The chief stirred. “Detective.”
He turned to McClintock. “There’s at least seven girls at the halfway house. All immigrants, and not a single green card among them. Every single one is Slavic, I’ll stake my badge on it.” He ignored Simmons’s snort. “They’ve only got one guard, but I saw cameras, the kind of locks that don’t open without a key, and they’re scared enough to obey whatever order they’re told. That makes at least four operations that we know of in Renton.”
The chief rubbed at her forehead. “Any sign of Mikoyan?”
And the kicker. “No,” he admitted.
“Waste of time,” Simmons said flatly. It sounded like the reiteration of an ongoing argument.
One he didn’t want rehashed while he still felt like putting his boot somewhere painful. But that was the job.
“Hardly,” he said evenly. “Over the past six months, I’ve gotten in with the Mikoyan crowd. They’ve seen what I can bring. They trust me now.”
“To what end?” Simmons demanded, despite the fact Nigel directed every earnest word to the chief.
His jaw locked. “Five brothels, four in Renton alone. One,” he added pointedly, “right here in Bellevue. Two restaurants, one club, and a handful of dockside operations. My money’s on laundering.” He paused. “So is theirs.”
“Can you get us probable cause?” McClintock asked.
“With some effort,” Nigel said, nodding. “I can get it for the house right now, if you want, but that’s just one operation. Give me enough time, and I’ll get you inside Mikoyan’s door. Especially since they believe I’m a dirty cop.”
This time, he bristled at Simmons’s none-too-subtle snort.
He turned his head, bracing his fingertips ever so pointedly on the desk. “You have something to say, Sergeant?”
She folded her arms over her chest. “What’s this trust cost us, Ferris?”
He hesitated.
She didn’t need his facts. She had her own. “We’ve handed over too many investigations to this case. They’ve been allowed to skate when we could have at least two of Mikoyan’s lieutenants behind bars.”
“We needed to give them something,” he argued. “What do you suggest? That we grab those two and let the boss walk free? He’ll get more. He’s got a gang full of mooks ready and willing to do whatever it takes, and if we clear out the head nutcases, it’ll be open tryouts all over this city.”
She flicked that away. “We’re losing face by the hour,” she told the chief. “You’ve let too many cases slip through your fingers, and even though you’ve assured us that it’s all part of the plan, all I’m seeing is a cop dealing information for a quick visit to a whorehouse.”
A sudden surge of violence surprised Nigel. He found himself taking a step forward, fists clenched.
“Detective.”
Every muscle locked. He dragged his glare away from the sergeant’s cool challenge. “Yes, chief?” he said, half on a growl.
“Grab a chair.” Chief McClintock pinned Simmons with a heavy stare. “I’ll talk to you when I’ve heard the report.”
“But—”
“In other words, Bethany, get the hell out of my office.”
Nigel watched Simmons straighten with icy precision. Her lips sealed into a thin line, she strode for the door, her shoulders rigid.
The door clicked shut behind her, and he relaxed. A little.
The chief scraped both hands over her face. “She’s not wrong,” she sighed. “Did we make the right call?”
“You know we did,” he replied flatly. “I’m not that far from busting this wide open. I’m telling you, we’re so much closer than we were six months ago.”
“Six months ago,” the chief said dryly, “you were fighting this assignment tooth and nail.”
Six months ago, he hadn’t met Katya.
Which reminded him. “Hey, there was a woman in here this morning.” He paused. “Yesterday morning.”
She shook her head. “You’re going to have to be more specific. Drunk, drugs, or prostitution charge?”
“None of the above . . . I think.”
She raised a black eyebrow.
“She was in your office, Shannon. About five-two,” he added. “Light blonde hair, blue eyes. Russian as they come, got an accent like it’s made of vodka—What?”
McClintock’s gaze narrowed. “Hair past her shoulders? About a hundred and twenty pounds, most of it hips and rack?”
And how. “Yup.”
She sighed. “Her accent’s not that thick. She speaks better English than half my beat cops.” She stood, pushing the chair back from the desk. “Her name’s Ekaterina Zhuvova.”
His brow furrowed. “Is she an informant? A plant, something I should be aware of, here?”
The chief hesitated. “No,” she said slowly. “She’s an immigrant, no green card to speak of and no family. She came here looking for a bargain.”
Nigel stared at her. “And you didn’t think to tell me about this?”
She straightened, meeting his incredulous stare with a steely one of her own. “She wanted us to move in. I declined. You know the drill, Ferris.”
“So what’d you do?” he demanded. “Send her back to that shithole? Pat her on the head and assure her putting out for money is a viable career option?”
McClintock’s mouth tightened. “She’s a Good fucking Samaritan with a shaky grasp on the law. We could have fished her out, like you said, but Mikoyan would go so far underground, we’d lose him for years.”
“For fuck’s sake, Shannon.”
“Jesus have mercy,” she sighed. But it wasn’t a prayer for help. The chief slammed a folder closed on her desk, tossing it heedlessly into her overflowing inbox. “Look, she’s no different than any of these other girls you’re trying to save, right?”
He slammed a hand on the desk. “That’s not—”
“It’s exactly the point,” she cut in smoothly. “You bide your time. You get in good with her, if it’ll make you feel better,” she added with narrow-eyed scrutiny. “Tuck her under your dirty cop wing, but you get your ass in there and do your job.”
Nigel snapped his teeth shut on a vicious rejoinder. “Yes, ma’am.”
She frowned. “Don’t screw this up, Ferris. You’re one clouded decision from being found in a dumpster with a new smile. These guys are for real.”
So was he. He rose. “Fine. I’ll get you that evidence.”
The chief sat back, sighing. “Have patience, Nigel. I know this isn’t easy.”
Easy, nothing. It was long past any conception of easy.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said tightly.
“Good. Get out.” She sat back into the worn, creaking office chair and closed her eyes. Nigel gave her a minute, crossing the office and waiting with his hand on the door knob. Finally, taking a deep breath, she added, “And send the bitch in.”
He hid a grim smile. “Chief wants to see you,” he said curtly as he passed Simmons in the hall.
She ignored him.
As he rounded the corner into the cacophony of telephones and voices, Waters flipped a two-fingered salute. “Chief said you’re to type up everything before you leave tonight.”
Nigel bit back a groan. Of course she had. Anything else she wanted to smack him with? “What’s a guy gotta do to get a decent cup of coffee around here?”
Waters grinned. “Don’t press your luck, kid.”
Chapter Three
“Was he handsome?”
Smothering a yawn, Katya deftly flipped the small, plain pancakes on the griddle. The morning had come too quickly for Katya’s liking. Last night’s earthquake shook plaster and dust all over the house, and Ivan insisted they clean before they were allowed to sleep.
It had given Katya a chance to reassure them all one more time as they swept and mopped and dusted, but the fitful sleep she’d gotten didn’t make her feel better about any of it. The nightmares hadn’t stopped, just getting worse and worse every t
ime she rolled over.
Each one featured earthquakes. Fires. Corpses.
Katya rubbed her face. Dreams were funny business. She knew it was just her subconscious translating her fears, but it didn’t make it any less frightening.
Especially when the real world pulled a page from her subconscious. The earthquake had been frighteningly intense. And right before their great escape plan, too.
On the plus side, Mother Nature had saved her from one last tumble with a dirty cop.
“Not really,” she finally said in returned Russian, her spatula flashing as she swatted away Junie’s curious finger. “He was unshaved, and he kept scowling the whole time.”
Junie hid a grin.
Leaning against the doorjamb, Elena met Katya’s eyes. She was the oldest, maybe twenty-five. Maybe a little more. She was striking enough, with her chemically red hair and curvaceous figure. Irina propped herself up on the slanted, scored counter, her lashes heavy with lack of sleep. She’d entertained clients most of the night. Even after the quake.
Magda and Uliana sat at the flimsy card table, each with a cup of the terrible canned coffee that was all they had.
Elena inhaled a drag from her cigarette, blowing out the smoke to the side—one of the concessions she’d made when she’d befriended Katya, who hated the smell. Her blue eyes gleamed wickedly. “Was he big, at least? He seemed like he’d be big. And very good with his hands.”
It was all just chatter. Empty of meaning or intent. All of them knew the plan: escape. Soon, Ivan would come in for a cup of coffee and maybe some of the food she cooked. She’d give him his mug, slip all of the sleeping pills she’d managed to beg from a particularly infatuated john into the hot, bitter brew, and then wait for it to take effect.
It wasn’t foolproof, but it was all they had. The rest would burn down with the house when they left.
If they were lucky, so would he.
The thought didn’t set well in the bile filling her throat.
“I don’t know,” she replied patiently, but she avoided Elena’s gaze as her ears burned, sidestepping Junie and retrieving a cracked and broken mug from the doorless cabinet above her head. “The earthquake happened. He left immediately.” But he’d had good hands, she silently admitted to herself as she poured the weak black coffee into the mug. “Junie, for the last time, get your fingers out of there.”
A clatter of plastic made her smile.
“Was he scared when the walls shook, Katya?” The thirteen-year-old popped the stolen batter into her mouth, her brown eyes wide. The childlike gesture kicked Katya in the chest.
Looking at Junie always did.
“No,” Katya admitted. “He pushed me to the floor and made sure nothing fell on me.” With his body, no less.
“Mine leapt up,” Magda said, her nose wrinkled over her coffee mug. “His pants fell down around his ankles and he slid down the stairs like a fat, greased pig.”
“Ivan screamed like a little girl.” Behind her, Elena chuckled. “He threw himself under the door frame and shook worse than the television.”
They all laughed, even if a hint of panic clung to the sound.
Junie wiped her hand on her sweater. “Was he kind, Katya?”
Not even the hardened Elena had the heart to laugh at Junie’s question. Naive as it was.
Katya turned, briefly meeting Elena’s steady gaze over the girl’s platinum blonde head. Her mouth twisted. “They rarely are, sweetheart,” Katya said quietly.
The thirteen-year-old nodded, looking away.
A bit more of Katya’s heart turned to dust.
She didn’t have to say it. Junie knew. Oh, how she knew. Setting her jaw, Katya turned back to the stove. “Who is hungry?” she asked, striving for cheerful. “We must eat now before—”
A door slammed upstairs. Junie jumped, scurrying to Uliana’s side, who calmly tucked an arm around her thin shoulders. As Katya’s hand froze over the pan, a masculine voice rang through the tiny house.
The angry spate of Russian didn’t bode well.
Irina pushed herself upright, her cheeks pale. “He’s up,” she squeaked fearfully. “He sounds so angry! What do we—”
“Quiet, Irina!” hissed Elena.
Katya’s fingers spasmed around the spatula. Then, very calmly, she beckoned the redhead forward. “He does sound angry,” she murmured. “He’s in a mood, you think?”
Elena nodded grimly.
Ivan’s moods were a thing to be feared. They always ended in blood, or tears. Katya took a slow, deep breath. “I will get him his coffee. Whatever happens, you make sure everyone gets out. The van is—”
“I know where it is,” Elena said irritably, but her hand touched the small of Katya’s back. Silent comfort.
The redhead had seen Katya do this so many times before.
“We will need the keys to get out.”
“Break a window, if you have to,” Katya told her quietly. “We have to make it to the station on time.”
Elena nodded, and turned away.
Her teeth clenched against the anxiety crawling through her skin, Katya headed for the door.
But she wasn’t fast enough to intercept him.
Ivan filled the frame, jowls quivering, face mottled.
She stopped short. “You want cof—”
He didn’t give her a chance to complete her calculated interception. A meaty fist slammed into her cheek, sending her careening into the scuffed and stained refrigerator. Her head recoiled from it like a muted bell; her ears filled with the echoing rebound.
The girls scattered like a swarm of moths. Junie screamed.
Katya clambered to her knees, forcing herself upright. Gripping the refrigerator handle for support, she spat out Russian curses, thick with pain.
And with fear.
Ivan hovered over her, hands clenching and unclenching. Behind him, Elena pushed Junie out of the kitchen. The others had vanished.
Elena met her eyes, her lips thinned to a fine red line, and crossed herself.
Then she was gone.
Katya’s cheek ached. Sweat blossomed across her back as Ivan settled to his thick haunches in front of her. “Now,” he said in guttural Russian. “You tell me what I want to know.”
She drew her legs in, fingers aching around the handle, but she didn’t let herself cringe. Better her than Uliana. Than Junie. She’d watched them cart away the little girl too many times.
She raised her chin.
He stared at her. “The new man. What is his name?”
Katya shook her head. “He didn’t tell me.”
Ivan’s hand shot forward, and she flinched away as it connected with the refrigerator door by her head. “Lie. What did he tell you?”
“Nyet!” Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh—
“What are his likes?”
She swallowed hard, huddling against the cold panel. “Plain,” she lied. Ivan’s brown-green eyes narrowed. “But he likes words,” she added quickly. Not so much a lie. She’d felt his response to her aggression. “I was talking dirty while—”
“You lie.”
“No!”
Ivan’s fist found her mouth, this time. Her head snapped around. Her lip split with almost audible ferocity, and she tasted blood on her tongue. Pain shredded through her head like shrapnel.
I can do this.
No, she couldn’t.
“Why were you at the police house?” Ivan growled, breathing heavily.
She jerked.
Oh, shit. Had the cop told Ivan?
It was too late to cover her startled tell. Ivan grabbed her by the throat, forcing her up against the refrigerator. Her hair caught on the broken handle, snagging painfully, and she bit back a cry of pain as his fingers gouged into her windpipe.
She couldn’t breathe.
He didn’t care. “I just received a call,” he growled, inches from her face. She gasped for air; he didn’t allow her any. “You were seen, you little bitch. What were you doing?”
Katya clawed at his grip as her skull filled with pressure. Her lungs cramped, seizing, desperately clamoring for air.
As if she were made of nothing at all, he flicked his hand. The kitchen reeled around her as she sailed across the floor. Her head rammed into the stove; metal shuddered.
Shaking from head to toe, it was all she could do to suck in air through her abused throat. She grabbed the oven handle for balance as she struggled to get to her knees.
But he was there, filling up every inch of space in the kitchen. Katya wrenched at his grip as she caught her by the hair, screaming.
Ivan slammed her to the stovetop, pushed her down until the burner was just under her face. Elena hadn’t turned it off; she’d only moved the pan to save the pancakes. The medium heat wafted against her cheek; it made her eyes sting and water.
“Please!” she begged. “I was picked up when I went to the store!” The lies came hard and fast, pouring out of her. “I didn’t know why, but they only asked questions and I lied like we should.” Please, oh, God, please . . .
“What did you tell them?” Ivan’s hand flattened on her head, forced her cheek closer to the burner. Closer still. The coiled metal plate blurred under her eye. Her back strained, every muscle in her shoulders and arms and neck screaming as she fought his powerful grip.
“Nothing,” Katya sobbed. She didn’t have to fake her tears. One plopped on the burner, sizzled, smoked. “I told them I was staying with my sister and I did not work. Please, oh, please, believe me, I swear I told them nothing!”
His grip eased. Katya straightened so fast, the world around her flipped, but there was no time for relief. Ivan grabbed one hand, forced it behind her and pulled up hard enough that her shoulder popped. She screamed, gasping with it as he slammed her back against the stove.
“You are lying.”
“No,” she sobbed, but he wasn’t listening. He didn’t care. The realization sunk in on a tide of icy clarity.
Someone had sold her out. The dirty cop?
Who else?
“This is only a taste of what happens to disobedient girls,” Ivan said over her. His hips pushed into her backside, pinning her to the stove’s edge. He’d shifted her away from the burner, but only just barely. She flinched as her elbow came down hard beside it, her skin warming alarmingly fast.
Before the Witches Page 3