Deadliest of Sins (17 page)

“I think I do, Cousin Petey,” he whispered, fitting six bullets from the jar into the empty chambers of the gun. “And I think today might be the day.”

Twenty-Five

Shortly after 2 a.m.,
Boyko Zelinski's cell phone beeped on the bedside table. Though the naked woman who lay next to him only murmured in her sleep, Boyko sat up in bed immediately. The ring was “Borodin's Night on Bald Mountain,” a piece that had denoted discordancy to him ever since his childhood in Kiev. He'd assigned the piece to emergency calls only; that there was an emergency while he was spending the night with a lingerie model troubled him.

“Boyko here,” he answered in English. He frowned as the man Smiley began speaking.

“Sorry to wake you up, Boyko, but we got a situation here.”

“Tell me.”

“We did the baby trap tonight, to clean up a pal's mess. We got something we didn't expect.”

“What?” Boyko looked over as his bed partner rolled over. Her sheet slipped down, revealing amazing breasts—natural breasts, not a trace of silicone in them.

“A girl cop.”

“So?” said Boyko, slowly peeling the sheet down to the girl's navel. “Take care of her like the others.”

“You don't understand. This one's special. She's the governor's cop.”

Boyko frowned. American government confused him at times. He knew the president led the country and the Congress collected huge salaries for little work, but he was hazy on what governors did. Mostly, he just dealt with police chiefs and union bosses. “What's a governor's cop?”

“She works for the governor of North Carolina, Boyko. Aren't you in Charlotte now?”

“Yes.”

“The governor runs the state, up in Raleigh. And she's not somebody we want to mess with, if you know what I mean.”

Boyko sighed. Sadly, he knew what Smiley meant. It meant no more nibbling the model's rosebud nipples or having her wrap those long legs around his waist, at least for tonight. It meant getting up, putting on clothes, driving over to figure out what to do with this cop. Still, he knew he had no choice. His employers would not be pleased if he remained here and let that
durachit'
Smiley take care of things.

“I'm coming now,” he said. He clicked off the phone, then after a long, regretful look at the girl's magnificent breasts, he pulled the sheet back up to her chin.

He dressed quickly, redonning the white linen suit he'd worn earlier. He decided against the less traveled highways and took I-85 west to Smiley's place. It would get him close enough, and he liked the way his white Mercedes ate up the straight superhighway. As the mile markers flew by, he wondered about the cop who'd fallen for Smiley's trick. Probably fat, he decided. Most American girls carried an extra ten kilos, the Southerners even more. Occasionally the weight was nicely proportioned—large breasts, round butts. More often it was pot bellies and lard-dimpled thighs. He pictured this cop as one of the
politsiya korov
in Moscow—fat, short-haired women with wide duck feet shod in black athletic shoes. He snorted with disgust at the thought. Until he'd removed them, his model had worn red spike heels with tiny little straps that crisscrossed her ankles.

He continued down I-85, exiting just shy of the South Carolina line. From there he drove northwest, to Smiley's dump. It was an old hunting camp that had expanded to a motel, then shriveled to extinction when the interstate opened some fifteen miles to the east. It backed up against a forest thick with dark pine trees, much like the Ural Mountain work camps his grandfather had described. He pulled up beside Smiley's Cadillac and walked into what had once been the lobby. Smiley sat behind a battered desk, his oily face shiny with sweat and concern.

“Thank God you're here,” Smiley said, getting to his feet. “I was beginning to worry.”

“Don't be such an old woman,” Boyko snapped. “You only called two hours ago. Where's the cop?”

“Follow me.”

Smiley locked the lobby door, then led him down a dark hall. He housed the girls awaiting transport here, far away from the ones who took their baggage to the street every night. He walked to the second room on the right and unlocked the door. On a single bed, away from the boarded-up window, a woman lay on her back, her legs spread, one arm dangling off the mattress. Boyko walked over to get a closer look.

“This is the governor's cop?”

Smiley shrugged. “According to Ralph Gudger. ”

“You didn't take any IDs, did you?”

“No, we didn't touch nothin'. She came out of her car like they all do, all panicky over a kid being dumped by the side of the road. Her name's Mary Crow. Gudger says she's investigating gay hate crimes for the governor.”

Boyko frowned. “Gay hate crimes?”

“Queers,” explained Smiley. “Homos.”

Boyko shrugged but leaned over the bed, moving the woman's head to get a full view of her face. She didn't look like any policewoman he'd ever seen—high cheekbones, straight nose, a lower lip that begged kissing. He straightened up and saw that though her breasts were not especially large, neither were her hips, and she wore leather sandals instead of the boxy black walkers he'd been expecting. He turned to Smiley. “You know, certain men would find this woman very attractive.”

“She's better than most of girl cops we get.” Smiley looked down at the drugged woman. “Personally, she don't do so much for me.”

“That's because you like big tits and small brains,” Boyko replied. “This woman goes far beyond that.”

“What do you know about her brain? She's fucking out cold!”

“You look at the details—her clothes aren't cheap. Her hair's clean. No silly tattoos, nothing pierced except her ears. A beautiful mouth. I cannot imagine what she must look like with her clothes off and her eyes open.”

“She's working on this gay thing,” said Smiley. “She might be a dyke.”

Boyko threw back his head and laughed. “Even better. I know fifty men who would pay a fortune to have a pretty
lesbiyanka
cop tied up in their bedroom.”

Smiley gaped at him, wide-eyed. “You mean you don't want me to get rid of her?”

“Absolutely not!” said Boyko sharply. “Phone calls must be made quickly about this one.”

“But this is a real woman—a policewoman—not some doped-up dropout teenager.”

Boyko laughed. “The greater the risk, the greater the reward, Smiley. Isn't that what you Americans say?”

“But what do you want me to do with her?”

“Is that little blonde still here?”

Smiley nodded. “They're picking her up tomorrow.”

“Then put this one down the hall.”

“I don't know. I've never done a cop before.”

Boyko looked at Smiley's anxious expression and slapped him on the back. “Calm down, my friend. This particular American cop will also be gone tomorrow. And she's going to make us a lot of money.”

Some miles away, Victor Galloway rolled over in bed, knowing dreamily that his alarm would soon go off, sending Bon Jovi's “I'll Sleep When I'm Dead”
through the room at full volume. He'd woken up to that song since he was in high school, and though it had been the anthem of his youth at Saint Pi High, at thirty-eight he felt more like the lyrics should go,
I'll sleep so I won't feel like I'm dead.
He nestled deeper under his covers, waiting subconsciously for the music to start, for the day to begin. He was thinking about yesterday, wondering what Mary Crow had done last night when his cell phone erupted with the Chipmunks singing “I'm Gonna Whip Somebody's Ass.” He bolted upright and reached for the phone—that was the ringtone he assigned to Dispatch, for when shit was hitting the proverbial fan.

“Galloway here,” he croaked, his voice grainy with sleep.

“Galloway, this is Pike.”

Pike, Pike.
He thought for a moment, then remembered Pike—a lanky patrol officer with buck teeth and acne scars on his cheeks. “Yeah, Pike. What's up?”

“We got a 10-53 here that Crump says you might know something about.”

“A 10-53?” Abruptly, the Bon Jovi drums launched. Galloway swatted the alarm off. “Abandoned vehicle?”

“Yeah,” said Pike. “A '99 black Miata, registered to a Mary Crow. Crump says you know her.”

He sat up straighter in the bed. “Yeah, I know her. Where's the car?”

“Jackson Highway, about three miles this side of the Gaston County line.”

He remembered they'd been drinking at the restaurant—wine during the meal, a brandy afterwards. Still, Mary had seemed okay to drive. “Does it look like she had an accident?”

“No, no accident. No nothin'. It's like that other girl—lights and engine left on, keys still the ignition. Purse is still in the passenger seat. Nothing—”

“I'm on my way,” said Galloway before Pike could finish his sen-
tence.

He dressed in two minutes, pulling on jeans as he called her cell phone, then grabbing his keys, weapon, and IDs as he tried the Holiday Inn in Gastonia. At one number he got her recorded greeting; at the other just a telephone that rang repeatedly, with no one ever picking up.

“I should have followed her home,” he whispered as he bolted out the door of his apartment. It was late, they'd been drinking, she didn't know the roads that well. But she'd seemed fine when they'd walked to the parking lot. And when he kissed her …

When I kissed her, she kissed back,
he told himself. She'd looked at him with those incredible eyes and kissed him back. Now she'd vanished, just like Gudger's stepkid.

He raced down the stairs, through the parking lot, over to the green Mustang he'd babied for the past ten years. Tires squealing, he navigated the long driveway of his apartment building, then pulled out onto the highway. As he drove, he kept calling her cell phone, each time getting the same recorded greeting.

Ten minutes later, he turned on Jackson Highway; fifteen miles farther down the road he saw the lights flashing. Two squads were there, along with the unmarked speed trap car that usually worked the Sligo County line. Some inner part of him offered a tepid prayer of thanks; at least they hadn't put up crime scene tapes or called for a body bag yet.

He pulled in behind the nearest squad and hurried over to where Pike and two other uniforms stood staring at Mary's black Miata. No other detective was there, which meant he was officially in charge.

“Find anything?” he asked Pike.

“
Nothing to find,” the tall man replied. “Nothing's missing, except the driver.”

Galloway scanned the woods that lined the road. “Where have you looked for her?”

“We fanned out and searched about fifty feet on both sides of her car. We didn't find anything.”

“Nothing?”

“No broken twigs, no footprints. No nothing.”

Galloway peered down into the little convertible. Mary's purse lay unopened on the passenger's seat. A half-empty bottle of water stood in the car's cup holders, a pair of Asics running shoes stashed in the well behind the driver's seat. The engine was still running, the radio still playing the NPR station out of Charlotte. The car reminded him of a loyal dog, told to stay until its mistress returned. Galloway reached in with a tissue and turned the ignition off, then lifted Mary's purse. He looked inside—everything of value was there—cell phone, checkbook, a wallet that still held her driver's license, two credit cards, and $34 in cash.

Pike frowned. “Aren't you polluting the evidence?”

“No point in wasting her gas,” said Galloway.

Pike wrote something in his notebook. “Crump says you know the driver?”

“Mary Crow. Special envoy from the governor.”

“This the gal tryin' to hang that preacher?”

“He may have been a part of her investigation.”

Pike laughed. “Maybe she went up in the Rapture.”

“Shut up,” said Galloway.

Pike's eyes narrowed. “Something going on between you two?”

“No,” said Galloway. “I just doubt that Chief Ramsey wants to call the governor and tell her we've lost her super cop.”

Pike caught Galloway's drift. He gathered the two other uniforms and told them to go search deeper in the woods. While they did that, Galloway made a wide circle around Mary's car. He saw no skid marks, no footprints on the either side of the road, nothing to indicate anything out of the ordinary. As he walked, he went over the details of last night in his head. They'd finished dinner around 9:30, he'd kissed her around 10:15. He'd jokingly warned her about driving down
la carretera del dolor
, but she assured him she'd be okay, that they would talk tomorrow. Somewhere between then and now, Mary Crow pulled over to the side of the road and vanished.

He knelt down beside the driver's side of the little car, trying to imagine what Mary might have seen last. Pine trees. Darkness. A fifty-foot stretch of rural Carolina road no different from a thousand others. He stood up and reached to turn off her lights, when something on the other side of the road caught his eye. He walked over to find a large oil spot, shiny in the rising sun. He extended a finger, touched it. It was fresh, still viscous. A car had recently stopped directly across from Mary's, and had stayed long enough to drip a couple tablespoons of motor oil. It could have been somebody curious about why a sports car had been left running by the side of the road; it could have been something far worse.

He looked at the officers standing around the car. “Who called this in?”

“I did,” said Pike. “Crump was going off shift and told me to call you.”

“Where you pull up?”

Pike nodded at the shoulder of the road, twenty feet past Mary's car.