But then, she hadn’t met Anatoly.
EAST VILLAGE had a slightly higher percentage of commercial and residential burglaries than some of the other neighborhoods that made up San Diego. Many stuffers lived in this central region. So did Nikolai. Max wasn’t surprised Ms. Peris had been planted in the same area.
“We have reached Fifth Avenue. Which way do I turn?”
“Left. Go to the middle of the next block. You can drop me off in front of Jack’s Guitar and Drum Shop.”
This early in the morning there were still plenty of parking spaces left. Max pulled into the one nearest the store she’d referred to. He shut off the engine.
“You give lessons?”
“Oh, sure. My specialty is heavy metal.”
Sarcasm was one face of anger. She obviously didn’t like being questioned.
“Is Jack your current lover?”
“To my knowledge Jack died years ago.”
The seatbelt on her side snapped back in place with a loud zing. Pleased by that telling display of temper, he climbed out and went around to the other side to help her down.
He noticed she didn’t wear hose. With smooth, supple limbs tanned to a fine gold like the rest of her, she didn’t need them.
“Thank you for the ride, Anatoly. It was very nice of you to get up this early for me. But now I have a lot to do before my first client arrives.”
Client?
“I will see you safely inside. At this hour of the morning, you never know who could be lurking about.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll lock the door after me.”
Her mouth said one thing. Her eyes another. Someone in the mafia had done a superb job of coaching this woman.
“You saved my life yesterday. Perhaps I will have an opportunity to return the favor in some small way today, yes?”
Naturally she didn’t argue when he ushered her toward the entrance. Through the glass doors he could see the building was a split level with the drum shop and a women’s hair salon occupying either side of the upper level.
She unlocked the outer door and he followed her inside. Just when he’d decided she was posing as a beautician to provide a cover for her nefarious activities, he saw another set of stairs leading to the lower level. A large floor sign with an arrow pointing down caught his attention.
G. Peris, Attorney
United States Immigration and Naturalization
Law
She went ahead of him to unlock the door at the bottom.
His jaw hardened.
To front this kind of a setup meant the mafia owned her soul. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility to assume she’d been raised and groomed by a powerful Russian mafia family. Unlike the past, today’s mafia tended to involve their women in active roles. If that was the case with Ms. Peris, the bosses here could be taking their orders from her blood relatives back East.
This could be the break he and his colleagues had been waiting for to bring down the head of the San Diego ring.
There was no way he was going to pull out of this investigation now. While she played with him, he’d play with her until he got enough names and information to destroy their stranglehold in this part of the state.
Max started down the stairs. There were more signs on the glass at either side of the door.
American Immigration Lawyers Association, American Bar Association, California State Bar, Florida State Bar, New York State Bar Association.
Three states where the mafia had their tightest strongholds….
His gaze swerved to the other glass partition.
This office provides the following: Family-based Immigration and Other Immigration Matters, Labor Certification, National Interest Waivers, Work Authorization, Green Cards, Advance Parole, H1B/B1/B2, Work Visas, L-1, Naturalization and Citizenship, Adjustment of Status, Investor Visas.
She turned on the lights.
When he compared the sparseness of the drab, secondhand furnishings of her apartment to the fabulous state-of-the-art law office he was looking at now, he couldn’t believe the difference.
It was here he found all the personality that had been missing from her lifeless apartment. Her office had color and verve.
The conversation area for her clients, with its tables, lamps, a television and VCR, comfortable leather chairs and a couch, drew him in. She’d arranged plants and trees throughout the room with an artistic flair.
He turned around. Two large Thomas McKnight surreal seriographs of Central Park and Palm Beach hung on the off-white walls. A built-in bookcase lined with law books covered the third wall. Legal-size files sat on top of her oak desk, where she’d installed the latest electronic equipment.
By a file cabinet sat a mini fridge and a side table with a coffeemaker and supplies.
Nice. Very nice. Ironic that the place was protected by a sophisticated alarm system connected to the police station.
She shut the door. “You didn’t eat breakfast, did you.”
“How do you know that?”
“By the longing in your eyes. Sit down and I’ll make us both a cup. Then you’ll have to leave so I can get my work done.”
While she disappeared through another door into what he assumed was a storage area with a bathroom, he planted a bugging device on the underside of the monitor, then reached for the framed picture on her desk.
A dark-blond, blue-eyed Caucasian male with a mustache, early thirties, stared back at him. When she returned, Max was still holding it.
“This man is someone important to you?”
“Yes.” She averted her eyes and started to make their coffee. “Paul was my husband. He died in a boating accident last year.”
Ms. Peris was a professional. That meant she mixed in enough truth with the lies to be convincing. Max had no way of knowing if Paul was the fictional part.
He put the picture back on the desk. “I, too, have suffered heartache, though not anything as devastating as what you must have gone through. Now that I see what you do for a living, perhaps you could accomplish what no one else has been able to do for me.”
“What’s that?” she said over her shoulder.
“Six years ago, after my graduation from university in Moscow, an import company my grandfather did business with before his death filed petition for me to come to the U.S. to work for them as an accountant.
“When I was granted that visa, I was overjoyed because I had hope of becoming an American citizen. To obtain permanent residence, I never went back to Russia and have made application for naturalization. During this time, my fiancée, also from Moscow, has only been able to visit me once.”
“On what kind of visa?” Though Ms. Peris gave nothing away, he could tell he had her full attention.
“Student. She is trying hard to learn English.”
“I see. Do you want cream or sugar in your coffee?”
“I prefer it black.”
In a moment she carried two mugs across the room. After handing him one, she urged him to sit down.
“Please. Go on.”
Ms. Peris was good. The French described it best. Sangfroid.
“She did not finish college and could not obtain H1B status, so she has tried to get another temporary student visa, but it was denied. I do not understand why.”
Ms. Peris eyed him directly. “No one explained it to you?”
“No. Tell me, please.”
“It’s very simple, Anatoly. She should have applied for the fiancée visa.”
“I heard it takes too long.”
“Perhaps, but since she has been here once before and wanted to come again on another student visa, that made Immigration suspicious. She probably couldn’t convince them that she would depart the U.S. within the prescribed time frame.” Ms. Peris paused.
“Do you still wish to marry her?”
“I am not sure.”
“Is that the real reason you didn’t have her apply for a fiancée visa? Are you afraid it will co
mmit you to marriage? You can always back out, you know—if the marriage truly isn’t working.”
“That is my fear.”
“Something tells me she is a traditional Russian woman whose priorities are husband and family.”
“Yes. It has been a long time, and I have changed a great deal.”
“While she has not.”
“Exactly. I confess something else. There have been other women. Not as many as you might think. But it is also true that she and I were childhood sweethearts. I have been working two jobs to save as much money as possible for us. But if we are to have a future together, we need more time to find out how we really feel.”
“Without the pressure of being forced to marry,” she inserted.
“You are the first person who understands. If the feelings are not there, she can go back home on her student visa and save face with her family and friends. Tell me. Do you think I am being a cruel man?”
He’d let Ms. Peris know he was open to a relationship with her. Hopefully it was just enough rope for her to hang herself. But when he felt those velvety brown eyes on him, he wished to hell he didn’t want to feel her hands and mouth on him, too.
“No, Anatoly. It’s the situation that’s cruel. In my opinion, your misgivings make perfect sense,” came her quiet comment.
“If that is true, then could you talk to someone who could reopen her case? I do not mean to imply that you should do anything illegal.”
“Heaven forbid.”
When she smiled at him like that, the effect of her warmth dissolved his bones. His eyes narrowed on her luxuriant ponytail. Without confinement, her hair probably reached past her shoulders. He could imagine his hands tangled in all that rich brown silk. He could imagine too many things.
Except for those early days with Lauren, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced such a flat-out physical and emotional response to a woman.
Maybe knowing Ms. Peris had no compunction about being a party to his eventual demise had refined his senses to this degree.
He lounged back in the chair. “If I have presumed too much, you must tell me.”
“It isn’t a question of presumption.”
“Then you are talking about money. I am able to pay your fee. But if you could spend an hour or two on my problem, I will be your taxi service, as well, until your car is repaired.”
“My car! I almost forgot.”
He checked his watch. “It is not nine o’clock yet. That is the earliest we can call to find out where they took our automobiles.”
She finished her coffee. “I’m sorry about the Audi.”
“It is all right. Accidents happen.”
“I still can’t believe how my strap got caught.”
“I am very glad it did. Otherwise I would not have met you.”
“You’re being very nice about it. I tell you what, Anatoly. I’m in the middle of some other cases, but give me time and I’ll see what I can do about your problem.”
“You are an exceptional woman, Gabriella. I will make deliveries until quarter to five, then come by at five to take you home. We can talk business on the way.” He got up and took both mugs from the coffee table. “Allow me to wash these, then I will go.”
“You don’t need to do that.” For the first time he sensed she was uneasy. What was she hiding in the back part of her office?
“It is when I do not need to do something that I want to do it.”
As he passed her desk, he noted the framed certificate on the wall behind it. Gabriella Peris had a master’s degree from Rutger’s Law School in Camden, New Jersey. It appeared he’d been right about her Jersey accent.
The Russian mafia had a strong base up and down the eastern seaboard. Little by little everything was adding up to one inevitable conclusion.
Peris happened to be an old Welsh name. It could be her husband’s, but Max had an idea it was her father’s name. It would account for those black Celtic eyebrows and lashes that made her coloring so remarkable. Like several married female attorneys he knew, it appeared she’d chosen to practice law using her maiden name.
He’d been right. Beyond the door was a small storage room with a tiny bathroom attached. Other than some supplies for her various machines, he found nothing incriminating. She kept everything neat and clean.
The bathroom revealed even less. He washed out the mugs and used paper towels to dry them. When he returned them to the side table in the other room, he saw her shaking hands with a middle-aged Hispanic man.
Max nodded to the stranger before settling his gaze on her. “I will be back, Ms. Peris. Have a wonderful day.”
“Thank you, Anatoly. You, too.”
There went those eyes beckoning him again. The woman was an artful predator.
He smiled going up the stairs. Ages ago the FBI had placed phony documentation on him and his bogus fiancée from Russia on the Immigration and Naturalization Service computers. Names, backgrounds, visas, jobs, everything was there to provide an airtight cover for him. While Ms. Peris tapped into those files, Max would go to work on her. When he thought about it, he hadn’t had this kind of fun in years. Maybe never.
FOR THE REST OF THE DAY Gaby buried herself in work, stopping only long enough to eat a yogurt and an orange from her mini fridge. Throughout, she tried to pretend she didn’t feel a growing excitement that Anatoly would be coming to get her at five.
After what she’d learned, perhaps her initial judgment of him being involved in illegal activities might have been too harsh. Part of her wanted to get into the computer and access his file, if only to find out that everything he’d told her about himself was true. Another part wanted to take him on faith.
Throwing down her pen in disgust, she rummaged in her purse for the card the police officer had given her so she could discover the whereabouts of her car. Another card came out with it. The one Anatoly had given her when they’d exchanged information.
He’d written his full name at the top of a florist card in the Russian way, with that beautiful penmanship you didn’t see taught in American schools.
Setting the card aside, she made the phone call about her car and learned that her Sentra was at the H and L Body Shop in Balboa Park. That wasn’t too far from her office. They didn’t have the estimate worked up yet, and there was a backlog. She should inquire tomorrow.
What the guy in the shop was really saying, she knew, was that her car wouldn’t be ready for some time. Her guess of two weeks had been optimistic. A month was more like it. And although she was tempted to let Anatoly be her personal chauffeur, she didn’t dare do that. Since her attraction to him wasn’t about to go away soon, it would be inviting disaster to allow him one more foot inside the door.
The best thing to do was put her original plan into action and buy a used bike.
As for Anatoly, she would phone where he worked right now and tell him not to come by her office. He could give her the information about his fiancée over the phone. After she’d looked into the matter, she would phone him with any news. End of dilemma.
Without hesitation she called his place of work for the second time. The same cheerful woman she’d talked to before answered the phone.
“Good afternoon! Every Bloomin’ Thing. Karin Vriend speaking.”
“Hello. Forgive me for bothering you. This is Ms. Peris again. Is Mr. Kuzmina there?”
“Oh, no! He just left to do the afternoon deliveries and will be so sorry he missed you. May I help you?”
“Will he be coming back before you close?”
“Not this evening.”
“I see. Well, thank you for your time.”
“If he should check in, I’ll tell him you called and were anxious to find him.”
“That’s all right. I’ll find another way to get in touch with him. Goodbye.”
Gaby put the receiver back on the hook and worked straight through until four, when her last client for the day walked out the door. She was about to do th
e same thing.
It took a few minutes to straighten her desk and water the plants. When everything was done, she wrote a message on a sticky note and put it on the outside of her office door. The beauty salon didn’t lock the outer door of the building until eight-thirty, when they closed.
Dear Anatoly,
Something came up that required my leaving the office early, so I realized I wouldn’t be needing a ride home. I called the florist shop to tell you not to come, but it was too late to reach you.
You were very kind to drive me today, and I appreciate your offer to be a taxi service, but since you left this morning, I solved my transportation problem.
When it’s convenient, call me at my office and we’ll discuss your fiancée’s visa. The number is 555-0467. Naturally there will be no charge.
G. Peris.
Glad to have done something positive about an impossible situation, Gaby headed for the bank around the corner to deposit some checks that had come in the mail.
Feeling rich with forty dollars in her purse, she rode the bus straight home, then changed into her navy sweats and running shoes to go grocery shopping. Tonight she’d cook up enough spaghetti sauce to last her for a few days. Garlic bread and salad sounded good too. While she enjoyed a hot meal, she’d look in the classifieds for a bike.
As she started down the hall to leave, Anatoly appeared at the top of the stairs with a plastic bag in his hand, looking terrific in an open-necked blue sport shirt and beige trousers. An adrenaline rush kicked up her pulse rate.
But judging by the expression on Anatoly’s face, he was very upset at the moment. She’d forgotten about his fragile Russian-male pride.
Accidentally Yours Page 5