Cold Silence (A High Stakes Thriller) (9 page)

They were eating a late dinner. Dmitri shoveled food in deep, sweeping motions, loading butter onto his plate in thick chunks like it was bread. His tongue smacked against the roof of his mouth. Feliks sat across from him, eating in tiny bites like a frail bird as his fork clanked on the porcelain. He knew Feliks went the wrong way. There were words for it.
Goluboy
in Russian, and American words—gay, homo. None of them made it better or worse. Feliks wasn't manly. How had this happened to him? He was a strong father, not the type to have a
goluboy.
It was his mother's fault. She had been
slabi,
weak.

Feliks, at least, had his intelligence. He did the numbers for the business, reported them weekly. Oskar had never had the patience for numbers. He always checked Feliks's, though. One could never be too careful, and Oskar wanted it to be very clear that he was in charge. There had always been someone else to do the grunt work. That was how it should be. It had been Oskar's brother before he had died. Then Viktor, now Feliks.

Dmitri, on the other hand, had his mother's brain. He was better at the people side. People trusted him, confided in him. He couldn't add two and two, but he was good with people and he obeyed the rules. He kept the family name clean. Smarts wasn't something everyone could have. But right versus wrong, at least Dmitri knew that.

Only Viktor had had both; only he had been worthy of the empire Oskar had created. And Viktor was gone.

"We should go over the books," he told Feliks.

Feliks glanced up at him. "Of course. Whenever you'd like."

Oskar nodded. "Not tonight." He was too tired. He was always too damn tired. He watched them eat and felt even worse.

"Menya goshnit,"
he snapped at them. They made him sick.

His sons sat up and dropped their forks. "Papa?" Feliks said.

"You eat like a woman." He looked from Feliks to Dmitri. "And you like a pig."

The two boys exchanged insolent glances and shrugged.
"Gdye tei,"
he called to their houseboy, Andrei. "Take these plates off the table."

The houseboy removed the boys' plates and then stood there. Oskar waved him away.

Feliks was still, his shoulders slouched, his head dropped. He picked at a piece of skin on one finger.

Dmitri stood up, his chair scraping against the tile floor.

"I didn't tell you to get up," Oskar thundered. Porcelain and silverware rattled as his fist slammed onto the table.

Dmitri walked away. Walked away from him.

He deserved better than this. Viktor had been his true son, the firstborn. Dmitri was weaker, more like his mother, Sophya, had been. And Feliks. He shook his head and carved the pork in a long, smooth motion. Feliks
was
Sophya.

At least she wasn't there to further influence them. She hadn't been strong enough. Her heart, was what the autopsy had said. It hadn't been her heart he'd broken, but it was good enough. Good enough to tell her sons. Only Viktor had handled the news with the appropriate male response. Dmitri and Feliks had wailed like babies. And Viktor was the one he lost. He paused and chewed his food with a low growl, stuffing in another bite and chewing harder.

He felt the burn in his gut again. He kept himself from rubbing it. He wasn't about to show his sons any sign of weakness. It had been difficult to do. He'd been ill in front of them on a few occasions, unable to hold off the nausea. But he'd told them it was food poisoning, and while he sensed they knew something was wrong, they certainly didn't discuss it. He would not share his problems with them. He had to be strong, in charge.

And he was even more careful in public. He'd told his business associates that he'd lost the weight on his doctor's recommendation. They had no idea that he was simply wasting away. Or if they did, he didn't know about it. Business was going to hell, and any sign of weakness would let others step in. He wasn't going to have that. He longed for a Zantac to ease the ache. The doctor was always warning him about salt. Goddamn doctors. He liked salt. He'd earned it, and he'd eat as much of it as he pleased.

Andrei returned and filled his glass with Grey Goose, straight from the freezer.

Feliks nodded the boy over, but Oskar shook his head. "None for him," he snapped in Russian.

Feliks made no move to stand up for himself. Oskar glanced down at the salty pork on his plate and narrowed his eyes. The meals were always salty now. Did they know?

He swept his arm across the table and shoved the plate to the floor. It shattered in a wonderful crash. Two maids came flying from the kitchen.

"Sweep this up," he demanded. "And then get back to the kitchen. There will be no women in my dining room."

The houseboy let them clean without helping. Oskar nodded to him. Someone who understood the pecking order.

Feliks met his gaze and Oskar waved him off. "Go,
nyezhenka,"
he said, using the Russian word for "sissy."

Feliks didn't argue. He just scurried out of the room like a mouse.

"He'll not eat here again," he said to Andrei. There would be no women in his dining room, even in men's clothing.

The phone rang and Andrei brought it to him.

He answered without a sound.

"Krov, please," the man said, pronouncing Kirov's name like the Russian word for blood.

His jaw tensed.
"Eta Kirov,"
he answered in Russian.

"I've done it."

"You've been successful?"

"I have him."

Viktor eased himself back into the ornate mahogany chair.

"You are pleased?"

He smiled—the first smile in months. "I am pleased."

"I am glad."

He waved the houseboy from the room and dropped his voice to a gravelly whisper. "You'll tell no one of this. You deal only with me."

The man on the other end was easy. "What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing yet. I'll be in touch."

He hung up the phone and settled back into the chair, draining his glass. The vodka was smooth against his lips, the cold moving down his chest and easing his pain. Grey Goose was tonight's medicine of choice, although he preferred Ketel One. He debated calling for Andrei but decided against it. It was his turn to enjoy the solitude. He pulled the pills from his pocket and let two roll onto his palm. He took them with the final dribble of vodka and began to rub a small circle on his chest with the ball of his thumb.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, pushing until the push hurt more than the pain. Damn the pain. This wasn't supposed to be how Oskar Kirov died. He thought of his Sophya and Viktor, waiting for him. At least there would be Viktor.

The pain settled deeper and he could no longer reach it with his thumb.

"Andrei," he roared.

The boy came running and Oskar pointed to the vodka on the table in front of him. "My glass is empty."

The boy filled it and stood beside him as he drank in silence. A third glass, then a fourth, until the bottle grew empty and the pain grew soft.

Chapter 8

"Are you going to find him?" Peter asked.

Cody forced herself to nod. She would find him... even if it killed her. "Can I ask you about school today?"

Peter glanced over his shoulder, looking for the comfort of his father.

"He'll be right back. He's just making us hot chocolate, remember?"

Peter nodded.

Cody smoothed her hands across her jeans and slid down to the stair below Peter so they were eye-to-eye. "Can you start with this morning? When was the first time you saw R.J.?"

"We have math first, with Dr. Teller," Peter said, rolling his eyes the way only children do about teachers.

"Did you see him before class?"

He shook his head. "I was real late. Dad got an important phone call before we left."

Cody nodded, thinking again what a fool she'd been to trust Travis to pick up her son. "And after that?"

"We go to different homerooms, but we always meet up for lunch."

"What did you guys talk about?"

Peter shrugged. "The normal stuff." He paused and his face brightened. "And about tonight. What games we were going to play, what to get on our pizza."

"And then?"

"Then more school."

"And you didn't see him?"

Peter shook his head. "Not till P.E. with Mr. Crowley."

"And everything was normal in P.E.?"

Peter nodded.

"And after that?"

"After that, we went back inside to get our stuff, but then R.J. ran back."

Cody felt her breath still. This was it, the most important information. "Why did he go back?"

Peter looked over his shoulder again. "Don't tell Dad, but he left my jacket out by the playground. Dad made me swear not to let anyone borrow it, but R.J. really liked it. I knew he wouldn't hurt it."

Cody swallowed the thickness in her throat and nodded. "I'm sure he didn't mean to leave it on the playground."

"No. He wouldn't do that. He's real 'sponsible, Mrs. O'Brien."

She blinked hard and Peter patted her hand.

"I'm sure he'll come back soon."

She forced a smile. "Thank you." She inhaled and willed her body to process the air, to keep moving. "What happened then?"

"That's all I know, 'cause when I got back from getting my stuff, Jamie Underwood told me R.J. had left with his dad."

"So you didn't see him leave?"

"No."

Cody's chest tightened. "Did you see the car?"

Peter shook his head.

Travis reappeared, carrying a tray with three mugs. "The one with marshmallows is yours," he told Peter. He set the tray down on the step beside Peter and then sat across from her, one step below his son.

He lifted one mug to Peter. "Be careful, it's hot."

Cody could picture Ryan's small, soft features against Mark's strong ones. How unfair that they'd never really had the opportunity to be father and son. She was more jealous of Travis in that moment than she'd been of anyone in a long time. Travis lifted a mug and passed it toward her. She held it tight in her hands, soaking in the heat until it was uncomfortable. At least it was a real sensation. "What exactly did Jamie Underwood say?"

Peter shrugged. "Just that R.J.'s dad had come to get him."

Cody looked at Travis. "Do you know the Underwoods?"

He shook his head. "Not well. He's a lawyer, travels a lot. She's at home."

"Where do they live?"

"A couple miles from here." He paused.

"Do you have the address?"

He gave her a reluctant nod. "Maybe I can help, go with you or something."

She shook her head. She thought about how much she wanted to call her family. Her sisters would know what to do: Ali had always been the problem solver, and Nicole always knew exactly the right thing to say. But Cody couldn't call them. She couldn't call anyone, not without risking Ryan's safety.

She was in this alone. She couldn't take anyone's help, and especially not Travis's. Plus, she still had to think about what she could say. She wasn't sure it would be the same thing she told Travis. She didn't want to start rumors about Ryan's father that he would have to deal with when he was back. She ached. Of course he would be back. She shook herself mentally. She would go there, tell them whatever she had to in order to get help.

Travis left to get the address, and she set the untouched mug back on the tray. It was then that she realized Travis had made coffee for her, not hot chocolate. She put her hand on Peter's shoulder. "Thanks for your help."

"You're welcome. Will you call when you find him? And tell him I'd really like him to come spend the night sometime."

She smiled and nodded. "I promise to call."

"Don't worry, Mrs. O'Brien. I'm sure R.J.'s dad is taking care of him."

The image of Mark watching over Ryan brought tears trickling down her cheeks. She smiled through them. She prayed he was right.