the sewer. The only time he left his hiding place was to see more doctors. For in America, they also had the best medical care.
“I can’t go back,” he muttered. “I need to be here for my appointments, at least for now.”
Pancreatic cancer. It was a quick death sentence to most, but Nikolai had refused to succumb to his illness, and had survived for more than three years as a sick man. The treatments found in the Russian Federation—the chemotherapy and radiation—had left him weaker than the actual illness.
And then he’d heard of a miracle and came to America. It had been developed without any oversight from the government and was only available to people wealthy enough and desperate enough to pay.
It was perfect for Nikolai Mateev.
Yet only in America.
America. The word made him gag.
The sun beat down on the car, the i
nterior so stifling that Nikolai couldn’t draw a breath. “Turn up the air conditioner, will you? I’m about to suffocate.”
“Sure thing,” said Anatoly. He moved his hand to the controls, but stopped when he realized the air was already on full.
Sweat dampened Nikolai’s hair and dripped down his back. He was going crazy. Hiding and waiting and watching had finally driven him mad. “Stop here,” he said. “I’ll walk.”
The car pulled up to the next corner and he stumbled out. The front passenger door also opened. Ilya placed one foot on the sidewalk, ready to accompany the boss. Nikolai held up a hand. “Don’t. I’ll walk.”
The bodyguard hesitated. “I should stay with you. It’s not safe.”
Nikolai stood straight, still impressive despite everything. “There’s no danger,” he sighed. “No one even knows who I am in this dump. Go and get a pizza or something. We should’ve had dinner hours ago.”
The door closed and the sedan merged into traffic. Within a minute the car was gone and he was alone. His loathsome apartment was just across the street, and yet it might as well have been a hundred kilometers through a minefield.
When did he become a child, frightened by...well, anything?
The walk would do him good, he decided. He took one step and then another. His bones ached. He felt the rot inside him. But with each step, some of the pain left. He felt the warmth of the sun kiss his face. He would not be defeated so easily by the poison in his body.
Nikolai strode through the courtyard. He looked up to his apartment and stopped short. A woman leaned on the railing. Even from three flights below, he could see that his door was ajar. His heart raced as he stood there, immobile with indecision.
Think, damn it.
He knew one thing: she wasn’t with the police. They would have brought a battalion of men, with cars and guns. Snipers would’ve been placed on the rooftops. Nikolai instinctively stepped under an eave and looked up. There were no black helmets, no telltale flash of a scope reflecting the sunshine. Everything was as it should be—except for the woman.
Who was she? Was she alone? And what if she wasn’t? He wondered, briefly, whether an agent from Rocky Mountain Justice could have caught his trail...that, at least, would have made sense to him. A single actor, or two, refusing to follow the rule of law. It was easier for them to seek him out. They weren’t bound by the legalities of the American agencies.
Rocky Mountain Valor Page 11