Five years later, when Streinikov had attained power in the city, he sent his crew after the men who had cut him. They were never seen again.
Bonnie put down the phone and rubbed her forehead. She was thinking of all the Long Fong Boyz who’d been turning up dead—some killed by the Italians, but others supposedly offed by another faction. And one gangbanger in particular, the one Brad had told her about last night, the kid who’d been melon-balled. It seemed like the kind of thing Anton Streinikov would do.
It seemed this guy really was serious about what had gone down in the warehouse. And now he’d turned his sights on her. It was almost enough to make a girl lose her appetite.
The waitress, Lizbeth, drifted by with a pot of coffee. Bonnie and Lizbeth used to be pretty friendly with each other, but nowadays Lizbeth just served the food and poured the coffee without saying much. Bonnie had the idea that Lizbeth was scared of her. That wouldn’t make her much different from a lot of folks in this town. No one knew what she did on the side, but there were rumors. Hardly anyone would be sorry if she closed up shop and relocated to another part of the country. Or just disappeared altogether, a missing person who was never found. Which, she reflected, was becoming a distinct possibility.
A low squawk of radio crosstalk drew her gaze to the counter. Seated on one of the stools was Dan Maguire, police chief of Brighton Cove and unofficial president of the No Bonnies Club. His feelings about her were roughly equivalent to most people’s feelings about the Ebola virus.
Dan had probably spotted her as soon as he walked in, but he’d made no move to approach her table. He just sat at the counter looking over the dog-eared menu, even though he always ordered the same exact thing, a bacon double cheeseburger. Lizbeth had told her so, back when they were on speaking terms.
Bonnie went back to her lobster roll and her e-book. Though Streinikov had gotten his first break in nightclubs, the real money had come later, in the only part of the Russian economy that was worth a plugged ruble—natural resources. Oil and gas, mostly. By methods unknown, but undoubtedly involving the judicious application of force, he had acquired significant holdings in Ukrainian refineries and pipelines. In the US, he was said to run a variety of fuel bootlegging and gasoline fraud schemes, the simplest of which involved buying tax-free diesel fuel slated exclusively for off-road purposes and then selling it to no-name gas stations at the full wholesale price—taxes and all. Since no taxes had actually been paid, the supplier pocketed an illicit profit on every sale. If anyone found out about the ruse, the supplier’s front company would fold up, and the schmuck who ran the gas station would be left holding the bag.
She raised her head, glimpsing the outline of an idea. She was still musing on it when Sammy interrupted, singing his Beatles tune. Funny how he never got tired of that one.
The phone’s display screen showed the number of Joy Krauss’s burner. Right away Bonnie knew this wasn’t going to be good news.
“Hey, Joy,” she said, keeping her voice low because Dan was only a few yards away.
“It’s not working my God they know I did it they know they know!”
Rush of words, no pause for breath. The lady was flipping out.
Bonnie turned in her seat, away from the counter where Dan was observing her without trying to be too obvious about it. “Joy. Listen to me. Just keep it together.”
“Keep it together? They know! It’s all coming apart into a million pieces and you tell me to keep it together?”
“How exactly is it coming apart? Talk to me.”
“It’s no use pretending. I’ll have to confess. It’s the only way. I’ll have to tell them everything.”
Holy fuckamoley, she was planning to squeal.
“You haven’t said anything yet, right?” Bonnie asked slowly.
“No, but I’ll have to, I’ll have to—”
“Joy.” Bonnie put some ice in her voice. “Calm the fuck down. You’re getting fuckin’ hysterical, and that’s not good.”
The woman hitched in a breath but said nothing.
Clearly she was losing her shit. Bonnie had to tread cautiously or risk having Joy hang up on her. And if Joy hung up in the state she was in, her next call would be to the cops for sure.
“Okay,” Bonnie said more gently. “Now go slow and explain to me exactly what’s got you so worked up. What is it that they know?”
“About you,” Joy breathed. “They know about you.”
In Bonnie’s gut, the lobster roll was suddenly threatening to make a comeback. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was home. The doorbell rang. It was a cop. A different one. Not from Maritime. From Brighton Cove.”
Oh, shit. “Yeah?”
“His name was Maguire. He’s the chief of police there. Well, you must know him. Dave, I think. Dave Maguire.”
“Dan,” Bonnie said softly. She let her gaze swivel toward the counter, where Dan Maguire was still watching her, quite openly now. His small glittery eyes were bright with hunger. Rodent eyes. He was a rat, and he was looking at her like she was a prize chunk of cheese.
“He invites himself in,” Joy was saying, “and right out of the blue he says, ‘I know you hired Bonnie Parker.’”
Bonnie shut her eyes, wondering how the hell Dan could have tumbled to that. He wasn’t exactly Sherlock Holmes. He wasn’t even Dr. Watson.
“What did you tell him?” she asked hopelessly.
“I acted like I’d never heard of you. Like I didn’t know what he was talking about. But he didn’t believe it. He knows.”
“He doesn’t know. He suspects. Did he say why he’d even mentioned me?”
“He said he had a source in town who told him Gil was making inquiries about you. So the way he figures it, Gil found out I hired you and started asking questions about your reputation to find out what I was up to.”
“Okay. I get it.” Dan wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, after all. He’d made the connection, but he’d gotten it backward. Gil had been asking about her before Joy had hired her. There weren’t many locals with the right kind of reputation for the job Gil had in mind.
Even so, Dan had put Joy Krauss and Bonnie Parker together, a linkage that would not be good for either of them.
Sammy chimed with a text message from Gura, his signal for her to get moving. He and Clarissa must be heading down to the dining room for lunch.
She wished it was still legal to smoke in restaurants. She could have used a cig right now.
“Bonnie? You there?”
“I’m here. Where are you now?”
“At home.”
“Okay. I want you to stay there for a while, drink some tea, think good thoughts. Then at one o’clock, meet me in the public library in Garrett.”
One o’clock should be late enough to give her time to deal with the hotel thing.
“The library?”
“Yeah. Go into the stacks and make like you’re browsing. I’ll find you. Okay?”
“Yes. Okay.”
“And, Joy?” She kept using the woman’s name. It might help to center her. “Don’t talk to anybody or make any decisions until you’ve met with me. Got it?”
“Yes ...” She sounded unsure.
“We’ll work this out,” Bonnie said firmly. “It’s very doable. Believe me. I’ve got a plan in mind already.”
“What plan?”
“I’ll tell you at the library. Just hang tight. I’ll see you in two shakes.”
She ended the call. Two shakes? Had she actually said that? She really needed to work on her street cred.
She dropped some bills on the table to cover her tab, leaving the lobster roll half eaten. On her way out, she brushed past Dan at the counter.
“You look stressed, Parker,” he said with that same shit-eating smirk. “Bad day?”
“Not until you showed up. You got a way of bringing me down.”
“That is exactly what I’m going to do, Parker. I am going to bring ... you ... down.”
&nb
sp; She didn’t have a good answer for that. She left him with his bacon double cheeseburger and his ugly grin.
As she slipped into the Jeep, she assessed the situation. As she’d told Joy, Dan didn’t actually know anything. All he had was a rumor about Gil and a connection that could never be proved.
With proper management, the situation was probably salvageable. But it all depended on her client’s emotional balance. If Joy was too far gone to cooperate, then she was a human hand grenade with the pin pulled, and it was only a matter of time till she blasted herself and Bonnie straight into the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility, the women’s prison in Hunterdon County, where orange really was the new black.
Bonnie had no intention of doing time because a client wigged out on her. She would do her utmost to make Joy get with the program.
And if that proved to be impossible ...
She didn’t like to think about that. It was a step she’d never taken, a step she never wanted to take.
But there was a way to keep Joy quiet. A foolproof way.
If it came to that.
11
Gura’s text message had consisted of just three digits: 317. It wasn’t code. It was the number of Clarissa Lynch’s room in the Prince Edward Hotel.
Bonnie arrived at the hotel about five minutes after leaving the diner. She spent the time worrying about what she might find and what she would do about it. She didn’t want to confirm Clarissa Lynch as an operative if she could avoid it. Of course, even if she did find something, she could always lie. But she didn’t think it would work. Gura was too sharp. He’d read her body language well enough to know about the gun under her desk. If she tried shining him on about Clarissa, he would know.
As she parked on a side street, she remembered Gura’s voice saying, I have you in a trap, poppet.
What the hell was a poppet, anyway? She took a second to Google it on her phone. The definition was “small child.” So that was how he saw her. Swell.
She was pissed off as she strode through the hotel lobby, her handbag swinging from her shoulder. She’d thrown on a winter coat salvaged from the mess of stuff occupying the rear compartment of the Jeep. The coat was warmer than the jacket she’d been wearing, and it served better at concealing the shirt she’d put on at Brad’s. The shirt’s message about trading blowjobs for booze was the kind of sentiment that might raise a few eyebrows in the Prince Edward.
She wasn’t sure who the actual Prince Edward was. The guy they said was Jack the Ripper? Or maybe the one who abdicated so he could marry that chick with a dude’s name—Wallace Shawn or whoever? Really, she had no clue. One of the disadvantages of dropping out of school at fourteen was that your Trivial Pursuit abilities were severely impaired.
The hotel was dimly lit but extravagantly decorated, like an upscale whorehouse. Red predominated. Red pile carpet, red velvet draperies, red uniforms on the bellhops. Lots of red. In season the place would be sold out, but in late February it was largely empty even on a weekend.
She knew the layout. The hotel restaurant, which went by the name of the Mute Swan, was to her left. Near the entrance, the menu was displayed on a table. It offered a bunch of stuff she barely recognized as food—truffles, tripe, sweetbreads, and a selection of mystery items categorized as amuse-bouches. No cheeseburgers or corndogs. Definitely not her kind of place.
She lifted her eyes from the menu to scan the half-empty dining room. Gura, with his blood red scarf, was easy to spot. He and a blonde companion were sharing a table and a drink. The blonde was the woman from Facebook, no question. Clarissa Lynch in the flesh.
By the doorway stood a big potted schefflera. Bonnie pretended to drop something, giving her an excuse to bend down and clip a camera the size of a cigarette pack to the pot. No one would notice it among the leaves. The camera, taken from a drawer in her office desk, ran on a CR2 battery. It had a 75-degree viewing angle, wide enough to take in the entire dining room through the doorway.
With a cell phone app she connected the camera to the hotel Wi-Fi. The video feed was now being uploaded to the web in real time.
She wasn’t real big on surprises. If lunch ended early, she needed to know about it before Clarissa opened the door of room 317 and found a stranger pawing through her stuff.
On her way to the elevator she checked the video on her phone. Gura and Clarissa were roughly centered in the frame. She was about to put the phone back in her pocket when Clarissa stood up and walked away from the table.
Leaving already? What the hell?
Bonnie doubled back in time to see the girl disappear into the ladies’ room. Not really leaving, just making a pit stop.
It seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up. Bonnie followed her into the restroom and busied herself at one of the sinks, pretending to fool with her hair. There wasn’t really a whole lot she could do with her hair, which was straight and blonde and shoulder length, but she did her best to look busy until Clarissa emerged from a stall and washed her hands in the adjacent sink.
Stealing sideways glances, Bonnie checked her out. She was younger than expected, probably not more than twenty-five. Good looking in a hard-edged, slightly anorexic sort of way. Tall, ash blonde, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline. She had kind of a Taylor Swift thing going on. When Gura had said she seemed too good to be true, he hadn’t been kidding. In person she looked way hotter than the blurry selfies on her Facebook page.
“Nice hotel,” Bonnie said as she turned on the water and pumped liquid soap into her hands.
“Yes.” Clarissa didn’t look at her. “Very.”
“Been here before?”
“First time.”
“Staying long?”
“Overnight.”
Okay, not exactly a great conversationalist. Or at least, not really into having a dialogue with a stranger in a bathroom. Bonnie respected that. She wasn’t big on casual chatter herself. But it annoyed her that she couldn’t get a read on the girl.
Clarissa was still soaping up when her wristwatch slipped a bit, momentarily revealing a white stripe of wrist marred by three purple punctures. Needle marks. Hastily she snugged the watch back into place.
So she was a user. She used a vein in her wrist to shoot up, and the watch, with its wide chain-link band, served as concealment. Interesting. It spoke of a vulnerability—weakness, even—that was rare for someone playing the kind of game Clarissa Lynch played.
Bonnie dried her hands on a cloth towel, then turned to Clarissa and said with a smile, “I’m Bonnie, by the way.”
A moment’s hesitation “Clarissa.”
Her technique could be better. The hesitation made it a little too obvious that she was using an alias.
“Unusual name,” Bonnie said. “I like it.”
The woman turned to face her. “Did you want something?”
Her eyes were gray and cool and suspicious, and she wasn’t smiling.
“I’m just a Chatty Cathy,” Bonnie said. “Sorry if I came off like a pain in the ass.”
She left without saying anything more. As she shut the door, she felt Clarissa’s cold stare on her back.
Not the most revealing encounter, but at least she’d learned a few things about Clarissa Lynch. The girl was a hard case. She’d been around. She was an addict. And she didn’t belong in a place like the Prince Edward, any more than did Bonnie herself.
Now it was time to find out what she’d brought with her in her luggage.
The elevator delivered her to the third floor. She looked up and down a corridor lined with closed doors and dim lightbulbs in fancy sconces. The lightbulbs were shaped like candle flames, but they weren’t fooling anyone.
Room 317 was near the far end of the hall. Two doors down, a maid’s cart stood outside an open doorway. The snore of a vacuum cleaner came from within. Other than the maid, there was nobody around.
It was go time.
Happily, she had prior experience in breaking and entering at the Prince Edward.
Last year a worried wife had hired her to spy on her husband. Bonnie found that the hubby regularly checked into this hotel, unusual behavior considering he lived just two towns away. Even more damaging, he registered under an assumed name and paid cash. This was incriminating enough, but Bonnie wanted “ocular proof,” an expression she’d picked up somewhere and used whenever possible. She wanted to catch the philandering son of a bitch in flagrante delicto with his bimbo de jour.
Doing so required planting a camera in the room—the same camera she was using today. She’d cased the hotel, learned the make and model of the keycard locks, and presented this information to a hacker pal of Mama Blessing. Two days later Bonnie had paid him a hundred bucks for a dry erase marker.
But not just any dry erase marker. This one contained a gizmo called an Arduino microcontroller board and some other junk. When you inserted the tip of the marker into the DC power port in the door lock, the micro-thingamajig instantly read the lock’s 32-bit code and played it back, causing the lock to release.
Bonnie did not pretend to understand the details. The hacker guy could just as easily have told her that the dry erase marker housed a colony of army ants who’d been specially trained to march into the lock and disable it. As far as she was concerned, the thing was magic. That was okay. She could use a little more magic in her life.
And the ruse had worked. She’d planted the camera without breaking a sweat, and a few days later, wifey was suing for divorce.
She rechecked the video feed. Gura and his lady fair were giving their orders to a waiter. She hoped the service was slow.
At the door, she plucked the marker from her purse and jammed the tip into the socket. In less time than it took her to blink, she heard the satisfying click of the latch. She slipped inside and shut the door behind her.
Okay, she was in. Now she had to toss the room without making it obvious, and she had to do it fast. For all she knew, Clarissa was one of those bitches who would be satisfied with a stick of celery for lunch.
Bad to the Bone (Bonnie Parker, PI Book 3) Page 7