Skin Game

by Ann Aguirre

  After wrapping a plastic bag around her calf, she took a long shower as if she could scrub away the memory of his touch. It didn’t work, but she was more than clean when she stepped out onto the small, scratchy towel she’d spread on the floor. A second towel sufficed to dry off, though she could probably have used it as a loofah. Maybe she could use a vacation when this was all over; she’d go somewhere warm, where everything was clean and luxurious.

  Kyra dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, left the light on, and curled up in the center of the bed. Silence made things worse, somehow. Tears prickled at the edges of her eyes, but she refused to cry just because she’d been stupid. It wasn’t the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. She just had to tolerate him until they finished with Serrano. It was idiocy to imagine she could handle things alone. Sleep took a long time coming, and her dreams were full of an onyx-eyed man who carried a gleaming knife—and who kissed her with the sweetest longing, just before plunging the blade into her heart.

  In the morning, someone tapped on her door. Kyra came awake, shivering and sweaty, but she couldn’t remember anything. Caution made her tiptoe to the window to look out, despite the chain on the door. She found Reyes standing there in the early chill, his breath puffing out in smoky wisps. If she hadn’t glimpsed the white bakery bag, she might’ve flipped him off through the glass and gone back to bed. With a mumbled curse, she let him in. He brought with him the scent of fresh coffee and fried dough.

  Her stomach growled, but she fixed a hard stare on him, trying to seem cool when she wanted to go for him with her nails, hurt him a fraction as much as he had her. Unfortunately, her talent didn’t work on him anymore, so he’d subdue her all too easily. Kyra regretted his immunity whole heartedly.

  “You can’t buy me off with food. I despise you.”

  “I know,” he said. “But you still need to eat.” Reyes set her coffee cup on the chest along with a few sugar packets and two tiny cartons of nondairy creamer, then he put the pastry bag down as well. “Half a dozen mixed doughnuts. Enjoy.”

  “How do I know you didn’t tamper with them?”

  A flicker of something—anger, frustration?—rippled over his harsh face, the first visible emotional reaction since she’d found out the truth. Christ, she’d thought he was made of iron and obsidian. “Do you want me to taste the coffee? Take a bite out of each doughnut?” he asked, caustic. “But wouldn’t that be worse than poison?” He paused. “A few days back, you were begging for my mouth.”

  She tried not to flinch. “I didn’t know who you were, then. Now, for all I know, you intend to drug me and turn me over to Serrano. Maybe you’re double-crossing me, not him, and this is the easiest way to get me and the car back to Vegas.” As the hot, impulsive words poured out, she began to feel sick.

  How could she be sure that wasn’t the case? Maybe Mia wasn’t even in Vegas, although how Reyes had found out about her was anybody’s guess. She might be in Fargo, working, as she’d mentioned last time they talked. Kyra had her friend’s cell number, but she never called. Those records could be subpoenaed, and she had warrants out. Mia didn’t need law enforcement leaning on her. If she refused to cooperate—and she would—they could slap her with obstruction of justice, at the very least.

  Should she risk calling from a pay phone? It might be worth the risk to check out Mia’s situation for herself. A number of things could go wrong, but anything was better than not knowing.

  Reyes regarded her, his dark face inscrutable. “You aren’t going to believe anything I say. So just keep a close eye on me until actions establish what is true.”

  “I will.” Kyra willed herself to stone and not remember how he could be fierce and gentle by turns, how for too brief a time, he’d given her everything she ever wanted. “Take a sip of the coffee and a bite from three random doughnuts for me, please.”

  He did as she asked. His stoicism gave the impression of masking a deep and brutal wound—and doubtless that was calculated as well. Sure, he was probably scarred for life over being found out. It must suck to find himself sleeping alone after so much pussy on tap. Kyra suppressed a bitter laugh over the idea she’d meant anything more than a job to him, more than convenient sex.

  “I’ll be in my room when you’re ready to go,” he said, letting himself out.

  Her stomach rumbled. With a silent curse for the man who’d brought them, she devoured the doughnuts. Oddly, she couldn’t make herself eat the part where he’d taken a bite. Instead she broke the pastry with her fingers and dropped it in the trash. Then she made the coffee pale and sweet as she liked it, guzzled it in a rush. When the sugar and caffeine hit her system, she felt almost equipped to face the day.

  It didn’t take Kyra long to get ready. She changed into jeans with holes in the knees and tugged a hoodie over her T-shirt. Snagging her backpack, she gave the room a final visual inspection to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind, and then she slid out the door. Kyra crept past his room down to the office; there was a pay phone outside. She found Mia’s number on a scrap of paper tucked in her wallet.

  After scrounging up sufficient change, she dropped it into the machine and dialed. The phone rang four times and popped to voice mail. Mia’s cheery voice said:

  “I’m not available to take your call. Leave a message, please.”

  “Just wanted to let you know I’m on my way,” she said quietly, and disconnected.

  Reaching voice mail told her precisely nothing. If Serrano had Mia, it was unlikely he’d allow her to answer the phone. She might also be busy. It was pretty early. Calling Fargo information wouldn’t help; Mia always stayed in furnished short-term housing, so she wouldn’t show up on information.

  But she could get the numbers of all the hotels that offered furnished corporate suites. Fargo wasn’t enormous—how many could there be? It was better than being stupid and going blindly back to Vegas with a killer who had already deceived her once.

  Kyra had to get change for the phone, and then she made the call and scribbled down all the numbers. Ten phone calls later, she’d discovered that nobody named Mia Sauter was currently staying—or had ever stayed—at any of the locations. That seemed pretty conclusive that Mia wasn’t in Fargo. She turned, found Reyes leaning on the Marquis across the parking lot. No telling how long he’d been watching her. Kyra sauntered toward him, tucking her wallet back into her bag.

  “Satisfied?” he asked. “Are we still heading to Vegas?”

  God, how she hated to answer, “Yeah.”

  Reyes couldn’t say he’d ever cared before what anyone thought of him, but he missed the light in her eyes when she looked at him. Now there was only suspicion and dislike. He couldn’t complain. He’d earned it.

  The damn stubborn woman wouldn’t let him take his turn driving. He wasn’t worthy to touch her sainted father’s legacy or some such crap. He’d love to smash the shit out of her fantasy that Beckwith had been something special, but she didn’t deserve that. Sometimes it was kinder to leave people their illusions.

  By late afternoon they were in the Badlands, and the sun went down in a ball of fire, leaving streaks of red and orange to crack the sky. She didn’t talk. Instead she sang along with the radio, ignoring him. It was ridiculous to be bothered by that, but he felt seven years old again, coming and going without acknowledgment. He could stand in a room with his dad for hours, and the old man would never say a word, lost in a smoky haze or simply plucking out bluesy notes for a song that would never be finished.

  Her silence made him that helpless kid again, and he hated it. More than anything, he wanted to walk away. Forget his part in this. She’d laugh gleefully at the idea she could wound him, and he hoped she never figured out how much power she possessed.

  They rolled into Vegas near midnight. The lights gave the city a festive, faintly decadent air. He’d always wondered what anthropologists would make of the place, once it lay in ruins a thousand years from now. They’d find a palace fit for a Roman e
mperor, an enormous Venetian villa, and a strange pyramid all in the same immediate area. No question, Vegas was a strange place, full of vice and urban magic.

  For the right price, you could buy almost anything, which was why he kept an apartment here. The condo in Cali was the closest thing he had to a home, but he had four places total: Cali, New York, Vegas, and London. You never knew when things might get interesting, and you might want to slide out of the country for a while.

  “I have a loft downtown.” It was the first time he’d spoken in hours.

  To his surprise she didn’t argue. “Good for us. It will be better if we stay out of hotels. I don’t want Serrano knowing we’re in town until we’ve had a chance to scope out his movements, find out where he’s keeping Mia and lay out a plan of attack.”

  Smart. He was struck again by her intelligent pragmatism. Kyra wouldn’t focus on her hurt feelings until after they got the job done. A surge of admiration went through him like a spear.

  “You’ll want to turn left at the next light,” he told her. “And then straight for three miles. I’ll let you know as we get closer.”

  They reached the loft just before one, and Reyes directed her to his spot inside the parking garage. He had been a little worried that they might have trouble with bikers along the way, but apparently with Dwight dead, they’d lost interest in pursuing a vendetta. That qualified them as clever as hell in his book.

  Kyra didn’t seem pleased with the wrought-iron industrial cage lift that took them to the fifth floor. She kept peering down as if expecting something terrible to happen. Reyes didn’t comment, merely led the way to the apartment, and let them both in. He had a different set of keys for each name, each life, but only the condo in Cali belonged to Porfirio Ten-Bears Reyes.

  “It’s a little Spartan,” she said, as she surveyed the place.

  That didn’t seem to require an answer. He knew what she meant: one chair, no television, no pictures, no couch. A fine film of dust covered everything, and it felt close inside. Someone with time and imagination could probably do well with it; the hardwood floors were nice, and he quite liked the brick wall that accented the white plaster. A black spiral staircase led up to the bedroom, where he had an air mattress. It was a nice one, but anyone who came in would be able to tell nobody lived here long-term.

  Kyra went to the balcony doors and opened them to let in some fresh air. Under other circumstances, he would have gone to the store and cooked for her again, but he didn’t imagine she wanted to repeat the experience. She was the sort of woman who learned from her mistakes. His pain had shifted into quiet resignation. At this point he just hoped there would come a time when she could think about him without regret.

  She tossed the greasy fast-food bags on the gray and black marble countertop. The galley kitchen was small, and he’d never bought food for the fridge. He couldn’t remember spending more than a week here on any occasion. After this, he would have to sell it. He couldn’t use the loft again without seeing her here, silhouetted by the city lights. A breeze blew in from outdoors, tinged with exhaust, and it spun through her curls like delicate fingers.

  “Eat up,” she invited.

  But she didn’t touch his food. Once she would’ve unfolded the foil and laid out his fries on top beside the burger, as if setting the table with expensive china. It was funny how such a number of small things added up to something important. This time, she left it in the bag, and he didn’t want it. The smell of charred meat, grease soaking into soggy bread, did nothing for him.

  “The bathroom is here.” He pointed to the right of the door. “You can sleep upstairs. I’ll camp out down here.”

  Kyra took a big bite out of her burger, chewed, swallowed, and then pointed a french fry at him. “You won’t win points by being chivalrous. But I’m not arguing against taking the bed. You deserve to sleep on the floor like a dog.”

  He had another air mattress in the closet, which would make them equal in terms of comfort, but he decided not to point that out. As she finished her meal, he realized she’d thawed from silence to sniping, which had to be better. It felt better anyway, though perhaps that impression came as a result of upbringing. Poor bastard, he mocked himself. All grown up and still tangled up with Daddy issues.

  She finished her food and muttered, “I’m gonna take a shower.”

  Just a few days back, she would’ve dragged him in there with her and they would’ve made love beneath the steamy fall of water. He imagined her skin slick and wet, gleaming beneath his hands. Christ, these memories would drive him nuts.

  Just when he thought he’d snap with the need to lash out, he realized something else. No matter what thoughts occupied her conscious mind, she didn’t fear him. Smart people just don’t mouth off to someone they think might put a bullet in them. Hope buoyed in his chest. Maybe if he showed her via action, as he’d said earlier, she might one day forgive him.

  Reyes didn’t expect it. He never expected anything of anyone; it was easier that way. He didn’t get attached to people, places, or things. That way, he functioned as entirely self-sufficient and self-contained.

  But he wasn’t. Not anymore. Not since he’d seen her bend over a pool table and sink a shot like she owned the place. As he listened to her belt out an awful, off-key rendition of “Brown-Eyed Girl” with him on the wrong side of the bathroom wall, his heart broke a little bit.

  CHAPTER 25

  Detective Sagorski was a fat fuck, Serrano thought—a waste of space. Doubtless he would milk the system for five more years, and then retire to drink beer on a hearty pension and the taxpayer’s dollar. He’d been asking pointless questions for the last ten minutes, as if somebody like him could get Serrano to spill his guts.

  His cheap brown polyester jacket strained at the seams, his shirt was badly wrinkled, and his tie sported a mustard stain. The asshole kept referring to his notebook, as if he couldn’t remember what Serrano had said a few minutes before. He had bloodshot eyes and heavy hanging jowls that gave him the look of a tired basset hound.

  Serrano tried to restrain his impatience. “Is there anything else I can do for you, detective?”

  A spark of irritation showed in the other man’s tired eyes. “I still have a few questions, if you don’t mind.” Though the words were polite, his tone wasn’t.

  “Go ahead.” For the first time, a prickle of unease skated across his calm.

  But Serrano hadn’t gotten where he was by rattling easy. They’d have to do a lot more than send some toothless old dog on the verge of retirement to scare him.

  “When was the last you saw Lou Pasternak and Joe Ricci?” The guy got to the point at last.

  He pretended to think about it. “At a . . . gentleman’s club. I can’t remember exactly how long ago, though.”

  “Yes.” Sagorski named the place. “I have the date. Wit nesses say you exchanged heated words before you left.”

  That was a little too close for comfort. How the hell did they know to look at him for this? It didn’t matter, he told himself. He was clean. He’d just done a little digging, made a few phone calls . . . and used the Russians as his trigger-men. Nothing could be traced back to him. Even the Russians didn’t know who had tipped them off.

  “Nothing serious. They were just ribbing me a little bit.”

  “Over your recent romantic failure? It’s too bad. We watched that video down at the precinct. One of our CIs gave us the heads-up.”

  Serrano’s jaw clenched. “Probably. I can’t remember.”

  “There’s a lot you can’t remember.” In dogged persistence, Sagorski revealed he had the nature of a bulldog, not a basset, and once he sank his teeth into something, he wouldn’t let go.

  “Only criminals think they need to have an alibi ready,” he said blandly. “I’m a businessman. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  As if he didn’t know.

  At that, the detective reached for his briefcase and withdrew a folder. “Sure. Pastern
ak and Ricci were found dead in their homes, three nights ago.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “This used to be such a nice town. Family friendly.”

  Sagorski ran his hands through thinning hair, leaving it standing on end like baby chick fluff. “Thing is, they were both shot twice in the back of the head.”

  He kept his expression neutral. “Strange coincidence.”

  Anybody with half a brain knew that was an execution-style shooting. You could pull some mope off the street and he’d tell you the same. That was the problem; everybody watching CSI thought they knew something.

  The detective’s mouth tightened. “We don’t think it’s a coincidence, Mr. Serrano. They were business partners, so we think they got into something they shouldn’t have.”

  Like laundering for the Armenians?

  He raised his brows and leaned forward on his heavy mahogany desk. “How do you think I can help you with this, detective?”

  “We’re just beating the bushes.” Sagorski tossed the folder on top of some paperwork Foster had brought him to sign the day before. “Hoping to find some leads. Go on, open it.”

  With growing trepidation, he did so. Glossy photos spilled out.

  Jesus.

  He’d understated the nature of their deaths. Serrano had seen some rough corpses in his time, but these sent a cold chill through even him. Remind me never to get on the wrong side of Odessa. Sagorksi had kindly provided both dorsal and ventral view. Whatever weapon they’d used had blown the back of their heads clean off. It had to be high caliber. Overkill, really.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. Their hands had been hacked off at the wrists and stuffed into their mouths, and some crazy son of a bitch had carved Russian characters all over their bodies. Serrano didn’t read Russian but he could guess what the letters said.

  “Damn.” There was no need to feign shock. Barayev was 100 percent crazier than he’d envisioned—and he had a good imagination.