Touch of the White Tiger (18 page)

I watched Gorky wolf down his meal in a matter of minutes, poking at my food but eating little. I’d already had my fill of crow. I only half listened to his rambling stories of his
childhood and youth. I was preoccupied with trying to figure how I could force him to admit his culpability now that the revenge motive had fizzled.

How do you tell a very evil human being you think they’re plotting to murder you because they’re a very evil human being? It wasn’t easy, especially when the person in question had no apparent sense of right and wrong. And if I couldn’t get him to admit his guilt, there would be no way to negotiate an end to the conspiracy.

I’d make a lousy lawyer. Thank heavens I wasn’t representing myself in court, or I’d end up with one hundred consecutive life sentences. I glanced furtively at Marco. He eyed me intensely over the top of his paper, as if he somehow knew I’d backed myself into a corner. Though Marco couldn’t help me now, I was glad he was here.

“Let’s go,” Gorky said abruptly, tossing his napkin on his empty plate. He stood and motioned impatiently, tossing a pay chip on the table.

“Go where?” I stood in spite of my innate reluctance.

“Come into my car. I have a limo waiting outside.”

“Why would I want to get in a car with you?”

The mobster put his hand over his heart. “It hurts me to think that Lola’s daughter doesn’t trust me. I wanted you to think of me as an uncle.”

Okay, I thought, that’s a new one. “Look, Mr. Gorky…Vladimir…I think I’ve done a really bad job of communicating here. I believe you’re going to murder me.”

“I’m not plotting to kill you. But I know who is. Now are you fucking coming with me or not?”

He said it with a smile. I had to give the guy credit for being the master of the unexpected.

Startled into complacency, I left with him, to my everlasting regret.

Don’t Look Now

T
he silver stretch aerolimo sat at the curb. Two
sgarristas
climbed out as soon as they saw Gorky exit Rick’s Café Americain. I followed a step behind, knowing there was no point in attempting to flee. I’d sealed my fate when I’d set up the meeting with Gorky. But I’ll admit I was shaken when I turned back for one last glance at the bar and found Marco looking at me like I was already dead.

One of them, dressed all in black with black shades and greasy black hair, opened the door for Gorky and spoke in a language that wasn’t quite Russian. I assumed it was Chechen. He was apparently fluent in both languages.

“Please, step in,” Gorky said, allowing me to enter first. I slid across the long seat, straightened my skirt and plastered myself against the far door, trying not to wince from the pain
in my ribs. He climbed in and his assistant shut the door. He reached for two glasses of champagne that fizzed, awaiting our palates, handing me one and raising the other. “May this be the beginning of a long and trusting friendship.”

Instead of raising my glass, I brought it to my lips and drank. By now, I really did need a drink. The limo hummed to life, lifted a few feet off the ground, then began to cruise at a slow speed.

“So who is killing off my friends?” I asked point-blank.

Gorky rested his champagne flute on one of his big knees that seemed cramped in spite of the spacious, private compartment we shared. “It amuses me that you would suspect me, Angel
moy
. After all, I am the one who set up the operation across from your apartment to track your moves and insure your safety.”

I gave him a long, hard look. “You’re spying on me to keep me safe?”

“Yes. The person who is responsible for these murders ran his plan by me, asking me not to interfere. I’m afraid, Angel
moy
, that I was not exactly heartbroken to hear that Chicago would soon be missing a few retributionists. But I made it clear that you were not to be harmed.”

I felt a momentary flash of gratitude, then a flush of shame. How could I be grateful for my own survival when others were dying? “Why? Why did you care what happened to me?”

“Because you found my treasure for me.” He took another sip of champagne and regarded his ring finger admiringly. “Besides, how do you think your mother would feel if I allowed her only daughter to be assassinated? She saved my life once. Vladimir Gorky never forgets a favor.”

Or an insult, I suspected.

“Who is behind the plot?” I asked in a strident voice.

He frowned at me. “You do not expect me to tell you that.”

“Yes, I do. How can I defend myself if I don’t even know who the enemy is?”

“I will protect you.”

“I don’t want your protection.”

He blinked slowly and took another sip. “I like your attitude. But I cannot divulge the name. There is a code of honor among thieves.”

“Vory V zakone,”
I suggested.

“Yes, thieves of law.”

It was a concept that came into vogue after the fall of the Soviet Union more than a hundred years ago. When the government folded, former KGB agents and mobsters rushed in to fill the power void and established their own rule of law.

“Does this mean that the mastermind of this plot is part of the R.M.O.?”

“Not necessarily. A thief is a thief by any name or association.”

“Then don’t protect this SOB. I’m not going to sit by and let others be killed, Vladimir. You know I’m going to stick my nose in the middle of every murder that happens to my colleagues. You can’t shield me from that. And if I get killed, you’ll have to explain that to my mother.”

He seemed genuinely displeased by the notion. “Don’t be difficult, Angel. I could have you imprisoned in Emerald City if I wanted to keep you out of harm’s way.”

“Just like you imprisoned Lola?” I laughed cynically. “You’re unbelievable. She would have rotted in Cyclops’s prison if I hadn’t rescued her.”

“That’s not true.”

“He’s after me now. Did you know that?”

“Yes. Don’t worry about him. I can take care of Cyclops.”

“No!” I struggled to keep my cool, but talking to this man
was like conversing with a brick wall. Nothing got through to the other side. “I don’t want your protection.”

I realized we’d been driving a square pattern around my block. For some reason, the car pulled over in front of my two-flat. I glanced out the window and did a double take when I saw Brad standing on the curb.

“You didn’t seem to mind my protection when it came in the shape of a handsome young retributionist from New Orleans,” Gorky said, his wide, firm mouth pulling into a smirk.

I turned my gaze slowly from Brad to the great and powerful Oz sitting beside me. “You mean that Brad—”

“I had him flown to Chicago on one of my private planes to look after you.”

I sank back against the seat, stunned into silence as I tried to recall the day I’d run into Brad on the street. God, what a fool I’d been. “Why Brad?” I asked hoarsely.

“I’ve hired him before for special projects. I heard about him from one of my business partners. I liked that he called himself Vlad the Impaler. And he was highly recommended.”

And easily bought. I reached for the door, ready to belt Brad in the jaw.

Gorky must have seen my tightened fists. He pressed a button and the doors locked.

“Don’t go,
dorogaya moya
. Not yet.” Gorky motioned to the driver via the rearview mirror. The car pulled away from the curb and continued to cruise in a meandering pattern through the Lakeview neighborhood. “There is one other matter I wish to discuss.”

I tried to wipe the visible signs of rage and dismay from my face with one hand. “What is it?” I mumbled into my palm.

“Riccuccio Marco.”

My hand dropped to the seat and I caught my breath, unable to feign a disinterested reply.

“I think you should avoid further contact with Detective Marco.”

“Yes, I know.”

He raised a brow in query, and I felt a small ping of victory. It wasn’t easy taking this guy by surprise.

“How did you know that?”

“I saw you two talking about me in a vision.”

He shifted his weight. The leather seat protested. “What did we say?”

“I couldn’t make out much,” I answered honestly, “other than the fact that you warned Marco to stay away from me.”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“He is not the man you think he is. I used to trust him, but now…”

I listened to the hum of the limo, inhaled the scent of popped champagne bubbles, and waited for the other shoe to drop. When Gorky coyly refused to continue, I was forced to connect the dots he’d laid out.

“You think Marco is involved with the plot to kill off Certified Retribution Specialists?”

He raised his broad shoulders in a calculated shrug. “Detective Marco has infiltrated the Chicago Police Department on my behalf. He does work for me, but not like in the old days. I think he may now be serving another master as well.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said flatly, clinging to my memories of the man who had made love to my very soul. “You want me to distrust him. You want to isolate me from anyone who is not connected with you so that you can control my opinion of you. I don’t know why. Maybe because of my mother. Maybe because you just like to control people.”

“Detective Marco is a bad man, Angel.”

I laughed incredulously. “Oh, well, that is certainly the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?”

He smiled humorlessly. “I knew you would say that. I didn’t expect you to take my word for it. So I brought these.”

Gorky reached into a leather briefcase I hadn’t noticed in the dark interior. He touched a control panel in the door and a dome light came to life, casting a yellow spotlight on the empty space between us. He tossed down a stack of aging 8-by-10-inch photo printouts.

“Riccuccio Marco was an assassin for me years ago. I am no stranger to murder, but this disturbed even me. Some madness overtook him and he went far beyond the role of professional assassin.”

Unwilling to absorb the word assassin in connection with Marco, I shut my eyes, as if Gorky would actually let me leave this vehicle without looking at the photos. I was like a child who thinks she can’t be seen if she can’t see.

Yes, I’d feared—even suspected—Marco had blood on his hands. But I wasn’t ready to accept hard evidence.

“Don’t do this to me,” I whispered, my voice raw with vulnerability I despised. “Please. I don’t want to see.”

“You must.”

His emphatic voice rang with a truth that forced me to slowly open my eyes. I had my share of faults, but being an ostrich wasn’t one of them. Resigned and businesslike, I picked up the stack and flipped through it.

One photo showed a man on the ground, reaching toward the camera for help, a look of agony etched deep in his Slavic features, while the hand of his assailant plunged a knife in his shoulder. Who on earth would photograph something like this? I thought. And who was wielding the knife?

The next photo was a blur of motion, presumably a stab
caught in action. The victim no longer pleaded. He was prone in a large pool of blood.

The third photo was taken from the waist down. The victim’s legs were wide, naked, covered in pageant red. It took me a moment to realize why this close-up had been taken. The man’s genitals had been cut off. Whoever had killed him had also castrated him.

A wave of nausea sent heat rushing to my head just as a chill froze my intestines. I broke out in a cold sweat. Tossing the photos down, I pleaded, “No more.”

“Ah,
dorogaya moya
, you have one last photo to see. The best one of all.”

I loathed Gorky as he rustled eagerly through the photos, uttering satisfaction when he found his pièce de résistance and placed it on my lap. Through sheer willpower, I focused on the photo. There was Marco standing over the body, covered in blood, holding the knife like a proud hunter showing off his kill. Except he didn’t look proud. With a wild grin and feral eyes, he looked savage and insane.

I didn’t know this man, and I didn’t want to. Ever.

“Pull over!” I choked, tossing aside the photo. Before the limo even came to a stop, I opened the door, leaned out and vomited. With little to purge, I heaved until I tasted bile.

“Oh, my dear Angel, have I upset you?” Gorky said, patting my back.

The question was so absurdly disingenuous I wanted to laugh. He handed me a hand towel and I wiped my mouth, then sat up, closing the door, dignity restored. As the car moved on, he filled a glass of water from his bar dispenser and handed it to me. I couldn’t believe he was being this solicitous. Then again, I’d read that Hitler had been kind to his dog. Before he killed it.

“Those photos of Detective Marco upset you, didn’t they?”

“Too much champagne on an empty stomach,” I lied, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d swayed my feelings for my lover, perhaps forever.

When Gorky finally dropped me off in front of my two-flat, he promised me that he would call off his spies camped out across the street. Sickened and numb, though far from defeated, I climbed out of the limo, said goodbye and walked toward my front door with wobbly knees.

I was just about to open my door when Brad stepped into the streetlight that brightened the wide swath of concrete that stretched from the sidewalk to my porch.

“Hello, Angel,” he said, unusually subdued. With his hands tucked in his tight, white jeans, he looked boyish and almost apologetic. That would be a first for Brad the Impaler.

“What do you want?” I practically snarled.

He tipped up his chin, a gesture that suggested arrogance but was more habitual and meaningless than that. “I want your understanding.”

I whirled and got into his face. “You’re a traitor, do you know that?” Just in case he hadn’t gotten my point, I punched his shoulder hard enough to make us both wince. “I’ll never trust you again, so pack your bags. Your work here is done.”

“Gorky hired me to protect you,” Brad argued as I stalked off.

I slammed my palm on the ID pad, impatient for the door to swing open so I could close it in his face. “You were hired by a murderous, evil, manipulative syndicate boss, Brad. Don’t sugarcoat it.”

“He’s all those things, but he wanted to protect you. And I had some way cool memories of you, Angel. Surely, you haven’t forgotten our week in New Orleans.”

“No, but I will now.” I frosted him with an icy look over
my shoulder. “I’m quite good at making myself forget the past. And forgetting you will be easy.”

“I did nothing wrong,” he persisted, following when I stepped into the foyer.

I turned, hands on hips, forcing him to stop at the threshold. “How do you figure that you did nothing wrong?”

He raised his hands in his we’re-cool gesture. “I’ll leave you alone, Angel, but I’m going to do my best to see you don’t get hurt. If you need me, call. If you don’t ever want to speak to me again, fine.” He pointed his index finger at my chest, anger now simmering in his beach-boy blue eyes. “But just remember, I’ve protected you from harm. Last I heard, that’s not a crime.”

“I’m grateful you saved me from the Shadowman. But you also alerted Gorky’s spies that you were coming to pay a little visit on my behalf, allowing them to escape.”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t
have
to warn them we were coming.”

His peculiar emphasis caught me off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Your place is bugged.”

The door finally swung open, but I barely noticed. I looked closely to see if Brad was telling the truth.

“Gorky has been tracking your every move,” Brad said, sounding disgusted with himself now that his complicity was out in the open. “How else do you think Detective Marco managed to get to the crime scenes so fast?”

“How did you know that?”

“Gorky told me. He says he doesn’t trust your detective friend, but he wanted to make sure Marco was at the scene of the crimes so he could make sure you didn’t get railroaded by the criminal injustice system.”