The guns had been replaced with Bianca’s tools— wigs, glasses, specially designed canes, and of course, poisons and the means of administering them. She took a bottle of clear fluid from the cabinet and two unlabeled brown bottles secured to each other with a heavy rubber band. One bottle held a common variety of sleeping pill that matched the fluid in the bottle, the other a barbiturate. They weren’t an exact match for the fluid, but that wouldn’t show up on any tox screen the coroner was likely to use.
Before she left, she took one final precaution. She called Sophia to make sure that Reznikov was still in jail. ‘‘I know you think I’m a worrywart,’’ she said, ‘‘but I just wanted to know what was happening with that Russian fellow.’’
‘‘He’s in jail, Mom. Really. He’s in jail. His bail hearing isn’t scheduled until Monday.’’
‘‘But that doesn’t really mean you’re safe. I mean, he could arrange for someone else to go after you. I’ve heard that happens.’’
‘‘He’s made his one phone call, Mom. And he’d have to be a real fool to arrange a hit from inside the lockup. But, just so you can relax, the police are taking his threat seriously, and they’re keeping close watch on him.’’
‘‘Well, then, that’s a good thing. A very good thing.’’
‘‘Mom, I’m sorry if I’ve been short with you about this,’’ Sophia said, her voice softening. ‘‘I understand why you’re worried, and I appreciate it. I’m sorry to put you through this.’’
Bianca experienced the odd mixture of warmth and sadness she always felt when Sophia let down her tough façade. She was a sweet kid, always had been, but from the time she was in grade school, she’d needed to appear tough. Bianca had never understood why. She’d hoped that someday her eldest daughter would feel safe enough to let her softer side show, but now that she was a prosecutor, there was little chance of that.
Sophia was not lying to her mother when she said that Reznikov was in jail and that the police were paying special attention to him, but she was stretching the truth when she mentioned the bail hearing on Monday. It had been scheduled for then, but his attorney had requested that it be moved up. Ordinarily she’d have objected, and that would have been enough to keep him in the lockup, but the cops had decided that it fit their interest to cut him loose. They had plans for Yuri Reznikov, and they needed him on the outside for those plans to work.
As she hung up the phone, Sophia felt a moment’s guilt about misleading her mother. She valued her mother’s trust. When she was a teenager and the other girls’ moms had treated them like whores or criminals, her mother had accepted her word. But, she told herself, technically, she hadn’t lied. The hearing wasn’t for forty-five minutes, and it was worth shading the truth to give her mother some peace of mind.
Bianca parked her car up the street some distance from Reznikov’s house. There was no fence, so she didn’t have to worry about a dog in the yard. She checked for an alarm system, though she’d have been surprised to find one. Guys like Reznikov figured they were so tough that no one would dare break into their house, and the last thing they wanted was to give the cops an excuse to enter without a warrant.
Out of sight of any neighbor, she pulled on thin surgical gloves. The back door had a ridiculously simple dead bolt. Bianca had it open in less than a minute. Inside, the house smelled slightly stale and the kitchen had the off odor of garbage going bad. She set down the mop and bucket of cleaning supplies and did a quick reconnaissance.
The house was fairly tidy, too tidy for a bachelor. Mob thugs didn’t vacuum or mop floors. He’d have a cleaning service. No one had cleaned since he left, though. There was a scattering of grounds spilled next to the coffeemaker and bits of dried food on the counters.
A check of the kitchen suggested that Reznikov didn’t do a lot of cooking. There was more beer than food in the refrigerator, and the freezer held frozen dinners and a bottle of vodka.
The living room was set up for a single guy who didn’t have a lot of company. A huge plasma TV with mammoth speakers on each side dominated the room. A dark brown leather lounger sat squarely in front of it, a small table to the side of the chair. The guy probably lived in that chair, Bianca thought.
The dining room looked like it hadn’t been used in ten years. There was a china hutch but no china, further proof of Bianca’s theory that there’d been a wife who’d stopped putting up with the thug.
She checked out the upstairs bedroom, hoping to find a stash of junk food or treats that might be doctored, and the bathroom, looking for prescriptions, but she struck out on both counts. A second bedroom held weights and expensive exercise equipment, but nothing to eat or drink.
She was checking the medicine cabinet in the downstairs bathroom when she heard the click of a key in a lock. She froze. She heard a lock turn, and a door open. The sounds came from the front of the house.
Reznikov was supposed to be in jail. There was no sign that he shared the house with anyone, no cat to be fed or plants to be watered. But someone had just come in the front door. It could be a friend. Or—the realization hit her with a shock—it could be that Sophia had lied to her.
The door slammed shut. A man coughed.
It took only seconds for Bianca to react. ‘‘Mr. Reznikov?’’ she called out. ‘‘Is that you, Mr. Reznikov?’’ There was no response.
She pulled on heavy blue plastic gloves over the thin surgical ones as she headed for the front door. She shifted her gait to a shuffle, rolled her shoulders forward to hunch her back, and thrust her head out. By the time she reached the entry, she was inches shorter and years older.
The man she confronted there was at least six feet tall and heavy—broad shoulders, substantial gut, thick black hair flecked with gray. He wore dark pants and a thigh-length black coat. He had one hand inside the coat, as if he might be reaching for a gun.
‘‘Who the fuck are you?’’ he demanded in a low, slightly raspy voice. His heavy accent muffled the words, but their hostility came through loud and clear.
‘‘I’m Irma, the cleaning lady,’’ Bianca said, giving her voice a nasal quality. ‘‘Your regular’s sick. I’m filling in. Didn’t they tell you? They was supposed to call.’’ She shrugged, the put-upon employee. ‘‘They said the house’d be empty.’’ A note of complaint in the last part. ‘‘What’re you doing home?’’
The man stared down at her. Not a guy hired to do any heavy thinking, Bianca decided. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from his coat. ‘‘You’re not supposed to be here till next week,’’ he said, but he didn’t sound suspicious, just surprised.
Bianca pursed her mouth and shook her head. ‘‘It’s that Mary Louise in the office. That girl has spaghetti for brains, and since she’s started dating the delivery guy, she can’t keep nothing straight. I can go if you want, or I can finish up now. I won’t get in your way.’’ She paused, but not long enough to let him answer. ‘‘You look tired, Mr. Reznikov,’’ she said, now a picture of maternal concern. ‘‘You should rest. Can I get you a cup of tea or something?’’
If the Russian was aware that it was odd to find a strange woman in his house offering him tea, he didn’t show it. He lumbered into the living room and collapsed in the recliner.
‘‘No tea,’’ he said. ‘‘Vodka. It’s in the freezer.’’
‘‘Vodka, sure,’’ Bianca said and headed for the kitchen. She pulled the frosted bottle from the freezer, chose the biggest glass in the cupboard, and poured a hefty slug of the vodka into it. Then she retrieved her bottle of liquid from the bucket of cleaning supplies, and added some to the vodka. She’d have liked to measure, to make sure she had the right amount for the man’s weight, but she made a guess and added enough extra to guarantee the desired result.
Reznikov took the glass without comment. She’d worried he’d complain that she’d poured too much, but from the size of his first gulp, that wasn’t going to be a problem. He’d turned on the TV and was watching football.
She ret
reated to the kitchen before he could tell her to leave. She’d never been present to see the effect of this particular combo of drugs, so she wasn’t sure how long it would take, but Alvin had assured her that taken together they’d work in less than an hour. She decided to pass the time by cleaning. There was always the off chance that someone would remember seeing a cleaning lady go into the house. If it hadn’t been cleaned, the cops would get suspicious.
As she washed the dirty dishes, cleaned the counters and mopped the floor, the commentary from the football game played in the background. After about twenty minutes, she walked quietly to the entry hall where she could see the table next to Reznikov’s chair. The glass was almost empty.
As she turned to go back to the kitchen, the sound of the TV went dead. The word ‘‘muted’’ flashed on the screen. She froze, fearing that Reznikov had heard her, but he didn’t get out of the chair.
He shifted position enough so that she could see he was holding a cell phone. Damn. She’d taken the house phone off the hook in the kitchen to make sure he couldn’t call out, but she’d forgotten that he might have a cell phone.
‘‘Max, this is Sam,’’ he said. Bianca tensed. The fake name was a sure sign of trouble. He was calling a hit man!
‘‘I got a job for you, needs to be done soon, like tomorrow.’’ There was a pause as he listened to the response. Bianca’s mind was racing. She had to interrupt the call, and fast. ‘‘What’dya mean, half now, half after? What kind of bullshit is that?’’
There was no time for planning. She had to stop him before he gave the hit man Sophia’s name. She rushed forward, banged into the table and fell toward Reznikov, crashing into his right arm with all her weight. The table tipped forward and the almost empty glass landed on the rug. The cell phone popped out of Reznikov’s hand and flew across the room, bounced off the wall, and dropped to the floor.
The angle of Bianca’s body when she hit Reznikov’s shoulder sent her sprawling into his lap. He stared down at her, stunned; then his face twisted into a furious scowl.
Bianca was up and out of the Russian’s reach much more quickly than an old lady should have been able to manage. ‘‘Oh, Mr. Reznikov,’’ she squeaked. ‘‘I’m so sorry. That was so clumsy. I’ll clean this up right away.’’
‘‘You stupid cunt,’’ he snarled. ‘‘Get me that cell phone.’’ He started to rise from the chair.
Bianca hurried to get the cell phone, praying it would be broken. Her cell had died when she dropped it on a granite counter. Surely . . . But the cell didn’t look broken. The call had been cut off, but the screen displayed the time. She picked up the phone, stammering apologies. ‘‘Oh, Mr. Reznikov, I’m so sorry. I broke your phone. I’ll pay for a new one. Please don’t tell the service. They’ll fire me sure.’’
Reznikov was on his feet, his hands balled into fists, his face contorted with fury. ‘‘You’re not . . . Who the fuck are you?’’ he bellowed.
Bianca assessed her escape routes. The chair sat in the middle of the room, blocking the path to the front entry. That left the way through the dining room to the kitchen and the back door, but Reznikov would only have to move a few steps to intercept her. If the poison had slowed him down, there was a chance she might make it, but not a good one.
‘‘I said I was sorry. I’ll pay for it, honest,’’ she repeated. ‘‘Oh, I made such a mess. But I can take care of that. I gotta get the dustpan, then I’ll clean that right up.’’ She began to edge her way toward the dining room, moving slowly, giving him no reason to grab for her.
He took a step toward her. ‘‘What the hell . . .’’ But his voice was less forceful, and he had a strange expression on his face. Bianca hoped desperately that the drugs were taking effect.
It was all a matter of time now. She took a step backward. He took another step toward her. If she could get him to move far enough from the chair, she could make a dash for the entry, putting the recliner between her and the Russian.
Reznikov weaved slightly. His face was no longer knotted in a scowl. The features seemed to have loosened. His jaw had slackened and his mouth hung slightly open. He looked more confused than angry.
‘‘You don’t look so good, Mr. Reznikov,’’ Bianca said. ‘‘I think maybe you should sit down.’’ She took a step toward him.
He raised his arm to take a swing at her, but he couldn’t follow through and it fell useless to his side. Bianca let out her breath and felt a rush of relief. She waited, watching him closely.
‘‘You . . . you . . .’’ He was mumbling now. It seemed to take all his effort to stand. He stumbled backward and collapsed into the chair, but his eyes were still fixed on her. The color had drained from his face, leaving it a sickly white.
Bianca realized that this was the first time she’d watched a man die. For all the deaths that she had arranged, she’d managed to be absent for the actual passing. She felt a kind of animal sympathy for the man in the chair. Not for Reznikov, the thug, but for a fellow being who was dying and knew it. A strange feeling. There was no temptation to intervene, no guilt really. She had no doubt that the world would be a better place without this man. It surprised her that she had any feeling for him at all.
As she watched the Russian, she remembered Sophia’s description of attending the execution of a particularly brutal killer she’d convicted. She’d had the same confused reaction, emotions she didn’t understand and couldn’t explain.
Bianca backed out of the room and stood behind the chair for long enough to satisfy herself that Reznikov was not getting up, then returned to cleaning the house. The mess in the living room could wait.
It was full dark by the time she was sure Yuri Reznikov was no longer breathing. She set the stage for his final scene by the light of the giant television. It was not the first time she’d done this. The first time she’d feared having to confront the sight of a man whose life she’d ended, but then, as now, she’d felt little remorse. When she’d decided to go into the business, she’d drawn up a set of rules covering who was fair game and who wasn’t. Tony had laughed at her; Marty had been incredulous and infuriated, but she only took jobs that let her sleep at night.
The glass lay on the rug where it had landed when she knocked over the table. What liquid there’d been in it had soaked into the carpet. Bianca righted the table and picked up the glass, holding it by the rim and bottom so as not to smudge Reznikov’s fingerprints. She took it to the kitchen, added a bit of fresh vodka to rinse it out, then replaced it on the rug. She wrapped Reznikov’s hands around each of the two brown bottles, to provide the crime lab with decent fingerprints, and dropped them near the glass so that it looked like the Russian had knocked them off. She stepped back and surveyed the scene.
It was then that she noticed the cell phone. She picked it up and checked the call history to see what the Russian had dialed. The number was Marty’s.
She stared at it, shocked and shaken. Surely, Marty wouldn’t have . . . She shook her head, refusing to consider it. The half-now-half-later demand was no doubt because Marty knew Reznikov wouldn’t live long enough to pay off, but under other circumstances, she wouldn’t have trusted his loyalty.
One thing was sure: she didn’t want the police having Marty’s phone number. Put him in a cell, and he wouldn’t hesitate to give her up for a lighter sentence. She aimed the phone at the brick fireplace and threw it as hard as she could. It broke apart and fell to the floor. Bianca wished she knew enough about cell phone technology to be sure that the memory was erased but decided that any further damage to the phone risked raising questions with the cops.
It occurred to her as she was packing up to leave that the police might be keeping tabs on Mr. Reznikov. The house behind the Russian’s was dark, so instead of leaving the way she’d come, she walked through the backyard and down the neighbor’s driveway.
Sophia came by the next morning. Bianca had never been able to break the girls of the habit of dropping in. She’d hinted that such u
nannounced visits could prove embarrassing for all concerned, but to no avail. ‘‘We’re all grown-ups,’’ Cara had said with a knowing smile. It would be nice, Bianca thought, if getting caught with a lover was the worst that could happen.
Sophia had stopped at the bakery to pick up Bianca’s favorite pastries, and she brought flowers, a sure sign that she was feeling the need to make up for some misdeed. As they sat over steaming mugs of coffee in the sunny kitchen, Sophia said, ‘‘I wanted you to know that you don’t have to worry about the Russian. He killed himself last night.’’
‘‘Really?’’ Bianca said; then remembering that she was not supposed to know of Reznikov’s release, she added, ‘‘In jail?’’
‘‘Actually, he was at home,’’ Sophia said, looking a bit abashed. ‘‘After I talked with you, the judge set bail, and we had to let him out.’’
‘‘Oh,’’ Bianca said. ‘‘Well, good riddance. It’ll save the taxpayers the cost of a trial.’’
Sophia laughed. ‘‘That’s what my boss said.’’
‘‘I imagine it’s a relief to you all,’’ Bianca said. Sophia hesitated just long enough to tell her mother that she was holding back. ‘‘There’s something you aren’t telling me, isn’t there, dear?’’
Sophia gave her tight little caught-out laugh. ‘‘Boy, I could never keep anything from you. Okay, it’s over now, so I guess there’s no harm in telling. This was a sting, and the Russian was the bait. Losing him cost us the target.’’
Bianca was getting a bad feeling about this. ‘‘The bait? I don’t understand, dear.’’
‘‘I wasn’t really honest with you about Reznikov’s threat. I knew he was serious, and so did the police. We let him out so he could order a hit. With traces on his phones, we’d have a straight line back to the hit man, or maybe if we got really lucky, to an even bigger fish, a guy who arranges hits. As soon as he made the call, we . . .’’ Sophia stopped midsentence. ‘‘Mom, is something wrong? You’re really pale.’’
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