Read Online The Accident Man by Tom Cain - Free Book Online Page B

going to give him the satisfaction of watching her lose her temper, still less cry or beg for mercy.
    “Sit up against the shelter.”
    She levered herself upright, then shuffled backward until she was leaning against the shelter wall, her legs flat on the pavement in front of her. Carver was on his haunches opposite her. Anyone passing by would take him for a boyfriend trying to help a sick or stoned girlfriend. They wouldn’t look too closely. They wouldn’t want to get involved. They’d pass right by, just like city people always do, in any city, anywhere.
    “Why does Max want me dead?”
    Still she gave nothing away. But her eyes were more tightly focused on him now, more calculating this time, as if she were waiting to see what he had before she made her first move.
    Carver wanted to needle her, provoke a reaction. “Look, I don’t blame you for being pissed off. I would be too if I’d screwed up. You shouldn’t have tried to take the gun out of the bag, right? You should have just shot through it. So what is it — you’re no good at your job? You’re out of practice? Maybe it isn’t your usual line of work.”
    She did react, but not in the way he’d expected. She just looked at him with utter contempt, as if he hadn’t a clue. As if he weren’t even close.
    He went back to Plan A. “You never answered my question. Why does Max want me dead?”
    Finally she spoke. “I don’t know anyone named Max.” Her voice was flat, unyielding. She sounded like a suspect in a police interrogation cell who knows the cops can’t prove their case. Her accent was American, but spoken by a foreigner. Carver guessed Eastern European.
    “Okay.”
    He got to his feet and took a couple of steps to where the black bag was lying on the ground. Bending down, keeping his gun and his eye on the woman all the while, he picked up the bag, then stepped back to his original position, right beside her.
    “Let’s see what we’ve got here….”
    He put his free hand into the bag, pulled out a purse, and flicked it open. There were half a dozen credit cards arranged in slots, one above the other. Carver slid a couple of cards out with his thumb. They bore the name “A. Petrova.” He took another look at the outside of the purse, checking out the pattern stamped into the leather: Louis Vuitton. He was starting to put the pieces together, but he needed a little more information to be sure.
    “What does the
A
stand for?”
    She shrugged. “What
A
?”
    “On your credit card: A. Petrova.”
    “You mean, like
a
…for ‘asshole’?” This time she let a slight, mocking smile play around the corners of her mouth. She’d scored another point.
    He kept riffling through the bag. There was a mobile phone. He opened it up and accessed the address book, keeping one eye on the woman. There were lots of Russian names. Some were people; others he guessed were shops, clubs, or restaurants. There was nothing under “Max.” He snapped the phone shut and pocketed it.
    Next, his fingers wrapped themselves around a piece of thin card. It was inserted into a small, stiff booklet: an airline ticket in a passport. He pulled them out of the bag. The ticket was an Aeroflot return from Moscow to Paris. The outward segment had already been torn off and used. Now he knew where she’d come from.
    He knew her full name too. The passport was Russian. It named her as Alexandra Petrova, date of birth September 21, 1967. So she was almost thirty. She looked younger. Maybe she was. Maybe she’d just assumed an older identity. And maybe he’d arranged her death about three hours ago.
    “You’ve got a Louis Vuitton bag. It contains underwear, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of high-heeled shoes, and some kind of silky dress. So, what, you were planning to party once you’d finished the job?”
    This time he knew he’d got through. She didn’t say anything, but she frowned. For the first time, the defiance in her eyes was clouded by uncertainty.
    Carver