“Questions I can’t answer.”
“Yes, you can. If they ask why you assumed it was foul play, say Gil was receiving threats that had him spooked.”
“Threats from who?”
“You don’t know. He wouldn’t say. He kept it to himself.”
“Why would somebody threaten Gil?”
“Let the police worry about that. Gil sold gasoline at his station. There’s a lot of organized crime activity in the oil and gas business. Maybe somebody was trying to make him pay for protection, or trying to force him to sell out or use a different supplier. It doesn’t matter, because you don’t know. He never shared his concerns with you. All you know is that somebody was giving him shit, and he was nervous. And that’s why you assumed foul play.”
“But they already asked me about what I said, and I didn’t tell them about any threats.”
“Because you were scared. Gil made you swear never to talk about it with anybody. He was trying to shield you. Got it?”
“As if Gil gave a damn about me.”
“The cops don’t need to know that. As far as they’re concerned, you had a happy marriage and Gil was looking out for your best interests.”
“I understand.”
“You can hold it together, can’t you?”
“I—I think so.”
“Say it with more confidence. Say: I can handle this.”
“I can handle this,” she said shakily.
“Again.”
The second time her voice was stronger. “I can handle this.”
“Bravo—or brava, I guess. That’s what you say for women, right?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Bonnie didn’t know, either. Vaguely she thought it was something people yelled at the opera. Her total exposure to opera was limited to Bugs Bunny cartoons.
“You’re doing great, Joy. One little slip-up isn’t the end of the world. You’ll be fine. I wish all my clients were as dependable as you.”
This was a blatant lie, but she was past the point of telling the truth to Joy Krauss. What was needed was reassurance and an ego boost.
She ended the call, smoked her first cigarette of the day, and worried.
6
Joy’s call had made her jumpy, and maybe that was why she noticed the black Mercedes.
It was an E-class sedan, late model, with Jersey plates, and it was parked on the side street just south of the building that housed her office. It interested her, and it bothered her, because she’d never seen it before.
She’d taken a shower at Brad’s and changed into some spare clothes she kept there. Her selection was limited. The shirt she’d ended up with was more of a warm weather item, one that showed a lot of boobage. In large letters it asked the timeless question: Who do I gotta blow to get a drink around here? She put on a fall jacket that ought to be warm enough, and of course a new hat. She was a big believer in hats. This one was a black wool cloche, which gave her kind of a 1920s look, she thought. Not that she actually knew anything about the 1920s. Well, she had watched an episode of Boardwalk Empire once.
After grabbing a hard-boiled egg and some coffee that was still in the carafe, she’d left Brad’s place and driven straight to her office. She kept Saturday hours when she felt like it. Habitual caution kept her alert as she approached her building, and that was why she noticed the Mercedes.
She circled the block and drove past the vehicle again, sidling alongside the mystery car to look inside. Tinted windows were illegal in Jersey, which meant she could see into the passenger compartment without difficulty. The sedan was unoccupied.
She parked in her building’s lot, as usual. Before getting out, she studied the rearview and side view mirrors. She didn’t see anyone lying in wait. Then again, if they were any good, she wouldn’t see them.
From the glove box she removed a Walther .32 to replace the gun she’d ditched in the inlet last night. Unlike the murder gun, the Walther was nice and legal, the kind of thing the police couldn’t charge her for if they found it on her person. It fit snugly in her handbag’s special compartment.
She left the Jeep, keeping one hand on the clasp of her purse. No shots were fired at her, but she kept her guard up as she walked around to the building’s front door. Yeah, she was paranoid, but on the other hand, she was also still alive, and the two facts were not unrelated.
Nobody was loitering by the door, which was still locked and showed no sign of tampering. But as she opened up, she saw a ripple of movement reflected in the window to her left. Somebody was across the street, moving from the doorway of a flower shop to the storefront of a deli next door. His back was to her, but he could have been watching her reflection just as she was watching his.
Stout, wide-shouldered guy. Tan overcoat. Briefcase.
Leaving the front door unlocked, she climbed the stairs to the second floor. She didn’t open up her office until she’d checked the lock. The guy on the street might have nothing to do with anything. Somebody could already be inside the premises, hoping to catch her unaware.
Okay, so she was super paranoid. But she’d learned to trust herself about stuff like this. That Mercedes gave off a bad vibe, maybe because it reminded her of the vehicle Jacob Hart had been driving on the night when he’d tried to gun her down.
She got the door open and entered fast, her hand still on the Walther, ready to fire through the purse if necessary.
The anteroom and the office of Last Resort were empty of life, other than herself and a buzzing housefly who’d been her unwanted companion for the past three days. She’d tried killing the damn thing, but it was smart and resourceful, not unlike herself. Eventually she’d developed a grudging respect for the tenacious little bastard.
She peered out the office window. This vantage point offered only a partial view of the street, and she couldn’t see if the man in the raincoat was still window-shopping.
From below came a squeal of hinges—the door to the street, opening. Then a slow, heavy tread on the wooden stairs.
She seated herself behind the desk, leaving the purse within reach. Also within reach was a Smith .45 duct taped to the side panel of the desk’s knee hole. A little insurance for emergencies. The gun was loaded and the safety was off.
The visitor reached the top step, identifiable by its telltale creak, and hesitated, orienting himself. Then, not at all to her surprise, he moved in the direction of her office.
The door to the hallway was closed, and unlike the doors of detective agencies in old movies, it wasn’t made of frosted glass. She wouldn’t see him until he opened it. She got ready to duck and cover. The desk, a garage sale find, was sturdy enough to stop most ammo, and she could fire back with the .45 before he had time to retreat.
If it came to that.
The door opened. The man in the tan overcoat stood there. It would have been more dramatic if he’d been in silhouette, but in fact he was lit by sunbeams slanting through the window at her back. He blinked in the glare.
The briefcase was still in one hand. The other hand was empty and hung relaxed at his side.
“You are Parker?”
His voice was gruff, with a strong Slavic accent.
“Who wants to know?” she asked, just to be a dick.
He moved through the anteroom into her office. She kept her eyes on his hands.
“I am Pavel Gura. I am faced with something of a delicate situation.”
This was unexpected. Nothing about Pavel Gura struck Bonnie as delicate. He was medium-sized and very hairy. Squat build, long arms. Like an orangutan.
“Okay, Pavel.” She leaned back, but not so far back that she couldn’t grab the concealed .45 if she had to. “Take a seat.”
He glanced around. His nose wrinkled, and she guessed he was picking up the mildewy odor of her sofa, another item rescued from a yard sale years ago. She really ought to think about replacing it.
After a moment of indecision he shrugged off the coat and settled into one of two ra
tty armchairs, the one positioned in front of a tacked-up poster of the original Bonnie Parker, posing on the grille of a roadster, a stogie in her mouth, a gun in her hand.
She took a closer look at Pavel Gura. He had a sallow face and graying hair, and he wore a gray suit. Nothing about him was the least bit colorful except the blood red scarf tied around his neck and, at his waist, a gold belt buckle with an elaborate embossed pattern.
“You were waiting for me to open up,” she said.
“So you noticed? Most people would not.” He cracked a knuckle. It popped like a firecracker. “I saw that you circled the block twice. You are cautious. I like this.”
“I’m paranoid.”
“It is not such a bad thing, paranoia. It can save your life.”
“You know, I was thinking that exact same thing right before you showed up. You enjoy chitchat, Pavel?”
“Not much.”
“Me neither.” She lit up a Parliament White, not asking permission. Her office, her rules. “So how about we cut to the chase?”
“Very good.” He cracked another knuckle. “For the past month I have been seeing a girl.”
She glanced at his left hand. No ring.
He caught the flicker of her eyes. “I am not married. Nor is she, so far as I know. I met her a month ago, in Atlantic City. We began a conversation at a bar in the Tropicana. She is beautiful, intelligent, lively. About half my age.”
Bonnie judged him to be in his late forties. “Okay.”
“Her name”—crack—“is Clarissa Lynch. Blonde and trim. In bed she is exceptionally nubile and, how you say, uninhibited.”
“Sounds magical.”
Gura regarded her coolly. “You make a joke, but I am not laughing. We see each other whenever I get to that part of New Jersey. It is all good at first. But then I start to think maybe ... maybe it is too good. I begin to be”—crack—“suspicious of this girl.”
“Suspicious?”
“I began to think she is too good to be true.”
“Aww. Sounds kinda sweet.”
“Do you take this seriously or not?”
“Sorry.”
“I was divorced a few years ago. I have not played around much since. I could be seen as a, shall we say, soft target.”
Soft. Another word she wouldn’t associate with him. “Is there any reason somebody might want to set you up?”
“Nothing specific. But I work in a field where one cannot take chances.”
“What field?”
“I prefer not to say.”
“Gotta give me something.”
He cracked two more knuckles in quick succession. “Personal security.”
“Sorta like me.”
“Very much like you,” he said with a slow smile.
That smile annoyed her. “Okay, Rasputin. Quit being coy and tell me what you do for a living.”
“I work for a business organization based in Ukraine, with branch offices in the USA. An organization that keeps a low profile and prefers not to be named. Need I say more?”
“No, I don’t think so.” The guy was Russian mob. Terrific.
“My employer is an unforgiving man,” Gura said with another knuckle crack. “Should he discover that I have been on intimate terms with an agent of a rival faction, he would be ... displeased.”
Bonnie took a slow drag on her cig. “Why? What could this chippy do to you? You’re not married. There’s no blackmail angle.”
“I am thinking there are other angles. Perhaps she wishes to get close to me in the hope that I will spill my secrets. Perhaps she wishes to track my movements or access my computer or mobile phone. Perhaps she merely wishes to establish a relationship and use it to discredit me in my employer’s eyes.”
“Or perhaps”—she was picking up his diction without meaning to—“she’s just a good-time girl who goes in for older men.”
“You do not have to sound so flip.”
“I’m always flip. It’s part of my charm.”
“What you say of her could have been true. But I could not go on faith. Do you see this ring?”
The change of topic took her by surprise. He showed her a small ring on the middle finger of his left hand.
“What about it?”
“It is called the Roundstone. A small circle with a dot on the inside. You see?”
“So?”
“It is symbolic. Trust no one—this is the meaning. All my life I have worn it, and it is always there to remind me.” He turned his gaze on her. “Perhaps you should wear one, Bonnie Parker.”
“I don’t need any reminders.”
He chuckled appreciatively. “A good answer. So because I trust no one, I look into this woman, this Clarissa Lynch.”
He hefted the briefcase onto his lap, unsnapped the latches, and withdrew a manila folder. He tossed it onto her desk.
“Here is what I found.”
Bonnie opened the folder and spent a long time studying its contents while Pavel Gura watched without comment. Occasionally he cracked another knuckle. That was all.
When she was done, she raised her head.
“Okay,” she said simply.
“You see it, yes?”
“I see it.” She flipped through printouts of online searches. “There’s no Clarissa Lynch in any New Jersey database. There is a Clarissa Lynch on Facebook, but the page was created a month ago, and the photos are mostly selfies. Her Facebook friends—there aren’t many—have pages that are equally new. The posts are all generic bullshit. In other words, Clarissa Lynch is a cypher.”
“Very good,” he said, nodding.
“She supposedly runs her own consulting business in Ventnor, but the WhoIs database lists her website’s mailing address as a PO Box in Teaneck. That’s at least a hundred miles north of Ventnor. Teaneck is where she really lives. Her car is what gives it away.”
“You are quick, Parker.”
“It’s obvious. You ran her tag number and got her vehicle history. It shows smog checks conducted every two years at an auto shop in Teaneck. Did you call them?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It’s what I’d do.”
“Yes, I called. I concocted a story about Clarissa Lynch wishing to sell me her car.”
“Lemme guess. They never heard of her.”
“Correct. They knew no one of that name. But they did know the car.”
“Did they tell you the owner’s actual name?”
“This they would not divulge. They became suspicious, and I ended the call.”
Bonnie tapped the folder with a fingernail. “How would she know you’d be at the Tropicana the night you met?”
“I always stay there.”
“You go to AC a lot?”
“Very often.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure. I win at blackjack. Unlike most casino games, blackjack requires and rewards skill.”
“How sure are you that she’s dirty?”
“Let us say, eighty percent. There is always the possibility of an innocent explanation.”
“Yeah, miracles do happen. Have you told your boss about this?”
“No. If it is known that I have been targeted in this way, I may become a liability. My employer does not tolerate liabilities.”
He punctuated the statement with another knuckle crack, his loudest yet.
“All righty.” Bonnie was nearly done with the cigarette, and already wishing for another. “So you’ve come to me. Somebody outside your, uh, business organization.”
“That is right.”
“And I’m guessing you want me to do a little more online digging into your sweetheart.”
“That is unnecessary. I have dug deep enough.”
She felt a little frisson of apprehension. “If you don’t want me to run a background check on her, what do you want?”
“I have invited the maiden to spend this weekend with me—here, in this charming town. I booked her room at your Pr
ince Edward Hotel. She will be here later today.”
“Okay ...”
“While I dine with her this afternoon, I want you to enter her room and go through her things. Perhaps you can learn her true identity. At the very least, you can learn if she is a professional setting me up.”
“Then I report back to you?”
“Yes.”
“And depending on what I find, you take care of things?”
“That is right.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.”
Gura seemed unperturbed by her refusal. He resumed cracking his knuckles with methodical regularity “And why not?”
“Because if I confirm that your lady friend is a spy, or a plant, or whatever the hell she is, I have a feeling you’ll take it out on her in a really bad way.”
“This would trouble you?” He lifted an eyebrow.
“I’d rather not be responsible for a young lady getting whacked, even if she is doing a number on you. Which we don’t know yet, by the way. Not beyond any reasonable doubt.”
“This is not a courtroom, Parker.”
“Yeah, but you and me aren’t judge, jury, and executioner either.”
“Aren’t we?” His shrewd gaze was unsettling. “I know about you, poppet. I know all about you.”
“What’s there to know?” she said as casually as possible. “I’m just a small time PI trying to pay the bills.”
“A small time PI, yes. And also an assassin.”
He really should have cracked a knuckle after that last remark. Would’ve been the perfect time for it. In terms of dramatic effect, it was a missed opportunity.
She sat back slowly in her chair. “Come again?”
“You are an assassin, Parker. There is no use pretending otherwise.”
There were clients she would trust with that information. Pavel Gura wasn’t one of them. She had absolutely no interest in going into business with Russian organized crime.
“Look,” she said with a wave of her hand, “I don’t know where you got your information, but you’re way off base—”
Bad to the Bone (Bonnie Parker, PI Book 3) Page 4