No Law (Law #3)

by Camille Taylor

  Still, her patience wearing thin, had her airing her grievances to him in a biting tone. “I don’t appreciate being made to wait with a body, Detective.”

  When her husband had died, she’d spent hours staring sightlessly at his body, unable to move from her position hidden away in the storage closet in their Moscow apartment. She tried to push the memory back and focus on the here and now. Her body involuntarily shivered.

  “Regrettable, but necessary I’m afraid. I had to contain the crime scene.” Detective Harrington lifted a small notepad and a pen from his jacket pocket. “The responding officer says you were in the room when the men arrived. How many of them were there?”

  She sighed. She had already told her account to Milo, the responding officer and his partner, and she figured she’d be telling it several more times to come before the case would be closed. “There were three.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  She leaned back in her chair and briefly closed her eyes, drumming up the images of the men who had burst into her office and had driven stark terror slicing through her body, down to her bones. “They were large…bulky, not overly tall. Brown hair, strong jawlines. If I had to use a word, I’d say enforcers.”

  Detective Harrington’s eyebrow rose. “You come across many enforcers in your field?”

  The smile she gave him fell flat. “Not on a normal day.” But nothing about today was normal. She was feeling scared, off-balance and jittery. A knee-jerk reaction told her to run and it was everything she could do to remain seated. Over the years she had learned to listen to her intuition and right now it was screaming at her. “One of the men was clearly in charge, he held an air of power and was the only one who spoke—at least when I was in the room,” she added.

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Tailored suit, hard demeanor, self-assured.” She hesitated for a brief moment before continuing. “He also spoke Russian.”

  “Interesting,” the detective murmured, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  She didn’t like the sound of that. She could only imagine where the detective’s mind was going. She wasn’t trained in criminal investigation but even she would think herself guilty with the facts as they were. However coincidental it may be, it gave her pause that only she in the entire museum would’ve been able to understand what Mikhail had said. Only she could fluently read and write Russian Cyrillic. Twice now she had been around murder and twice now a Russian citizen had been involved. She didn’t like to think the trouble she could be in when the detective learned that little morsel. She would permanently move from person of interest to prime suspect in the span of a heartbeat.

  “What did the man say?” the detective asked.

  “He wasn’t pleased, and he wanted to talk to Brian.”

  “About?”

  She shook her head wearily. “I couldn’t say. He stopped talking when he noticed me. Although Brian did call the man Mikhail.”

  “Had you met them before?”

  “No, and it wasn’t a habit of Brian’s to entertain in his office.”

  Harrington frowned. “Why not?”

  “Brian played the few cards he had close to his vest. I was, in a manner of speaking, his competition. He didn’t want me near his contacts in fear I’d poach them.”

  Harrington absorbed what she said. “Was his fear justified?”

  “No. I have my own contacts whose contributions to our displays far outweigh any that Brian’s could give. But Brian was always wary of me because I’m more qualified for his position. I have the experience and the reputation.”

  “So why was he the curator and you only the assistant?”

  It was a valid question. Many had asked her the same in the past when they had learned of her résumé. “Titles aren’t important to me, Detective. I do the job for the love of it, the passion. Hamilton’s has the largest and the most comprehensive collection of Russian artifacts outside the Russian Federation.”

  “Still, he had cause for concern?”

  “Brian was lazy and self-centered. Frankly, he would have perished career wise long ago if I’d not taken the assistant position.”

  A moment of true sorrow overtook her and squeezed at her heart. No matter how horrible a boss and a human being he had been, Brian had truly redeemed himself at the end and she owed him her life. If he hadn’t been so adamant that she leave, despite his reasons whatever they may have been, the detective could’ve easily walked into a double homicide.

  “How so?”

  “I was the one to secure high profile exhibits, items that the owners wouldn’t have trusted with anyone else. I doubt Brian even knew how to go about arranging an opening. There’s more to it than just a quick speech and a few smiles to the media.”

  “Were you sleeping with him?”

  An amused laugh escaped her lips. “No, Detective, I wasn’t and that can be verified by every single Hamilton employee. I didn’t like Brian but I tolerated him.”

  “Surely you must feel cheated? You did the hard work and he got all the glory.”

  “I love the work and I can do without the fame,” she replied. Her brief infamy had been enough to sour her forever. There wasn’t a newspaper across both the U.S. or Russia that hadn’t reported Alan’s death. Her grieving face splashed all over the front pages, her pain clear for all to see.

  “Yes, I can understand that, Ms. Madigan. Or should I call you Mrs. Thomas?” Detective Harrington asked.

  She sucked in her breath, as if she’d just taken a blow to the stomach. He’d certainly done his homework. She assumed the museum had no idea who she was or rather she wished they didn’t. She always liked to believe she was her own person, at least worked herself to the bone to prove she was worthy of her position and not just because she was some great man’s wife—or widow. She hated to think all people saw in her was her husband’s career and not her own talent.

  How she must look to him? She had feared what might happen should he know the truth, and now it appeared he had known about her secret the entire interview.

  She glared at him as he studied her intensely, trying to look beneath her stony expression for a flicker of the emotion she kept buried beneath the surface. “You can call me whatever you like, Detective.”

  “Tell me, do you also find it interesting that two men close to you have died? The first being your husband, the second, your boss? Both whose passing seemed to benefit you?”

  Outrage burned inside her. He was painting her as some sort of career black widow. Never mind she had been traumatized and lost the man she loved. She tried to remind herself that Detective Harrington was only doing his job and didn’t know her, didn’t know how her heart had been shattered into a thousand pieces when she had said goodbye to Alan, and the guilt she had felt over playing an indirect part in her husband’s murder. He hadn’t been there the nights she had awoken, crying out in agony, her bed sheets drenched in her sweat. He only saw the cold facts that she was linked to yet another murder. Knowing that, she still resented him. Alan’s death had been the worst thing that had happened to her and to suggest she had wanted—sought out—his death made her sick to her stomach.

  She shouldn't have been surprised with the detective’s assumption. She had heard many whispers after Alan’s death that she had been involved. Alan had been fourteen years her senior and she had taken over his job after he’d died, completing what they had planned to do together. To her it had been about keeping busy, doing something she loved and keeping a part of Alan alive and with her. After the news had reported his murder, she had been thrust into the limelight, her every move reported and had either been condemned or praised for continuing on.

  Her voice was raspy as she held back the tears that threatened to escape. “I changed my name from Thomas back to Madigan for the opposite reason, Detective. I wanted to make my way in the world on my own merit, not someone else’s.”

  And her work had been brilliant. She had been taug
ht by the best, and since then had remained busy, travelling across the world, never staying in one place too long. Slowing down meant time to think and dwell.

  A sharp pain jerked in her chest, surprising her that the old wound still hurt. She’d been called a murderer before, by people who hadn’t been privy to the true circumstances of Alan’s death. Had anyone been in the room with her in that final hour, they would never accuse her of such a thing. Those moments left a deep and painful scar inside her that she would never forget.

  Alan had been her art history professor in college and she had immediately fallen for the well-travelled, well-schooled man. He had a spark that had intrigued and enticed her. Alan had seen her potential and had taken her under his wing. The first time they had made love was the night of her graduation and they had married a few months later, when Alan took a position overseas. She had been shocked and enraged to learn that he had so easily allowed the mafiya to intimidate him but had forgiven him knowing he had done it all for her. He loved her and had died protecting her.

  “Yet you can’t deny you might never have succeeded if your husband was still alive.”

  “My life would’ve certainly taken a different turn, but I cannot say in which way. I did what I could in the circumstances but I would rather my husband have lived.”

  Detective Harrington continued to study her as if gauging her sincerity.

  “It is also a matter of public record that the man who killed my husband was found,” she added, as a last nail in the coffin to disprove his theory.

  The man had been found floating face down in the Moska river but he had been identified as one of the men who had tortured Alan to death. There had been no trial and no one would be brought to justice. It had been a fact hard to accept.

  He leaned closer. “Tell me, how are you still alive? It wouldn’t be hard to track you down in your profession, the woman who told the authorities?”

  She squirmed in her seat at his line of questioning. It had been a question she had often asked herself. She didn’t fool herself into believing it was because she was smarter. If they wanted her to be found she doubted there would be a force on earth that could stop them from locating her and taking her out. She often looked behind her, wondering if she would see them there. She’d changed her name back to Madigan straight after Alan’s funeral but that was more to distance herself from the event and not to trade on the Thomas name. She had also taken precautions, moving every few months so it would make her harder to track should the Bratva come looking. Not that they had.

  She’d only recently in the past few years stopped moving after she had come to Hamilton’s, a place she felt at home, but could be gone again in a matter of hours. Something she didn’t mention to the detective, because it might make her look guiltier. If such a thing was possible.

  “I guess I was worth more trouble dead than alive,” she replied with a shudder.

  The detective pondered that but she could see doubt on his face.

  “You know the Bratva doesn’t do favors,” she told him. She had the contacts, had the link to the Russian Mob. He had a dead curator at the hands of a Russian enforcer—at least by her own admission. She didn’t like how he was connecting the dots.

  His gaze assessed her sharply, his expression revealing he had underestimated her and not in a good way. “Not unless they got something out of the deal.”

  She’d had enough. “Any more questions, Detective, and you can ask my lawyer. I’m done cooperating.” She was not about to let him railroad her without a fight. “Now, unless you’re going to arrest me, I’d like to go home.”

  And try to forget this night ever happened.

  Standing, she grabbed her purse, and stared down at him, waiting for him to make a move. When he didn’t say anything, she started walking away.

  “Just one more thing, Ms. Madigan,” Detective Harrington called out.

  Carey stopped and glanced over her shoulder at him, her heart beating a rapid staccato in her chest. “Yes, Detective?” she asked with as much civility as she could muster.

  “You don’t seem too broken up about your boss’s death,” he commented, clearly hoping to get some sort of response from her.

  “I’ve cried plenty in my life, Detective. I don’t have any tears left.”

  Chapter 4

  Carey climbed in her black SUV, a ridiculous car to navigate and park in D.C., but she liked it anyway. It made her feel big and indestructible, something she rarely felt outside the four-wheeled contraption. Placing the key in the ignition, she started the beast before taking off down the driveway of the estate. It was late in the evening but the traffic was still heavy. She headed northwest down 16th Street towards her apartment in Fairmount Heights, using the drive to review what she knew and more importantly what she didn’t know.

  Brian had been working for the Russians—an indisputable fact. She didn’t know why, and what each party got out of the association. The Russians were involved in every illegal activity from here to Moscow. A cold shiver ran down her spine as the only logical reason popped up into her mind. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. What had Brian done with certain artifacts in the museum? The only possible clout he had was his position as curator and she of all people knew just how much the Russians loved art and antiquities. She considered any piece that had landed on her boss’s desk. If she were to inspect them, would she find forgeries?

  No, there was no way he could’ve swapped anything out. There was no way he could bring the substitution into the museum without raising flags. Brian rarely touched any artifact if he could find someone else to do the work. There were other possibilities, of course. The idea that he might’ve been selling museum secrets had her feeling sick. Occasionally, she or one of the other experts would come across a bit of information that could be considered the second coming to those in her field, such as a collector’s estate going to probate or a certain coveted piece about to go on the market, and it would be a major coup to the museum should they acquire a find, not to mention if they had kept the bidding low having little competition. Brian could’ve easily been offering insider information.

  She knew of several pieces that had been expensively picked up by a mysterious private buyer, the museum having lost several major exhibits to the collector in the past few months. But that didn’t explain the Russian’s anger. Sure, she had known men who could fly off the handle without the least bit of provocation, but Mikhail had been somewhat excessive in his rage. His cold steel eyes had been unyielding from the start. There had only been one end to the meeting and she had witnessed it.

  She found herself a parking space near her apartment building. Grabbing her purse, she soon unlocked the front door and stepped into her silent apartment. She was later than usual, her home feeling so much more menacing than it ever had before. The one light she left on all day so she wouldn’t come home to a dark apartment glared brightly at her from across the room.

  What a day.

  Her cell phone had been going off every two seconds during her drive home. Since she planned to take the day off tomorrow, she had set up her email to forward everything to her iPhone. Deciding the messages could wait until tomorrow, she slowly made her way to her kitchen. She assumed most of her emails would be from overseas contacts since not even the most avid of curators stayed in their office this late at night. She was exhausted but too wired to go to sleep anytime soon. Had she any inclination, she would’ve probably jogged about the neighborhood in an effort to make herself tired. Carey doubted she would get much sleep either way. The memory of Brian’s body floated in and out of her head without warning, his lifeless eyes staring right at her, condemning her for not acting quicker.

  She let out a deep breath as she once more pushed the vision out of her mind. She busied herself sorting out her mail that lay stacked on her silver-black granite kitchen counter. She usually reserved her weekends for paying bills and doing the menial jobs that unfortunately everyone had to do, but she
knew if she sat down now she would never get back up again. Her feet ached, her toes pinched together in the sharp pointed enclosure of her heels. Carey supposed she should eat, but hadn’t the energy or the hunger to do so. She closed her ivory blinds, feeling vulnerable. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms in an effort to warm herself and get her blood pumping. She was as cold as death, and the irony was not above her. She walked over to her thermostat and turned up the heat. For mid-June, the apartment was freezing, or maybe that was just her—her blood running cold in her veins from the vision in her head that refused to leave her.

  She shivered, thinking about the evening’s events. She remembered the look in the Russian’s eyes. She had seen that look before, long ago in Moscow, the night Alan had died. It was the look on his face that she would never forget. She could see how much the man enjoyed his job, how ruthless and unforgiving he could be. Anger bubbled up inside her. Men like him didn’t deserve to live, to terrorize anyone who got in their way. She nibbled on her bottom lip, considering her dilemma.

  She poured herself a glass of Cabernet, filling it almost to the top, knowing before the night was finished she would need every last drop. Her hands shook slightly and she spilled a few drops of the red liquid onto the counter before reaching over and grabbing a slice of paper towel hanging from her kitchen cabinet to soak up the crimson drops.

  Taking a long sip, she tried to calm her nerves. She couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that was quickly swamping her. The men who killed Brian knew where she lived. Not only that but they knew what she looked like and where she worked. Her apartment building had security so she knew she was safer here than anywhere else but still, fear gnawed in her belly. She turned off all the overhead lights, leaving only a few dim lights to cast shadows around the room.

  She was frightened and wasn’t stupid enough to lie to herself, having seen firsthand what men like that could do to a body. Her gaze travelled over her apartment, the kitchen a small nook in the corner, the counter the only thing closing it off from the living area on the west side, which housed a balcony. She had never gone out on the balcony, the door having been locked since she’d moved in. She had placed heavy curtains over the doorway, effectively blocking it off from view, her desk and computer taking up the area in front.