The girl traveled light—only one suitcase. It lay on a folding table. The toy-sized padlock was no match for Bonnie’s collection of lockpicks. She got the case open in seconds, transferred it to the bed, and began removing the contents, laying them in separate piles corresponding to the items’ original position. Everything would have to be repacked exactly the way it had been.
Blouses, sweaters, slippers, sexy lingerie. No hats, though. Bonnie could not entirely trust a girl who didn’t like hats.
Toiletries, birth control, a paperback novel. Nothing suspicious. So far Clarissa was clean as a whistle. And what exactly was so clean about a whistle, anyway?
The thing was, Clarissa could have anticipated that Gura or one of his henchmen would search her luggage. If she was carrying anything she didn’t want them to know about, it was probably hidden.
Bonnie ran her hands over the bottom and sides of the suitcase. Something could have been sewn into the lining.
She didn’t feel any items in the lower part of the case. But when she checked the lid, her fingers found a long flat shape—something that extended along the entire perimeter of the case.
“Yahtzee,” she said.
She glanced at Sammy again. Gura and Clarissa were already receiving their lunch order, or at least the first course. The food had come fast. Too bad.
With a pocket flashlight she examined the lining until she found a slit. Reaching in, she extracted the mystery object.
It was a belt. A wide black leather belt, with a large gold-plated buckle that bore an embossed design she’d seen just this morning, at her meeting with Gura.
Now, why would Clarissa, or whatever her real name was, be carrying a belt that was an exact duplicate of her boyfriend’s? Only one reason: she intended to make a switch.
Sometime tonight, while Gura slept, Clarissa would replace his belt with this one, counting on him not to notice any difference.
Fair enough, but what was so special about this belt? Bonnie took a close look at the buckle. It was in two pieces, held together with tiny screws on the underside. Luckily she had a tool in her pick set that could serve as a tiny screwdriver. She used it to take the buckle apart.
Inside was a very flat, incredibly lightweight gizmo that she identified immediately as a GPS tracker, the kind that ran on a battery and recorded data for later retrieval. She was familiar with the tech, but she’d never come across one this small before. She was tempted to purloin it. It could come in handy.
She did not purloin it. Instead she switched Sammy to camera mode and took several pics of the tracker nesting in the buckle.
Anything else in the lining? Yeah, two smaller items. She teased them out. A capped syringe and a vial labeled with a chemical formula: C21H28N2O5. Probably a sedative, Rohypnol or something like that. Or—she remembered the needle marks on the girl’s wrist—maybe it was some kind of dope for Clarissa herself.
She took pics of those items too. Now she had Clarissa dead to rights. Emphasis on dead.
Though she wasn’t sure what the chemical was for, the basic plan was clear enough. The woman was a pro, and she was planning to switch out Gura’s belt while he slept. Once he was outfitted with the tracker, she could download the data on his movements the next time they got together. What she wanted with that info, Bonnie had no idea, but somebody was paying her for it.
“Fuck,” she whispered, with feeling.
She switched the phone from camera mode to the video feed and checked out the restaurant again.
Uh-oh.
Clarissa was on her feet. Gura sat rigid in his chair. Harsh words were being exchanged. The camera lacked audio, but the images spoke for themselves.
Lovers’ quarrel. At the worst possible time.
Other patrons were looking. It must be quite a scene.
As Bonnie watched, Clarissa straightened her shoulders and harrumphed out of the restaurant.
Returning to her room, probably.
And the belt buckle was still disassembled, the contents of the suitcase distributed on the bed.
Bonnie stuffed the syringe and vial back inside the lining, then started to reattach the underside of the buckle, cursing the microscopic screws. Suddenly the tool she was using didn’t seem to be grabbing the notches in the screwheads the way it had before. She kept throwing glances at the phone, hoping to see Clarissa reappear in the restaurant. No such luck.
Goddamned Gura could at least have texted her with a warning. He didn’t know about the surveillance camera. Did the son of a bitch want her to get caught?
Finally she got Humpty Dumpty together again. Sliding the belt under the lining was another challenge. She threaded it through the slit and pushed it around until it was back in place.
Still no Clarissa. Maybe she’d gone for a walk. The beach was just across the street. Or ...
Rattle of the doorknob.
Bonnie turned as the door swung open. There was no way she could justify her presence in the room. And Clarissa was a pro, might be armed. She tensed for a fight.
Then the door finished opening, and Bonnie saw a maid standing there with a stack of bath towels in her hands.
“Hola,” the maid said with a smile.
Damn. She really should have hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the door.
“I bring towels,” the maid added.
“What’s that?”
“Plenty towels. You call for towels.”
“Towels. Right. Thanks.”
The maid went into the bathroom.
“I’m unpacking,” Bonnie added unnecessarily.
No answer from the maid, who was already arranging the extra towels on a ledge over the sink.
Bonnie started replacing the items from the suitcase, working in reverse order from their removal. She was nearly done when she became aware that the maid, finished in the bathroom, was lingering by the door.
Oh, right. A tip.
She dug a bill out of her purse without bothering to check the denomination. “Thanks.”
The maid beamed. The bill must have been a big one. “Gracias.”
“Yeah, uh, hasta lumbago.”
The door closed, and Bonnie was alone in the room. Clarissa still hadn’t showed up, a minor miracle. But she didn’t trust her luck to last.
She shut the lid, secured the padlock, and returned the suitcase to the folding table.
When she eased open the door, she was sickly certain she would come face to face with Clarissa Lynch, waiting outside.
The corridor was empty. No Clarissa.
Bonnie found the stairwell and headed down. She didn’t want to run into Clarissa getting on or off the elevator. After their tête-à-tête in the restroom, her presence on this floor might require an explanation she wasn’t prepared to offer.
She retrieved the camera from the schefflera pot. Gura was eating his lunch in solitude. He appeared tranquil and composed. He still hadn’t texted her. Maybe he’d known all along that Clarissa wouldn’t go straight to her room. Or maybe he hadn’t cared if Clarissa walked in and took her by surprise.
One way or the other, they were going to have a conversation about this.
Not here, though. Not in a public place. She didn’t want anyone connecting her with Gura.
Her reputation in this town was crappy enough as it was.
12
She found her Jeep on the side street where she’d left it. From the driver’s seat she sent Gura a text, telling him to finish his chow and meet her at the southwest corner of Atlantic and First.
With time to kill, she Googled the chemical formula of the stuff she’d found. It turned out to be doxylamine succinate, and yeah, it was a sedative. Pretty powerful, too. From what she read, that shit would put you to sleep faster than a Jane Austen movie.
She didn’t see how it could be administered without Gura’s knowledge, though. It had to be injected directly into a vein to take effect quickly. Maybe it was a last resort. Or maybe Gura was a user, and Clarissa figured she co
uld trick him into injecting himself.
Bonnie doubted it. Gura didn’t seem like the type.
She waited. She smoked a cigarette. She played Angry Birds on her phone. She wasn’t too good at that game, which surprised her, because she was real good at being angry.
She was angry right now. And she intended to let Gura know it.
Twenty minutes after sending the text, she saw Gura in her side view mirror, approaching slowly, the red scarf flapping like a flag. She didn’t bother to signal him. Having watched her building this morning, he would recognize the Jeep.
The passenger door opened, and he settled heavily into the seat next to her.
“Well?” he said curtly.
“We’ll get to my homework assignment in a minute. First I want to know why you didn’t give me a heads-up when Ms. Lynch left the restaurant.”
He shrugged. “I assumed you were foresighted enough to monitor our activity in some fashion.”
“That was a hell of an assumption.”
“But an accurate one, poppet.”
“I could’ve been caught red-handed. Maybe that’s what you want.”
“Why should I want this?”
“Fuck if I know. But you’re starting to piss me off in a serious way. And incidentally, why the hell would that bitch need extra towels?”
“Towels?”
“Yeah, towels. She called down for ’em, I guess. A maid brought them when I was in the middle of repacking your girlfriend’s unmentionables. What does she want with extra towels? She got, like, a towel fetish or some goddamn thing?”
Gura shrugged. “I do not know. Perhaps she anticipates that we will do something exceptionally dirty tonight.”
“Oh, yuck. That’s a mental picture I didn’t need to see.”
“Calm yourself, poppet.”
“Quit calling me that. I don’t like it.”
“It is a term of endearment.”
She blew a jet of smoke at him. “Yeah, right.”
He smiled. “I too have a nickname. It was given to me by Streinikov when I entered his employment. Like you, I did not care for it. Not at first.” He took out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one into his hand. “I am called the domovyk.”
“If that means asshole, it fits.”
“It does not mean asshole.” Placidly he lit the cigarette. With the two of them smoking and the windows rolled up, the atmosphere was going to get pretty hazy, but right now Bonnie didn’t care. “A domovyk is a creature of Slavic folklore. An odd, hairy, disgusting creature, more beast than man.”
Privately she considered that name to be extremely appropriate. At least, she thought her opinion was private until he gave her a sidelong glance and said, “I see you approve.”
Shit. There he went again, reading her mind.
“Whatever you may think,” he went on imperturbably, “the name was not bestowed on me for my physical attributes. It was in recognition of my dutiful service. A domovyk is a protector of the household, a lackey who carries out all manner of useful chores. I was Streinikov’s domovyk. His right-hand man, you may say.”
“That’s a beautiful story, Pavel. I’m guessing your useful chores included whacking people and making their bodies go bye-bye?”
“A good domovyk does what he is told. You could not be a domovyk, poppet. You are too headstrong, I think. Too contrary. And you are too much alone.”
“Yeah, I got a real attitude problem. Just like your girlfriend, judging from what went down in the restaurant.”
“It was a minor quarrel, nothing serious.”
“It could have been serious for me.”
“Could have been, but was not. Now tell me the results of your search.”
“You’re awfully friggin’ cavalier about my safety.”
He turned in his seat, facing her directly for the first time. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were alive with rage.
“That is because I do not give a fuck about you, Bonnie Parker. I do not give two shits about your worthless life. You mean”—he spat into his hand—“this to me. Is this clear?”
She didn’t answer. Those eyes held her speechless.
“Now I have had enough of your fucking bullshit. Tell me what you found.”
He turned away. She saw the rise and fall of his chest as he gulped a breath of air after his tirade. Other than that, he was immobile.
She knew better than to test him further. She could press her luck only so far. “Okay, Pavel. I’ll tell you. Your gal is a pro.”
“And you know this, how?”
“Because she brought a present for you. One you weren’t supposed to know about, even after you got it.”
“What present?”
“A new belt. An exact duplicate of that one.” She pointed at his waistline. “Same buckle with the same design, whatever it is.”
“It is the tryzub, the trident. The national emblem of Ukraine.”
“And you wear it all the time, I’m guessing. Well, Clarissa noticed.” She turned on her phone and showed him a photo of the disassembled buckle and the secret it held. “It’s a GPS tracker.”
“So I see.”
“She’s planning the old switcheroo.”
“Yes. Like implanting a chip in a dog. But this dog has fangs.”
And probably fleas, Bonnie commented silently. Then she wondered if Gura had picked up on that thought, too. Damn, the sly bastard really had her spooked.
He expelled another plume of smoke. “Did you find anything more?”
“A syringe and some heavy-duty sedative.” She showed him those snaps too. “Doxy-something-or-other.”
“Is that it?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Da. Quite enough.”
The interior of the Jeep was starting to resemble a fogbound London alley. Bonnie cranked down her window a few inches, letting in some of the cold.
She didn’t want to ask the next question, but she had to. “So what comes next?”
“I think you know.”
“You can’t just let her off with a warning? I mean, it’s obviously business, not personal.”
“In my profession, warnings are very seldom given.”
“Yeah. I kinda figured you’d say that.”
She asked herself if she could take him right here. They were on an empty side street, and the Jeep’s windows were closed, or almost closed. The Walther in her handbag wasn’t silenced, but the shot might not be heard, especially if she jammed the muzzle against his body to muffle the report.
It would require quickness. She’d have to grab the gun and fire before he could react. But maybe—
Then she saw him grinning at her, a hairy death’s head with orangutan teeth, and she knew it was hopeless. He could guess her thoughts almost before she knew them herself. Maybe he really was some kind of mystical creature, part monkey, part devil.
She took a last drag on her cig and crushed out the stub in the ashtray. “Okay, Pavel. I held up my end. We’re done here.”
He made no move to rise. “You have performed competently. But we are not done. There is one more small task you must carry out for me.”
“What task?”
“It is a little thing, really.” Gura smiled at her. “You must execute Miss Clarissa Lynch. And you must do it tonight.”
13
The words hung in the smoky air like some kind of evil incantation. Bonnie stared at the man beside her. Slowly she held up both hands.
“Whoa,” she said quietly. “Just ... whoa.”
Gura was unmoved. “This troubles you? I have already established that you are a killer, poppet. You will kill my Clarissa, as you killed Lazzaro and Chiu in the warehouse.”
“Now hold on—”
“You will do this,” he went on implacably, staring straight ahead, “or I will deliver you to Streinikov. What will happen to you after that does not bear thinking about.”
“Bullshit. You can’t hand me over to your boss. If you
do, I’ll spill the beans about you and Clarissa. I know the whole story now. That’d put you deep in the shit.”
“Yes, I have thought of this. But you see, if you do not cooperate, I will have no choice but to tell Streinikov about my indiscretion. In that event, I can only hope that producing you at the same time will mitigate his disappointment.”
“And when he finds out you offered to let me skate if I played along?”
“Come, now.” He steepled his hands. “Why would he believe such a desperate story?”
He had a point there. People in extremis would say pretty much anything to save themselves.
She took a different tack. “Why do you even need me? You’re a big boy. Do the girl yourself if she bothers you so much.”
“Impossible. I have been observed with her in Atlantic City and elsewhere. I booked the room for her in your town’s hotel. I will be the obvious suspect. I must have an unbreakable alibi.”
“Then get one of your mobbed-up Russkie pals to do it.”
“And share with them the fact that I allowed myself to be compromised—and by a woman? In my business, you give none of your associates such leverage.”
“And how can I trust you not to do me once I’ve offed Clarissa?”
“You cannot trust me, poppet. You cannot trust anyone.” He tapped the ring he called the Roundstone. “Remember?”
“Then why should I do it at all?”
“Because if you refuse, you go to Streinikov. Whereas, if you obey, you may get to live.”
“Or I may not.”
“Life can never be guaranteed. Only death can be promised with certainty. To be delivered to Streinikov is death.”
“Very persuasive. You got a big future in motivational speaking.”
She was about sixty percent sure—okay, seventy percent—that he did plan to kill her when the job was done. It would explain why he’d gone out of his way not to be seen with her. He’d visited her office first thing in the morning, and he’d made sure not to park in the lot or wait by the building where someone might notice him.
Odds were, he was hiring her as a patsy. She would take care of Clarissa, and then he would take care of her.
Bad to the Bone (Bonnie Parker, PI Book 3) Page 8