Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery) (27 page)

“I also know about your woman,” Paul uttered in a shaky voice.

Sal cringed. “I’m warning you.” He rubbed his bristly cheeks.

“How d’you think I got this number, huh?”

He abruptly suspected a conspiracy. Was Irina capable of unleashing such malice? Or was his son toying with Sal’s failings? Nothing made sense. “Shut up!”

Sal closed his eyes and rested his head on the glass, the coolness crawling across his scalp as he heard faint sounds of a bicycle, pedals cranking, training wheels wobbling, the chain rattling. The metallic noises blended into reality accompanied by sounds of giggling—a child. His own. “You can do it,” Sal had exclaimed proudly, pushing Paul’s back as he ran alongside. “Go for it, go, you’re almost there.” Laughter reigned. It echoed enchantingly until Sal opened his weary eyes.

“I need bail money,” said his son, now sounding on the verge of tears. “And a better lawyer than that slacker you used last year.”

Sal’s hands began to tremble, his teeth grinding. He threw the cigarette out the window. “You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you? You’ve always wanted to be the opposite of Joel. The bad versus the good. The rebel in the shadows of my little prince. And you know why he was a prince? Because he didn’t screw up his life like you’ve done ever since you could walk. But why now, why continue your streak of uselessness? He’s dead. Joel’s DEAD! Taken away for God and country, just as I’d feared when I fought so hard to stop him from going off to war. You don’t have to compete with him anymore. You win. You’re the winning loser. Why can’t—” He was abruptly overcome by his vile cocktail of wrath and shame, choking his diatribe into a feeble gasp, all the while wanting to hold his son ever tighter in his fold, ever closer to the vague notions of forgiveness that Sal briefly contemplated.

“This is the last call they’re letting me make.”

“I can’t help you now.”

“Please!”

“No!” Sal slapped the phone shut on his thigh and slumped back into this seat. He wasn’t going to cry.
Damn it
. He fought not to. “I love you, you fool,” he whispered alone, now feeling awful that he’d again let his anger go unchecked. And now he also worried over Paul’s words—that he somehow knew his father’s trade. This was the last thing Sal ever wanted his son to know, as it was unfathomable, unforgivable. Early on Sal had not been the father he ought to have been, and now, as a seasoned spy and occasional deliverer of death, there’d be no explanation good enough, and no hope at all, for repairing the broken past.
I am a failure
, Sal admitted, his fist still clenched.

He closed his eyes and let himself get dragged into a remembrance minefield, reeling in from the past the very moment he crossed that line, when he’d given up on his younger son. He’d never forget. There was no overt act, but rather an omission, an absence, a message so scarring it now gripped him with such strength that he began to breathe erratically. Paul had purposely chosen to miss Joel’s funeral, his own brother, his own flesh and blood of twenty-four years. He’d disappeared for days, not out of sorrow, but rather to flaunt his spite on those closest to him, using a weapon even Sal couldn’t counter: apathy.

3

“This is nuts,” Jonathan told himself, holding the glass door halfway open. The door pane was warmed by the morning sun that every day this time of year made the sidewalks sizzle and turned parked cars into kettles.

He eyed the shadow under the mauve-colored awnings of Mrs. Lorraine’s flower shop across the wide one-way street.
No one there
. The shaded, recessed entranceway of Jason’s Pizza also appeared unoccupied. There were few places anyone could hide along this block, unless Mariya had crouched inside or behind a parked car. There was no sign of her, but he couldn’t shake the tension running through him. He couldn’t imagine her wanting to make contact after all the years, but she had. And the absence of any good reason made him only think of the obvious. She was a killer. A woman with no soul to speak of, and a decade’s passing would do little to change her, he told himself.

Ten years
, he thought further, meeting his reflection in the glass. He chuckled. The man Mariya had met so long ago had indeed aged. He looked tired. He’d put on a few pounds. The expensive clothes were no more. The old days of legal stardom were long gone. He scratched his bristly jaw. Even if his curiosity could outweigh the apprehension running through his blood this very moment, he wouldn’t want her to see him, not like this, even if she had some farfetched justification. The hell he’d gone through in Russia, and the utter emotional and physical destruction of it all—the charred remains of his home, Linda’s horrific injuries, the subsequent divorce, the colossal debt, his firm’s collapse. Unspeakable agony. Nothing had gone right, and for so long. Whatever pride he had left made him want to hide.

But the longer he stared at the street, the more he knew hiding was pointless. Suddenly, he spotted a woman walking with a man on the sidewalk. But judging from the cameras they carried and the way they dressed, they were harmless tourists. He sighed again, feeling relieved, and then scanned both directions once more.

Jonathan knew Mariya. She was no fool. She was as resourceful as she was devious. Jonathan recalled her disguised appearance in New Orleans nine years ago: a blonde wig, large sunglasses, and a wicked grin, as she stood behind the wheel of a rental car about to track her prey—a rogue official, a murderer himself. Two days later, the papers announced the man’s mysterious death. There was no mystery for Jonathan, but he’d said nothing and let it go. Justice had somehow messily prevailed, and punishment had been duly dispensed, albeit by a woman with no respect or patience for judicial processes, or for rules in general. If indeed Mariya was back in town now, she’d know how to find Jonathan better than he’d know how to evade her. After all, he’d seen firsthand her skills, perfected over decades in the name of the Soviet and then Russian intelligence
apparatchik
. A master spy. And a killer, he reminded himself. A woman with no qualms about terminating her enemies in cold blood.
Could she still be like that now?
She was in her late forties or early fifties back then. Nearly ten years had passed. Perhaps she’d mellowed out. He further entertained the thought. Retired. Wrote her memoir. Maybe she’d gotten married and spent her days growing vegetables and flowers at a remote dacha. He thought about this some more.

No, not her
.

His mind was again captive with scenes he couldn’t erase. A cold, wet Moscow alleyway where he’d laid face-down, half-conscious for God knows how long until he’d finally mustered the strength to get up. A bullet ricocheting off the walls of a dark tunnel and piercing his shoulder. Running with all his strength through a snowy forest to escape armed men with dogs. Mariya shooting a man’s head off at near point blank range and then, seconds later, lighting a cigarette, as if she’d just finished having sex. Mariya.
The
Mariya. A sparkplug like that simply can’t retire.

His eyes scanned the street. There were no good options. Chasing her down at her hotel felt rash. Going home would be foolish. He thought of driving to Mandeville, across Lake Pontchartrain, to lay low for a while at one of his favorite restaurants. For a second he even thought of heading back upstairs.
I’m not scared
, he told himself.
I’m not
.

The sidewalks were empty. He left his building, weaved past the few parked cars and crossed the street toward the alley on the other side. He heard only his own footsteps on the rough pavement and the distant whispered sounds of traffic on Magazine Street. He kept a steady pace into the alley. His old, green Camry came into sight some forty yards away. Just as he reached for his keys, an accompanying sound came from behind him. Heels. At a woman’s pace. He fought his urge to turn and quickened his walk, gripped the car key tightly, straight out, ready to unlock the door.

The stranger’s pace hastened.

Jonathan suddenly heard his name. Softly the first time. Louder the second. The woman’s voice—stern and with a subtle accent—was unmistakable. The crazy, death-smitten Russian spy had crawled out of the bowels of hell and found him. He stopped and held his breath. Running the remaining yards to his car would be senseless. Besides, he wasn’t about to show her an ounce of fear.

Her pace slowed.

“What do you want, Mariya?” He didn’t turn, quickly trying to picture her, factoring in what ten years would do to her pale Slavic features.

“I need your help.” She sounded only five yards behind him.

Jonathan slowly turned.

Mariya hadn’t changed much—still petite, fit, with a slightly muscular figure. There was no disguise this time. Her hair was longer, but the same hazelnut brown. The same deep dark eyes that shamelessly withheld countless secrets. The same woman he should now run from with Godspeed.

She stood there, poker-faced, wearing linen trousers and a blouse too thick for New Orleans in August—though it exposed her deep cleavage in plain view. No surprise. She’d always been at the borderline of high fashion and gaudiness, he remembered. But that was to be expected if you were the devil. All that was missing was the smell of sulfur.

She cracked a smile, then brought her small, black leather purse up to her chest and hugged it as one would a teddy bear.

“Nice to see you,” she said, tilting her head and added, “You have a few gray hairs, and you gained a bit of weight, but you still look okay.”

“You’re too kind,” he said.

She shrugged.

Her gaze was different somehow than he’d expected. Her eyes quixotically hinted that there was something warm-blooded behind them, though he struggled to imagine a selfless side of her.

“You didn’t come all this way just to say hello.”

Mariya took a step closer in her four-inch heels.

“You’re right. But I’m happy to see your face.”

Though she’d always spoken near-fluent English, her accent had thickened slightly since he’d last seen her nearly a decade ago. Perhaps she was spending more time in her native Russia. Maybe.
But why is she here?
In New Orleans, of all places, where she faced being charged with a long-forgotten murder.

“You can help me.”

He shook his head.

“Did you read what I wrote you?”

“Yeah, so what? You want my help.”

“You really read every word?”

“What? Yes.” Jonathan recalled only the four handwritten words on the note.

She looked down. “That’s all you have to say?”

“I’m going to tell you this just once,” Jonathan said, crossing his arms and meeting her gaze. “I’m not helping you because you are crazy. Yes, I’ve never said this so bluntly before, but you are certifiably insane, and mean, and violent, and cold-blooded, and egocentric and sexually demented. And that’s aside from the fact that people around you die prematurely. Have you noticed that about you? Have you?”

“I didn’t expect this greeting.” Her smile withered. She raised her chin and loosened her grip on the purse.

Jonathan shook his head.
How could she not?
They weren’t friends. Even though she’d helped him, he’d also witnessed her madness firsthand.

“I’m leaving, Mariya. I’m sorry you came all this way, but I want nothing to do with you.”

He turned and briskly walked the short distance to his car, got in and shut the door. He fiddled with his keys for a second, fighting the urge to roll down the window and ask what help she’d needed. His curiosity tempted him. He glanced at her. The fact that she stood ten feet away comforted him that his car probably wouldn’t explode upon turning the ignition. It didn’t, and he chuckled.
Crazy broad
.

Jonathan pulled away from the parking spot, turned toward the Constance Street exit, but suddenly the pedal fell flat. The engine died and the car coasted silently for a few yards until he pressed on the brakes. He threw it into Park and quickly tried to restart it. He looked over his shoulder and spotted Mariya through the back windshield. She’d walked out from behind the row of cars into his lane and threw her hands in the air.

He turned the ignition key again, and again. The engine whined but failed to start.

“Jerk!” He punched the dash with his fist. After kicking open his door, he jumped out, pointing the finger at her. “What did you do to my car?”

“I’m sorry,” Mariya shouted from twenty yards out. “You have to help. You owe me that.”

With every step he took on his angry march toward her came a different insult for this Russian hazard. Towering over her petite figure that innocently and deceptively veiled her viciousness—and with excruciating restraint in his voice—he asked, “What on earth do you want from me?”

She looked up at him calmly. “My nephew is dead. He’s in the morgue, and you’re the only person I can turn to.”

He felt his face turn red—but he told himself it might be from mild embarrassment, perhaps, but certainly not sympathy. For all he knew she was a pathological liar spitting out another ruse.

“Your nephew?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”