interpersonal skills and most important of all she was willing to do whatever it took. But the guy had unzipped his pants. She’d walked out.
Then her family had been killed and in a small way, she went mad and understood how her father had felt, what had driven him to risk his living daughter for a dead one. There was no one she wouldn’t try to see, no one she wouldn’t pester to get at the truth. She lost all her fear, walked into the security headquarters and demanded people listen. They turned her away time after time, but she kept trying because she thought they’d tell her what she needed to know just to get rid of her.
One evening, an FSB officer called Platov followed her from the building and offered her a lift home. When he said he could give her the name she wanted, she’d climbed in his car. She remembered exactly what he’d said, that she’d have to fuck her way to the answers she wanted anyway, so why not start with him? She said she’d kiss him and he smirked, but he’d kissed her, put his tongue in her mouth, made her feel sick and then pushed her head down onto his lap. She made him give her the name first.
Viktor Petrenko. Platov told her they were sure he was behind Galya’s murder and that of her family but couldn’t prove it. Petrenko’s name wasn’t familiar.
She spat Platov’s cum onto the floor of his car without him noticing. It was a miracle she didn’t throw up. When they reached her street, Platov said he’d give her Petrenko’s address next time but she’d have to do more than suck him off. She slammed the car door in his face with her heart pounding, hoping she’d never have to make that choice. To her relief, it wasn’t hard to uncover Petrenko’s address.
Katya went to his house straight from the Conservatory, her violin under her coat, pretending she was pregnant. She had a story all ready but didn’t need it because he wasn’t there. A woman told her he’d gone to live in Miami. As she walked home, her heart slowly returning to normal, she wondered what the hell she’d been doing. What would she have done if she’d seen him? Talked to him rationally? Asked him about her sister and her family? Stabbed him? What with? Plus she only had Platov’s word that Petrenko was the one she sought. Why should she believe him?
So she did more research, found a photograph of Petrenko in newspaper archives and remembered seeing him with Galya at a charity concert. Galya had whispered he was sort of a boyfriend. A boyfriend who’d not come to her funeral or even sent flowers. Katya was certain he was the one her sister had been spying on, certain he was the one who killed her.
Now here she was, taking little steps toward him. Her only plan that if she got to know the wrong sort of Russians, she’d come across him sooner or later.
And if he’d killed Galya, then she’d kill him.
10
Jim Brannon pulled up on the dirt road near the Russian’s house, and glanced at his partner Detective Jose Merino.
“At least we beat the press,” Brannon said.
In the fading light, a Dade County police car idled ahead of them, a white Camry next to it. Two uniformed officers stood with a man wearing a dirty t-shirt and ripped jeans. The perimeter had been taped off. Brannon recognized one of the officers and sighed with relief. Mike Sherwood wouldn’t have allowed anyone to trample the scene.
“Hi, Mike. What have we got?” Brannon asked.
“Two bodies. Man and woman who lived in the house.” He consulted his notebook. “Vasily and Irina Novikov. No sign of a break-in. Door unlocked. Guy who discovered them.” He nodded in the man’s direction. “Friend of theirs. Edgar Chavez. Says he didn’t touch them. He and three friends were here playing cards last night. Novikov didn’t turn up for work today, didn’t answer his phone and he came to see why.”
Chavez walked over with his hand out. Brannon ignored it. “Did you turn on the lights?”
“No.”
“Dogs were in
Then her family had been killed and in a small way, she went mad and understood how her father had felt, what had driven him to risk his living daughter for a dead one. There was no one she wouldn’t try to see, no one she wouldn’t pester to get at the truth. She lost all her fear, walked into the security headquarters and demanded people listen. They turned her away time after time, but she kept trying because she thought they’d tell her what she needed to know just to get rid of her.
One evening, an FSB officer called Platov followed her from the building and offered her a lift home. When he said he could give her the name she wanted, she’d climbed in his car. She remembered exactly what he’d said, that she’d have to fuck her way to the answers she wanted anyway, so why not start with him? She said she’d kiss him and he smirked, but he’d kissed her, put his tongue in her mouth, made her feel sick and then pushed her head down onto his lap. She made him give her the name first.
Viktor Petrenko. Platov told her they were sure he was behind Galya’s murder and that of her family but couldn’t prove it. Petrenko’s name wasn’t familiar.
She spat Platov’s cum onto the floor of his car without him noticing. It was a miracle she didn’t throw up. When they reached her street, Platov said he’d give her Petrenko’s address next time but she’d have to do more than suck him off. She slammed the car door in his face with her heart pounding, hoping she’d never have to make that choice. To her relief, it wasn’t hard to uncover Petrenko’s address.
Katya went to his house straight from the Conservatory, her violin under her coat, pretending she was pregnant. She had a story all ready but didn’t need it because he wasn’t there. A woman told her he’d gone to live in Miami. As she walked home, her heart slowly returning to normal, she wondered what the hell she’d been doing. What would she have done if she’d seen him? Talked to him rationally? Asked him about her sister and her family? Stabbed him? What with? Plus she only had Platov’s word that Petrenko was the one she sought. Why should she believe him?
So she did more research, found a photograph of Petrenko in newspaper archives and remembered seeing him with Galya at a charity concert. Galya had whispered he was sort of a boyfriend. A boyfriend who’d not come to her funeral or even sent flowers. Katya was certain he was the one her sister had been spying on, certain he was the one who killed her.
Now here she was, taking little steps toward him. Her only plan that if she got to know the wrong sort of Russians, she’d come across him sooner or later.
And if he’d killed Galya, then she’d kill him.
10
Jim Brannon pulled up on the dirt road near the Russian’s house, and glanced at his partner Detective Jose Merino.
“At least we beat the press,” Brannon said.
In the fading light, a Dade County police car idled ahead of them, a white Camry next to it. Two uniformed officers stood with a man wearing a dirty t-shirt and ripped jeans. The perimeter had been taped off. Brannon recognized one of the officers and sighed with relief. Mike Sherwood wouldn’t have allowed anyone to trample the scene.
“Hi, Mike. What have we got?” Brannon asked.
“Two bodies. Man and woman who lived in the house.” He consulted his notebook. “Vasily and Irina Novikov. No sign of a break-in. Door unlocked. Guy who discovered them.” He nodded in the man’s direction. “Friend of theirs. Edgar Chavez. Says he didn’t touch them. He and three friends were here playing cards last night. Novikov didn’t turn up for work today, didn’t answer his phone and he came to see why.”
Chavez walked over with his hand out. Brannon ignored it. “Did you turn on the lights?”
“No.”
“Dogs were in
Similar Books
