Final Stand

by Helen R. Myers

  “And for that he’s self-destructing through booze?”

  “There’s also the matter of a few cases that didn’t turn out well, winning when it would have been better to lose and losing one that cost an innocent man almost ten years of his life. That’s why he prefers not to take life too seriously.”

  Sasha matched his stance. “Oh, I don’t think it’s life he has the problem with. I think it’s himself.”

  “You are tough, lady.” Gray sighed. “I take it he brought up Gerri Rose?”

  “I got the impression you wanted him to.”

  This time Gray shook his head. “His presence should have been enough to make Frank think about it. I never intended for J.M. to use up his ammunition early, let alone misfire.”

  “Wish you had made that clearer. The man is looking at life through veils, and he didn’t merely misfire, he shot the whole caisson at once, then grew reckless, hoping bravado could cover his blunder.”

  Remembering the worst moments of that fiasco did bad things to her blood pressure, and the negative atmosphere of Gray’s clinic offered no relief. Hardly a student of feng shui, she thought, glancing around at the four mismatched chairs, each uglier or more damaged than the next. And while she thought the color gray had its place, the marble-design linoleum added to the dullness. What’s more, the metal display case of pet supplies needed restocking, and the magazine rack contained a spare three mangled copies of who knew what. Sasha wondered if children or pets had committed the vandalism. At the same time, she found all this informative since the atmosphere exuded wasn’t unlike his house—barren, neglected and unwelcoming. No, she had no reason to expect him to understand her reaction to J.M. when he was in a state of denial all his own.

  “How long do you think I can hold him off?” she asked, hoping it was the one question he could answer.

  “Frank? You’re the cop.”

  “While he acts like he got his training off of TV. So since you’ve known him for some time, give me your best guesstimate.”

  Whether it was the connection or the question that displeased him, the corners of Gray’s mouth drooped. “He may keep his distance for a couple of hours, let you think he’s forgotten or changed his mind. But whether or not he has a clue about what he would stir up, I can’t see that he’ll let the matter drop. Not in this case.”

  “Because of you.”

  “Yeah. Once he fixates on getting someone…”

  “That part I have memorized.” Sasha shot a more desperate glance outside.

  “Use the phone already. You know you want to.”

  So badly he couldn’t begin to imagine. So badly she couldn’t let him see her eyes because she knew they would give away her dread and desperation.

  “Who are you looking for out there?”

  If she told him, would he continue offering his property as sanctuary, or decide he’d stuck his neck out enough and shove her out the front door? It was one thing to run interference on her behalf against an overconfident good ol’ boy. It was entirely another to stand between her and men probably carrying enough firearms to wipe out half this town.

  The Surburban made it a moot point for the moment and she offered a self-deprecating shrug. “Caught me. The white pickup, what else? I saw one that looked about right just as I was leaving the station.”

  The way Gray stood there, she knew he didn’t believe her. Had he noticed the Suburban, too? How long had it been driving up and down the road?

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, turning back to the window. “Surely you know who around here drives one? Never mind Elias’s flip remark, I mean people likely to be on the street at that hour? And don’t say service trucks on an emergency call. I would have remembered a logo or name on the door.”

  “That still leaves plenty of options.”

  “It wasn’t a new model.”

  “No matter. I told you, we’re not Wall Street or 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Folks aren’t cheering about the economy here. They’re having hard times, trying to make their vehicles last.”

  In other words, because he knew she was lying about the Suburban, he doubted her about the white truck.

  “Point taken.” Exhaling, she lifted her hair off her nape and pretended to massage out the kinks in her neck. “I guess things are a little quiet for you this morning, but don’t let me keep you from taking advantage and catching up with other work.”

  Gray glanced around the empty room. “You see something I don’t?”

  He seemed so blasé about it that it momentarily threw her. “Okay…how’s the dog? Does she need another shot or pill or something?”

  “She’s had her pain pill. You on the other hand could use one of these.” He reached into the pocket of his plaid shirt and drew out a small, amber container, which he tossed to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “Antibiotics. It’ll be all right. Just let me know if the urge to chase cars grows too strong.”

  She tried to give them back. “Cute, Slaughter. I think I’ll pass.”

  “You have an open wound and you’ve been handling a stray dog that you know nothing about. Don’t ask for trouble. Take them.”

  Reluctantly, she pocketed the container.

  “I mean ingest. Now.”

  “Relax, Slaughter. Do you need to watch?”

  “If necessary. Does my presence bother you?”

  “Reverse that. I’m trying to let you escape. Go do what vets do. You’re the guy who’s put out because I’m around, remember?”

  “Am I?”

  Whether deliberate or involuntarily, the intimate reply was as welcome as a bullet coming through the plate-glass window. He was doing this after what Elias had pulled, after denying his own sexuality?

  “Did I nod off and miss something?” she asked. “What are you pulling?”

  “Verbalizing my doubts about how long you can last out there on your own.”

  “Then you say that. Unless—” she crossed to him “—you did mean what you told J.M.” She let her gaze drift over him, absorbing details, like the fact that his plaid shirt brought out a hint of blue in his eyes, that the white background emphasized his sun-bronzed skin and the white scar on his freshly shaved chin. She came so close, if either of them took a deep breath, her breasts would touch his chest.

  “What if I did?”

  “I’d be suspicious, guessing that maybe you’re using me.”

  A shadowy something darkened his eyes. “To what end?”

  “You tell me. You said you and Frank Elias used to be best friends, and now you’re not.”

  “That has nothing to do with you.”

  “It does if he more than dislikes you, if his feelings are about hate and revenge. Then I think you could see me as your opportunity to drive Frank crazy by making him think about us here…together…alone.” She watched the way his eyes lingered on her mouth, yet his stance grew stiffer as he tried not to let any other part of his body betray him. “He’s not so hard a read that I couldn’t tell he’s wondering what we’ve been up to…and now here we are with so many long, flat surfaces around. What do you want to bet there isn’t a coffee mug left intact in his office?”

  “You’re pretty confident of yourself,” he replied, his voice gruff.

  “What I am is aware of how powerful a motivator revenge is. So what do you want? To play doctor, Doctor?”

  Gray didn’t deny her accusation, and he didn’t back off. On the contrary, he began lowering his head toward hers…and suddenly she knew an unexpected, odd excitement, wholly opposite to the revulsion she’d experienced with Elias. This was a gut-twisting desire to learn what it would be like to have his mouth against hers, to feel his heat merge with and intensify her own. It wasn’t just because she’d been denying herself intimacy, sex, for some time; it was this man, the unique chemistry that spawned whenever they were in the same room.

  “You must really be scared.”

  The unexpected response snapped her to att
ention.

  While his warm breath continued to caress her lips, Sasha found his gaze speculative, even troubled. Thankfully, the sudden absence of voices must have panicked the dog back in her cage for she began an anxious whimper that quickly became an urgent barking.

  Grateful for the excuse to put some space between them, Sasha murmured, “Excuse me,” and brushed past him to hurry down the hall. But at the door to the kennel, she couldn’t resist glancing back.

  No, it wasn’t good that he was standing by the window gazing up and down the street. However, the way he rubbed his mouth and neck eased her humiliation. So, she hadn’t been the only one to get caught up in the moment. It wasn’t her secrets alone that bothered him.

  Good, she thought. Because he had secrets of his own, and he had no right to expect candor from her when he wasn’t willing to return it in kind.

  The problem was, the longer she stayed, the worse this combustible atmosphere between them was apt to get. And she had to stay, she understood that now, not just because of Elias, but due to that Suburban. As long as it hung around, it wasn’t safe to get back on the streets.

  15

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  9:33 a.m. PST

  Sirens always made Melor Borodin move fast, and he ducked into the front door of Red Square, his humorously named answer to New York’s Russian Tea Room, even though logic dictated that if the law was after him, they wouldn’t be announcing themselves. Old habits died hard, though, and only upon hearing the secondary blast that fire trucks use did his insides unclench. By the time he saw Demyan Kopelev coming to greet him in long-legged strides, his pulse resumed its usual, meditation-like 58–60 tempo.

  “You are even earlier than I expected. My apologies for not being at the door to meet you,” the restaurant’s manager said with the subtlest hint of accusation.

  Blond, soft-spoken, poetically handsome and seriously homophobic as a result of the kind of attention his looks attracted, Demyan—the Russian derivative of Damian—had more in common with Melor than the fourth-century brother he was named after, who chose martyrdom rather than abandon his own blood. So much so that Borodin continuously looked for signs of betrayal, even an outright coup. The only thing stopping the young cutthroat so far was his pride in running a smooth, tightly run and well-financed operation. Not interested in starting at the bottom, and lacking Borodin’s audacity to reach for what he wanted, to take risks, Demyan had yet to figure out how to get the income and devoted personnel, especially here in a city where territory was more finely delineated than anything on a road map.

  “Success doesn’t ease one’s schedule, Demyan,” he snapped. “It complicates it.” In a sweeping glance of his employee’s attire, he took in the Italian linen shirt, the excellent crease of the pants, the butter-soft leather of his shoes, even the manicure, before deciding that while the pretty prick was spending his income on the best of everything, he wasn’t spending more than he earned. “I have much to attend to this morning,” he added with a fatalistic shrug. “But am I inconveniencing you, perhaps?”

  “Of course not.”

  Demyan glanced over his boss’s shoulder, and Borodin understood why. While he still used only one bodyguard, now it was the massive Boba, as he and Yegor affectionately called Boris.

  Looking relieved that Boba lingered back at the door, Demyan added, “What was I doing but supervising the first deliveries.”

  “You have someone dependable taking your place?”

  “Dependable enough not to let that damn laundry service screw us again.”

  Borodin glanced around the unlit foyer with its walls as red as the canopy outside. The mirrors were freshly cleaned, the carpet vacuumed, the arrangement of calla lilies on the marble-topped sideboard looking as though just arranged. He gestured toward the reservations desk. “Bookings doing well?”

  “Very. Revenues continue to increase. Would you care to come to my office and—”

  There was no time, but Borodin waved away the offer for a different reason. “That’s not what I asked.” He already knew what the books said. The money he flushed through here assured solvency whether they unlocked the front doors for lunch at eleven every morning or not. What was important was for their patronage to grow steadily, creating a semblance of symmetry between the cash he laundered and the actual business.

  “Excuse me, I phrased myself poorly.” Demyan’s expression grew less confident as he accompanied Borodin into the equally dark lounge. “We’re booked through the weekend. Among tonight’s guests will be a state representative and a two-star general. Lunch is still a little quiet, but I’ve been trying a few specials.”

  That gave Borodin a chance to purge some of his frustration. “What do you think I opened here, a fucking cafeteria? Next you’ll be having us serve borscht. No specials. What you need to do is find a hostess for that shift as good as our alluring Michelle.”

  Demyan nodded. “You’re right. The men walk in with their mouths watering, and she keeps them dazed and ordering until she’s ready to kick them out. I will look into the matter.”

  Satisfied, Borodin stopped at the bar. “What’s this?” There were two ice buckets loaded with four bottles of cooling vodka. Four slender shot glasses were set beside them.

  “The flavored vodkas I was telling you about.” Looking increasingly uncertain, Demyan continued, “But considering the hour, we could postpone this until tonight?”

  “I won’t be back. I may have to go out of town.” And the truth was, Borodin could use a good shot of vodka, but he wasn’t sure about this flavored crap. “All right, let’s get it over with.”

  “I’ve narrowed the selections down to four—strawberry, chocolate, mango and pear.”

  “You sound like you’re selling Italian ices at the mall.” But Borodin accepted the slim glass the man poured for him. It was the strawberry, and resisting the urge to throw back the thickened liquor, he sipped. Although his expression remained unchanged, inside he grimaced at the syrupy sweetness. He hadn’t been far off with the ice-cream reference; the stuff tasted like a kid’s Popsicle. Without comment, he signaled for the next one, and put down the unfinished drink.

  The next was mango, a favorite breakfast fruit of his, but he left that sample unfinished, too. The pear flavor had him uttering another curse under his breath, and he quickly reached for the chocolate. The moment the flavor touched his tongue he began laughing.

  “Da. Women will love this shit. By the time they realize what they’ve been drinking, they’ll need taxi service home.”

  “I thought so myself,” Demyan said with growing enthusiasm. “Perhaps we should look into a limousine service for our best patrons? Maybe something designed with cameras and recording devices? You know, more and more of them come here with companions that are not their spouses.”

  A delicious idea, Borodin thought, black-market sex videos, blackmail—albeit shortsighted. But he patted the younger man’s smooth cheek. “And who will fill those tables out there after we’ve fleeced our customers and scared them away? You must think like spekulanty.”

  “A speculator, yes. I thought I was.”

  Borodin wagged his finger. “Nyet. You still think like we are back home running the streets like stray dogs willing to do anything to survive. No more of the cheap vzyatka or dealing with defitstny. We are men of business now. Everything is po blat.” Then he slapped the man on the back and said, “I agree with everything but the pear. Every peasant has tasted pear. As I said before, we keep the menu lean in all areas, especially the zakuski. Force them to order the expensive stuff, the caviar or smoked salmon. Always think lyuks. Remember, lean in servings, too, lean everywhere but the bill.” He added a wink to temper his warning.

  Demyan nodded again, the image of deference. “I understand, Melor, spasibo. You are patient with this slow learner.”

  “You’re as slow as a fox, that’s why I put you here.” Borodin’s phone sounded and he looked at the message. “Walk me to the door.�
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  Startled, Demyan asked, “You don’t want to go over the computer printouts?”

  “Another time. As I said, I have much to do today.” As they approached the waiting Boba, Borodin added, “I may be gone for a while. Keep a firm grip.”

  “You know I will.”

  “I’m not just talking about this place. Watch your ass. The Italians are not happy with our upscale presence, and they have the authority in their pockets to cause us trouble with the city, everything from ordinances to the cops. So be a hard case with the staff, watch the deliveries for sabotage as you do cheating.”

  “Understood.”

  “And no hanky-panky from the valets. They fuck with anyone’s property where it reflects back on us, they’ll never be physically capable of parking a car again. Be generous with good performance as I am with you. But control with knout,” he added, making a fist.

  “You’ve been warned then?” Suddenly pale, Demyan’s gaze shifted to Borodin’s bandaged cheek. It wasn’t the first time he’d looked at it.

  “Just do what I said.”

  “You can count on me. Do svidaniya, Melor.”

  Nodding, Borodin shook hands with his employee, preferring the American formality. As he exited through the opened door held by Boba, he wondered when, let alone if, he would return. Already reaching for the phone again, he had the connection by the time he settled in the passenger side of the black Cadillac. “Well?” he demanded upon hearing Yegor’s familiar voice.

  “Akim called. They think the van has been located.”

  That should have been good news, but it wasn’t what his right-hand man had indicated in his message. “So what’s the problem?”

  “It is next to police station.”

  Borodin gripped the phone tighter. “She’s been arrested?”

  “Nyet, nyet. By animal hospital.”

  “What the hell is it doing there? Did they actually see her? Are they sure they have the right vehicle?”