by Mary Stone
She stopped herself before she could elaborate on how the attack had occurred. Though Bree had caught on to Winter’s uncanny ability to spot details in the environment while they worked the Douglas Kilroy case, she’d never asked about the specifics.
And as long as she didn’t ask, Winter had no intent to share.
Like she told Autumn earlier in the month, she had to take stock of what her mind had revealed and work backward. Winter knew that Natalie had been stabbed in the neck with a hypodermic needle, but she couldn’t well blurt that out without a reasonable shred of proof to back it up.
Pulling herself from the contemplation, Winter glanced between Vinson and Schaeffer. “Detectives, you asked around to see if any of the neighbors saw something unusual, right?”
Detective Vinson emerged from behind the kitchen island to stand at Bree’s side. “Yeah. None of the neighbors saw anything bizarre that night, but none of them said they really paid attention to the comings and goings of the Falkner’s.”
Winter nodded. “What about the garage? Were either of their cars there?”
“There’s one inside, but without looking it up, I can’t be sure if it’s Natalie’s or Jon’s,” the detective replied.
As she stepped away from the counter, Winter glanced to the carpeted hallway that led to a set of stairs and a bathroom. At the end, a beige door was closed—the door to the garage.
“What about the plate?” Bree’s voice snapped Winter’s focus back to the edge of the kitchen.
Swallowing against the pit of anxiety that wouldn’t relent, Winter nodded and gestured to the trash can. “Well, I think it’s possible that Natalie was holding that plate when she was…attacked. Could’ve been something fast-acting like a sedative administered in a syringe, or a substance she inhaled. Something like that. Or this whole kitchen would be a mess.”
Detectives Vinson and Schaeffer exchanged glances, but after a brief pause, they both nodded their approval.
Bree tilted her chin in Winter’s direction as a request for her to continue.
“Right.” Winter waved a hand at the trash can. Suppressing the consistent onslaught of fear and panic was just short of exhausting, and she was doing well to maintain a coherent dialogue. “The plate. I think that whoever attacked her, the Russians most likely, cleaned it up. Natalie and Jon sent messages to say they were going to be out of the office, so I think it’s a safe bet that the Russians didn’t want anyone to realize the couple had been kidnapped. At least not right away.”
“That’s not uncommon with them,” Detective Vinson said.
As Winter neared the carpet, every muscle in her body tensed in preparation for a fight.
Though she knew the confrontation was a thing of the past, she still couldn’t push past the damn anxiety. There was a prominent ringing in her ears, and she squeezed her eyes closed as she swallowed the bile that stung her throat.
Before either of the detectives or Bree could catch on to her fragile physical state, she forced open her eyes and took in a deep breath.
Gesturing to the carpet with an outstretched hand, she dabbed at a new dribble of blood running to her upper lip. “Here. Look at this.”
Bree’s footsteps were little more than a whisper of sound as she crossed the tiled floor. “Drag marks.”
“Yeah.” Winter nodded. “Drag marks. I think that Natalie got home that night, and her husband was already gone. I doubt the Russians grabbed him from here, but they had someone waiting for her until she got home from seeing a movie with her friends. She went to get herself something to eat, right over there.”
Both detectives’ eyes followed Winter’s outstretched hand as she pointed to the sink.
When neither of them offered a word of dissent, Winter forged ahead. “She was standing there when someone came up from behind and drugged her. It had to have been something fast-acting, or we’d see more broken items in here than just a plate. She either dropped the plate or knocked it off the counter when she fell, and it shattered. The kidnapper dragged her body down this hallway, loaded her into a car, cleaned up the scene, and took off.”
Bree’s eyes studied Winter’s face intently before shifting her gaze back to the carpet. “The car would’ve been in the garage, right? Otherwise, they’d have risked the neighbors seeing them drag an unconscious person across the driveway.”
Detective Vinson cleared her throat. “They’ve got a security system. Its software might keep tabs on who opens the garage and when. We’ll call the security company and have them send you guys whatever they’ve got.”
Winter offered the woman an appreciative nod. Finally, the adrenaline had started to recede. “In the meantime, I think we ought to get some crime scene techs over here to check for trace evidence. There’s a possibility that the kidnappers used Natalie’s car to drive her to wherever they took her, so we should check on that too.”
As the other three nodded, Winter didn’t have to hope she was right about her brief reenactment of Natalie’s abduction.
She knew she was right.
15
When she spotted the flicker of movement as the silver sedan approached, Bree blew out a sigh of relief.
Hers and Winter’s flight back to Richmond was scheduled to depart in an hour and a half, and if she wanted any chance to fight through the security checkpoint with enough time to sprint to her gate, Bree needed to leave soon.
As Special Agent Drew Hansford pulled up to park beside her in the dilapidated lot of an abandoned warehouse, she raised one hand to offer him a quick wave.
With a smile, he returned the gesture of greeting and stepped out onto the pockmarked asphalt. Bree pressed a button to disengage the locks as he reached for the passenger side door.
The cool afternoon air rushed in with Drew, and Bree was glad for her jacket. She’d lived in Baltimore for years, but by now, she had adjusted to the more temperate climate of Virginia.
Drew raked a hand through his sandy hair, his face a scowl of disgust. “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it lately, but I really hate hanging out with the Russians.”
Bree’s burst of laughter was almost involuntary. “I can’t imagine they make for great company unless you’re in the mob. Have you found anything yet?”
He leaned back heavily in his seat. “Not sure. Honestly, I think what I haven’t found is a little more peculiar. You said Eric Dalton claims he made a deal with the Russians to start laundering money for them as a way to pay for part of the five-hundred grand they gave him, right?”
Bree nodded. “Right.”
“See, that’s the weird thing.” As his pale eyes met hers, the glint of good humor dissipated. “I’ve heard a lot of shit about what’s going on with the Russians. Just high-level shit, real basic information, but none of it has involved a yoga studio. I haven’t even heard any of them mention a new partner for getting their dirty money clean. Either they’re really making an effort to keep this shit on the down-low, or…”
He left the statement unfinished and shrugged.
Tapping a pensive finger against the steering wheel, Bree pursed her lips. “They might be. We figured the secrecy was part of the reason they’d be after a business relationship with Eric Dalton anyway, right? Maybe they’re keeping a tight leash on the whole thing.”
Drew shook his head again. “Still. It’s just weird that I haven’t heard anything. I’ve been undercover with these guys plenty of times before, and I’ve got rapport with them. Not for anything really hardcore, but the basic financial stuff.” He poked himself in the chest. “I’d hear about that. I’m not saying you’re wrong, I’m just saying it’s weird.”
Bree blew a piece of hair out of her eyes. “That’s the thing about the Russians, though, isn’t it? They don’t operate traditionally like the Italians or even the Irish. They’re more like the cartels, you know. They’re…innovative, I guess. Maybe this is like a new prototype for their money-laundering operation. Hell, maybe they plan to launder money for other syn
dicates.”
“It’s definitely possible. If they think they can turn a profit from it, they’ll try it at least once. Plus…” A thoughtful look flitted over his unshaven face. The stubble gave him a dangerous edge, and Bree could see why he fit in so well undercover.
“Plus?” Bree raised an eyebrow.
“You know, it just occurred to me. But maybe you’re right.”
“You already said I might be right.” She waved a dismissive hand.
The corners of his eyes creased as he grinned. “I did. But I mean it. Remember how I told you about that pending RICO case?”
“Yeah.”
“It might be that case is making them a little more cautious. I don’t doubt they’re on the hunt for our witness. They know that the whole thing hinges on that guy, so they’re a little preoccupied looking for some way to get their hands on him right now. But that might be why they’re keeping a tighter lid on this new venture with Eric Dalton and his wife’s yoga studio. A bunch of their people’s heads are on the chopping block.”
Bree tried to puzzle the pieces together, but something didn’t fit. “But if they were trying to be more cautious, why would they be reaching out to a brand-new business partner? A business partner who’s never had anything to do with any kind of organized crime ever in his suburban, cookie-cutter life?”
He inclined his head in a slight nod. “Also a valid point. I don’t know. This whole thing is just odd.”
“Tell me about it,” she muttered.
“We could go around in circles about this for hours. The list of pros and cons for starting a new money laundering gig with a squeaky-clean airline pilot and his yoga instructor wife is about fifty-fifty. I’m meeting up with an old buddy of mine tonight, though. He’s done pretty well for himself, and I think he’ll know a little more about what we ought to be looking for.”
With another nod, Bree forced a smile to her lips. She hoped the look was reassuring and not strained. “That’s good.”
A shadow of concern passed over his face, and her hopes were dashed. “All right, you look like something’s off. What is it?”
Sighing, Bree tilted her head to look at the gray upholstery of the ceiling. “It’s nothing. Just this weird feeling I haven’t been able to shake.”
“Feeling about what?”
“This case.” She straightened to meet his gaze. “And Eric Dalton. If you can’t find anything out tonight from your guy, I think you ought to just head back to the FBI office, and we’ll regroup. Maybe then I can figure out what’s been bothering me about this thing.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” He winked and flashed her a smile that practically dripped sarcasm.
“Watch your back tonight, okay?”
One hand hovering above the silver door handle, he turned his head and gave her a little salute. “Always, Agent Stafford.”
Between Winter’s behavior at the Falkner house earlier that day and the lack of information on Eric Dalton’s relationship with the Russians, Bree was all but certain they had overlooked a key piece of the puzzle.
“Be safe, Drew,” she whispered to his retreating back.
She just hoped that missing puzzle piece wouldn’t spell disaster for her friend.
16
Special Agent Drew Hansford raised a hand and tilted his chin as a familiar man pushed his way through a set of glass double doors and out into the night. Drew glanced back to the bartender and then to his wallet as he shuffled through a few small bills.
He dropped a twenty atop the bar and grinned at the shorter man. “Don’t need the change. Thanks, Ivan.”
With a pleasant smile, Ivan collected the payment and nodded. “Thank you, friend.”
Rapping his knuckles against the tarnished wooden surface, Drew turned to make his way to the same door through which Sergei Kolesov had just walked.
Tonight, Drew wasn’t Drew Hansford.
He was Misha Pelevin, a small-time trafficker and drug dealer for the Russian mob in Washington D.C. and Baltimore. Over the years, he’d maintained his cover under the guise of a brief stint in prison.
He kept his backstory simple. Once Misha was released, he had tried and failed to pursue a legitimate career outside the seedy world of the Russian mafia. Now, supposedly, he was back and ready to try his hand in the drug dealing scene after a hiatus.
Using the need for a connection for drug suppliers and money launderers as an excuse, he’d spent the last couple days prodding his old contacts for information about the most recent goings-on.
But now, thanks to his conversation with Sergei, he was almost certain the answer to his and Bree’s inquiry had been right in front of their faces all along.
The pending RICO case was at the forefront of everyone’s conversations.
Two Bratva commanders—or brigadiers, as they were called—were facing life sentences for extortion and murder for hire. Along with the foot soldiers who had been taken down at their side, the number totaled nine. As far as convictions against those affiliated with the Russian mob went, nine was a damn impressive number, especially in one fell swoop.
They didn’t have the connections in Baltimore to find the location of the key witness—a former enforcer with a guilty conscience. The man had turned coat and offered his testimony in exchange for the safety of him and his family.
If the Russians managed to find him, Drew shuddered to think the veritable atrocities they would enact in the interest of revenge.
When he kept in mind the upcoming trial, the answer to his and Bree’s question about the details of Eric Dalton’s agreement with the Russians seemed obvious.
Eric’s estranged son was a federal agent, and since RICO convictions were within federal jurisdiction, Eric Dalton must have promised the men after him that his son could locate the prosecution’s star witness.
Fucking idiot.
Drew’s first thought was to abscond to the bathroom to call Bree Stafford and provide a rundown of what he’d learned, but he had refrained. The little dive bar where he’d met up with Sergei was owned and operated by the Russians, and he wasn’t willing to risk the possibility that the conversation would be overheard.
Once he was in his car and headed away from the damn bar, he would be free and clear to contact his friend.
He flicked his wrist in a departing wave to the bartender as he pushed his way through the second set of double doors. As he remembered Bree’s ominous warning from earlier in the day, the little hairs on the back of his neck rose to attention. The sensation of goose bumps on his arms wasn’t the result of the brisk evening air. His well-worn, olive drab jacket was still insulated just as thoroughly as it had been when he’d bought it almost a decade ago.
Bree’s hunch was correct, but he still wasn’t sure he saw the same danger that she had.
Ever since they first started working together during Bree’s stint in organized crime, she’d been privy to the same types of hunches.
When he asked her about the instinctual reactions, she had told him that the women on the maternal side of her family were sensitive. At first, Drew thought she’d referred to some sort of hacky psychic capability, but she laughed off the suggestion. They weren’t psychic, she had said, they were just in tune with their instincts.
Psychologists called the phenomenon “rapid cognition,” and Drew could count Bree’s inaccurate hunches on one hand. If she suspected trouble was amiss in their case, then there was a high likelihood she was right.
Drew cast a hurried glance over his shoulder and jammed his hands in his pockets.
To stay consistent with Misha’s backstory, he didn’t carry a weapon aside from the hunting knife sheathed at his back. However, in a close-quarters fight, the blade was an effective weapon in the hands of someone who knew how to properly wield it.
A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye froze him in place.
The shadowy figure of a man leaned against the driver’s side door of a car, arms crossed over his ch
est. Drew’s car was in the lot catty-corner to the bar parking area. All he had to do was keep moving.
If the man wanted to kill him, he would have already brandished a firearm.
He had just departed the discussion with Sergei, and he’d watched the man drive down the street only moments after he left. If Sergei had picked up on Drew’s identity, he wouldn’t have told him about Eric Dalton’s potential connection to the RICO witness.
Long story short…his cover hadn’t been blown.
All he had to do was make it to the damn parking lot.
Pulse pounding in his ears, Drew started back in his trek with renewed vigor. He had to refrain from an outright sprint as he hustled past the entrance to the lot.
Though his head was turned straight forward, he kept the strange figure in his periphery for as long as he could manage. As soon as the man disappeared from his vision, he thought he was in the clear.
He thought wrong.
“Excuse me,” a voice called out from the darkness at his back.
Ignore it. He’s probably a bum or a druggie trying to beg for cash. Drew didn’t slow his pace.
“Excuse me, Misha Pelevin.” The volume of the man’s voice was no higher than conversational, but the bass reverberated off the concrete and carried over to Drew like the words had been uttered at his side.
Drew paused mid-step. He wondered if he could sprint to the end of the block and across the street before the stranger caught him. But it didn’t matter if the man could keep pace with him or not. A bullet could easily close the distance.
Each motion was agony. Drew clenched and unclenched his fists as he turned his head to the approaching figure.
Ruddy orange streetlight glinted off the silver badge in one of the man’s gloved hands. “Mr. Pelevin, I’m Detective Smith with the Baltimore City Police Department. I’m going to need you to come with me, please.”
Bile stung the back of Drew’s throat.
He swallowed hard against the sudden bout of nausea, but before he could rebuke the alleged detective’s request, he spotted it. The matte black service weapon in the man’s other hand.