Unlucky in Law (35 page)

A jeweled egg. Sapphires, they had to be. Nina held it in her hand. “I don't believe it,” she said. “It can't be.”

“The tsarevitch egg,” Klaus said. He whistled.

About three inches tall, it was encrusted with precious stones and gold filigree. Nina opened it. Inside, a frame of diamond filigree surrounded a tiny painting.

“Holy Mary,” she said. “It's him. The tsarevitch.”

The little boy in the picture smiled. He had sandy, almost reddish hair, and wore a sailor suit. The picture was only about an inch square.

She was holding history. Gently she set it down on its blue-and-gold stand.

“Alan was holding on to it. But for who?” Nina said at last.

“I believe I will call him,” Klaus said.

“It's after midnight!”

“You don't think this is important enough?” Holding on to the desk, Klaus pulled himself up, bent to and fro a few times to get the cricks out, then lowered himself into Alan's leather chair and picked up the phone.

“We have violated your safe,” he said to Alan. No beating around the bush, his tone said; it's late. “Yes, at the office. We found the egg.” He listened for a moment. “I understand. I will explain everything. But first you will tell me about the egg.” Another flood of indistinct words emanated from the phone. “Very well. We will be here.”

Klaus hung up. “I have worked with Alan for decades,” he said, “and still he surprises me. He is on his way down to find out why we are meddling with his wills and estates.”

“Where does he live?”

“Carmel Highlands. Fifteen minutes away.”

“Then we'd better finish up our meddling.”

“My sentiments exactly. Check everything you haven't already checked,” Klaus said.

“What are we looking for?”

“Like a lady in a hat shop,” Klaus said, “we are just looking.”

But there was nothing else of interest in the safe. Its precious contents lay spread around Nina, but the center of it all was the blue egg.

No word other than “glorious” would do.

She sat back on her heels. “Let's figure this out. This could be a real Fabergé egg. Presumably it's the one Constantin showed his daughter, in which case, either he stole it from the Romanovs or he was a Romanov. But how would Krilov know that?”

“Somebody helped Constantin escape. Perhaps they left some record. Perhaps the Russians knew all the time, and only now felt it would be politically expedient to bring back a hint of a Romanov. Someone they could control.”

“If I'd known about the egg, I think I would have dug up my father's bones, too,” Nina said, so unhinged she had to stand up and pace around. “Alan must have some file relating to this. Maybe he mislabeled one of these files on purpose.”

Klaus pulled on his beard. “Check,” he said.

“He's going to shut us down as soon as he gets here.”

“Yes.”

Nina sat down in the ornate client chair and opened the Pickering file. One of the heirs, a young woman, had filed for extra temporary support from the estate while it was probated, due to a sensitive psychiatric condition. The doctors' reports were in the file. “No,” Nina said. She laid it aside.

She picked up the Monte Rosa file. The estate had been probated ten years before. Nina leafed through the paperwork. “Why put this one in the safe?” she asked. “He's got three diamond necklaces. Maybe he's still looking for the heirs?” She went to the inventory of the estate.

Funny. The necklaces she found nestled in their boxes did not exist on the inventory.

“Klaus?”

Head on the desk, Klaus snored lightly. Nina didn't have the heart to awaken him and ask for his thoughts. She looked again at the inventory and at the box labeled “Monte Rosa.”

She turned to the Matter of Egler, a conservatorship for an elderly lady. Her daughter had taken over her possessions. Reading the list of items carefully, Nina looked again at the box of gold coins and diamond rings marked “Egler.”

No match. The items in the box weren't listed in the inventory in the probate file. Puzzled, Nina closed that file. Klaus stirred, and Nina heard the sound of Alan's Ferrari pulling up outside. He would find them here, and she no longer cared.

She touched the superb egg again. Fantastic. Why hadn't it been listed on the inventory in the Zhukovsky probate? A dreadful realization spread like a cancer into her brain, making linkages, expanding and tying up loose ends, and making her hold her head as a jabbing headache took over.

“It's late,” Alan said. In spite of being rousted from bed, he wore dark slacks and a Burberry trench coat. He looked prepared to take a meeting. His chin was dark, though, and his eyes . . .

“Oh, Alan,” Nina said. “Isn't it beautiful? I can almost understand.”

Alan glanced at his peacefully sleeping boss. Dropping to the floor beside Nina, Alan picked up the egg and caressed it. “It's really something, isn't it?”

“It's—historic, Alan. It could have been Christina's proof.”

“But it's mine, mine for twenty-four years. Adverse possession.”

“You kept it here in the safe?”

“A good spot, don't you think? I loved having my clients sitting right on top of it. And I could look at it now and then.” He admired it. “When I listed Constantin's assets for probate, I found it in the false bottom of a dresser drawer. I could never have afforded it myself. It's worth millions.”

“Does this mean—was Constantin . . .”

Alan shrugged. “Who knows? Who cares? The Soviet Union didn't care. Constantin didn't want it known, or he would have made it known.”

“Christina cared.”

“Silly woman. Another Anastasia. Doomed for a rout. Who would believe her? She could hardly keep her hair combed, no offense.”

Nina pushed at wisps. “What about Mrs. Monte Rosa's children?”

“My God, you know everything?”

“It's a huge embezzlement, Alan.”

“And too late to fix now.”

“You've damaged the firm, maybe irreparably.”

“No, you did that by finding out.”

For the first time, Nina felt afraid, in the presence of a murderer. “What about Klaus?” she asked, hesitant. “This could kill him.”

“You brought us here tonight, Nina. The egg was— I never intended to sell it. I just wanted to have it.”

“Well, our client suffered because of it.”

“How would it have helped your defense? Knowing about the egg?” Alan said. “Clue me in, Nina.” He cast a wondering look through his eyeglasses.

“If I'd known you committed the murder, I could have defended Stefan better,” Nina said.

Alan closed his eyes as if to obliterate the idea.

“Alan, why did you bury her in her father's grave?”

“Oh, it's a long sad story, Nina, and it's late.”

“Please. Tell me.”

“Nothing's going to help me. There's no excuse. None. But I'll make a deal with you,” Alan said. “I explain and then you give me a couple of hours to leave town.”

“You'll be caught.”

“I won't.”

Maybe he wouldn't be caught, but by now she wanted to see Alan arrested. She shrugged. “Go ahead.”

Alan smiled from one side of his mouth, as if he was well aware that she wasn't making any deal with him about anything. “I followed Gabe Wyatt that night,” he said, “thinking I'd have to do something. He wanted to resurrect this old business. Somebody, somewhere was bound to figure out what I'd done if he managed to reopen the probate. I found myself outside of Christina's apartment, and I heard an argument. She threw a glass at him. He ran out.

“I knocked, telling her I was her father's lawyer who had come on urgent business. She was cleaning up the broken glass she had thrown at Gabe. At first, she was very reluctant but she vaguely remembered me, and I spend all my time persuading people to do things they don't want to do, don't I?”

Nina had no answer for him.

“I told her there might be more money coming and she should let me in. I told her that Gabe had come to see me and that he was her half-brother. I tried to convince her to drop this insane dream about resurrecting some bullshit Russian monarchy. I warned her of the danger. I told her fame attracted craziness.

“She was irrational. She said I was lying about Gabe. She told me that at that very moment, someone was digging up the remains of her father, and that those remains would prove she was no crackpot, but was a Romanov.

“I panicked. You've known me for a long time, Nina. I'll bet you didn't expect me to panic.” He picked up the egg and stroked the side with his finger.

That was all he had to say about strangling Christina Zhukovsky.

“I wasn't sure where to put her. In the ocean? Bodies come in on the tide. In a ditch somewhere? Hikers would find her. I remembered her saying someone was digging up her father's grave that night. I thought—what a perfect place. The cemetery was less than a mile from her apartment. I'd been to the funeral and thought I could find the grave. The soil would be loose, and an empty coffin waited for her there.”

“Oh, Alan.”

“I waited until whoever was digging up the grave could finish. I wanted to feel sure nobody official took note of the event, so I hid Christina's body in the trunk of my car until it was almost morning. Then I went to the cemetery. It was a hell of a job. I was surprised at how hard the soil was. I never even made it down to Constantin's coffin.

“I love this office,” Alan said, his eyes roving around, stopping on his paintings, his plants, his barrister's case with old leather volumes of California cases. “I love being a lawyer. It's just that in my work you come across things that other people won't miss, beautiful things. I hardly ever sold things, Nina. I only stole a few times, precious things that nobody else would miss. I mean, it's been twenty-five years! Nobody cared about having that egg, except me.”

“And then Gabe came.”

“He probably wanted to screw Christina and Alex. His motives were selfish, like mine. He told me Christina was going to send out some kind of press release announcing she was the heir to the throne of the Romanovs. He just wouldn't quit, and she seemed just as determined. I didn't think I could handle the scrutiny. The estate would be reopened.”

“So you decided to kill Christina and implicate Gabe.”

“I never decided to kill her. It just happened. And then I thought Gabe would be arrested, not his brother. Stefan ran into some bad luck there.”

“It just happened?”

“I was excited, not thinking too straight. I went in to tell her she was a fool,” Alan said. “My fingers went around her neck. In a way she committed suicide. The Romanov heir? She was a nobody who got carried away wanting to be somebody.”

Nina breathed fast. She got up, but Alan held her wrist. “Now give me my chance,” he said. “Your client got his acquittal.”

She couldn't escape his viselike grip. Cravenly, she said, “I told you it's a deal.”

Alan let go and she took off, throwing open the door, running down the hall. All she needed to do was get outside and— But Alan spent his mornings jogging around the neighborhood in his expensive running shoes. Grabbing her around the neck, he pulled her back just as her hand touched the knob of the front door.

They heard Klaus behind them. “Let her go!” he said in the high voice he used when he was distressed and angry. Alan didn't even turn around. He had the front door covered.

Now he would have to kill Klaus, too. Sickened, Nina struggled for her life, but he lifted her clear off the ground.

Alan was still holding Nina when an explosion tore through the room. He turned around so that she stood in front of him, both of them looking at Klaus, who held a large pistol in his hand.

“I have a safe, too,” Klaus said. “I never trusted you enough to tell you.”

“Shoot and she dies.” Alan held Nina tight. Her body blocked him from Klaus. Only part of his curly black hair showed.

“Tch, tch,” Klaus said, appearing to be thinking. Raising the gun, he shot Alan's ear off. Nina felt the bullet whiz past an inch from her own head. With a scream, Alan slapped his hand over his bleeding ear. Nina ran behind Klaus.

“Nine-one-one,” Klaus said matter-of-factly.

Nina called and offered details. “Klaus,” she said, finding her voice, “what on earth are you doing with a gun?”

“Handy for shooting myself. I decided it was that or retire.”

29

Tuesday 9/30

T
HE NEXT MORNING, FIRST THING,
J
UDGE
S
ALAS DISMISSED THE
charges against Stefan Wyatt. A rumpled Alex Zhukovsky had reappeared in the hallway, apologizing for his absence without explaining. Jaime had spent the night interviewing Alan Turk, and had the amazing grace to join in the motion.

Paul tried to catch up with Nina after court, but after answering just a few questions for the press and posing with Stefan as two big smiles, she lit out and had probably hit Highway 68 going west toward her office in Carmel before he could work his way through the crowd. She was smaller, and had her little ways of avoiding traffic, human and otherwise.

The reporters engaged in an orderly feeding frenzy, sticking huge microphones into any face that happened nearby. Salinas was an interesting town, sleepy and quiet as aromatic fields growing on the one hand, and full of boisterous, drunken, sometimes fatal trouble on the other. It must be a slow news night because everyone plus his uncle Dave was looking for action at the courthouse that afternoon.

When he got to the Mustang, Paul considered going back to Carmel, too, but he didn't want to go back to Carmel. In Nina's book, Alan's confession ended things. He, however, had some unfinished business.

He drove up Highway 101. From Salinas, in unobstructed traffic, the trip took a little over two hours to San Francisco, and he got lucky, spotting no highway patrols, catching the tailwind of a harebrained Mack truck driver who was illegally hogging the left lane most of the way up. He cut over to 280, wound through Golden Gate Park, and found a spot for the Mustang on Twenty-fifth Avenue.

Father Giorgi, wearing clean, fresh bandages on his face and neck, working in his office in a side wing off the main cathedral, was not glad to see him, but he was astonished to hear the news about the resolution of the case.

“Congratulations on your rapid recovery,” Paul said. The priest looked much improved.

Giorgi touched his neck. “A few stitches. A broken finger. A lot of blood and fright, though. I never really believed it was Stefan,” he said. “Do you know that a lawyer from Monterey contacted me? Christina had been doing some fund-raising for a nonprofit. She requested that I be left in charge in her stead.” He couldn't hide his pleasure at the news. “There's a board, and they've agreed.”

“The money she raised at the conference?”

“Yes. It's been sitting in a bank, losing capital, I might add. These days, they charge you to hold your money and invest it for their own profit.”

Paul didn't want to get into that particular conversation with Giorgi, who had quite an interest in money and its interest, he also noticed. “What will you do with it?”

“Christina had a lot of ideas, some not so realistic. Universal health care, a true democracy in Russia. I think the money should be used to promote the Mother Church.”

Paul didn't doubt Giorgi would do what he wanted with the money. In fact, he had many ideas, and wanted to expound on them to Paul. He wanted to justify his shift in philosophy from Christina's way of thinking to his. Paul listened for several minutes, then said, “I'm here for Krilov.”

Giorgi sighed. “It's a matter of honor?”

“Yes.”

“You don't intend to kill him?”

“Only if necessary.”

“Ah. Hmm. I don't like the sound of that.” Nevertheless, he reached into his drawer, pulled out a book, and began to make a few calls. “I know everybody,” he said, “and most of them owe me favors.”

Paul wondered if he had the favors marked in there, too. It wasn't long before they had the information he needed.

Krilov was holed up in a single room in the Tenderloin, a nasty San Francisco neighborhood full of theaters, strip joints, bums, and all the other colorful creatures of the earth that thrived under an alternative value system. Paul arrived in the afternoon, when the early birds were scratching and hitting the streets and the late ones continued to slumber. This sun-filled day exposed all the globs of gum on the sidewalk and the shabbiness of clothing. Transformation would come with the darkness, when neon signs splashed the streets with colorful illusions.

He told the clerk where he was going, and after the man assured himself Paul was not the cop he appeared to be, he let Paul go up without calling ahead.

Krilov opened on the first knock, bleary-eyed, coughing like a cat with a hairball, obviously just coming off a drunken binge. Paul didn't wait to be greeted. He punched him twice, once in the stomach, and next in the ribs. Unprepared, and without the spark of battle lust to inflame him, Sergey crumpled to the floor, not letting out a sound.

Paul kicked him, but not hard enough to bruise him. “I don't like people getting hurt on my watch.”

Sergey, dewier than Paul by maybe six years, had the sickening, rebounding ability of youth on his side. He stood slowly, then sat himself down on his littered bed. He coughed, picked up a glass of water, and drank it to the bottom. “Is there more?” he asked. “Because I'm very busy right now.”

“You want more?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“But if you came to beat me, you'll have to hit harder, for longer. I was a soldier, you know.”

“I didn't.”

“Before I met Christina.” He pulled a packet of brown, foul-looking cigarettes out of a pocket and lit one, which smelled brown and foul. “Ooh. I'll die young,” he said, breathing smoke through his nose.

“What a shame,” Paul said. “Meanwhile . . .”

“Meanwhile, what the hell. When Christina died, I thought I should continue on, you know. Follow the DNA trail. That's what I came here to do. Stop anyone who might feel the need to continue the farce we had started and allowed to get so badly out of hand. That's why I went to the lab.”

“You almost killed Father Giorgi and the guard.”

“Unexpectedly, that coward Giorgi flinched, and the guard fought hard. I never meant to hurt them badly, if it matters.”

“It doesn't.”

“But in my favor, note that I did not kill that strong Japanese woman in the lab, the one with all the bones laid out like doilies on those granite counters.”

Paul examined the pile of junk on the bed and said, “You're leaving?”

“Yes,” Sergey said, looking at the ticket Paul had spotted. “Tomorrow.”

“Going to Vancouver on the train, I see.”

“Unless stopped at the border. I guess you could arrange that. I suppose I'll have to change the ticket now.” He blew smoke thoughtfully.

“Where are the bones?” Paul said.

“Bones?”

“You know what I'm talking about.”

Sergey dragged so deeply that Paul could picture the black tar adhering to his lungs. “You mean Constantin's? That's what you're here for?”

“Right. You stole them in Sacramento. I want to know what you did with them.”

Like a kid searching for goblins, very tentatively, he reached underneath his bed. “You want them?” He held the two long, dusty bleached bones in his hands. “Well, enjoy.”

Paul took them from him. “Won't your pals get mad if you don't come back with them?”

“I was supposed to destroy them. Then I thought they might continue to offer some financial possibilities and considered keeping them myself. But I've grown tired of these games.” He held out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.” Paul looked around, found a towel on the radiator, and wrapped the bones in it. Krilov watched impassively.

“Sit down. I've got no one to talk to in this frenzied country since Christina died.”

Paul remained standing, but did let himself rest against the door frame.

“We don't want any more pretenders to Russia's throne creeping out of Monterey,” Krilov went on. “If there is any hint of that, the rest of them will probably be murdered. I myself was instructed to phone in the bomb threat to stop Alex Zhukovsky from testifying. I was supposed to kill him, but I just picked him up when the people came running out and rode around with him for a while. You might say he convinced me he had no interest in bringing up old histories.”

“I might say that you just didn't feel like killing him,” Paul said.

Krilov laughed and coughed. “True. I thought, after him, there's the next brother, and then the kid who just spent months in prison. It just seemed like needless butchering, like the Bolsheviks shooting and stabbing the little daughters. The rest of them are harmless. I think Christina was—unique. What a shame she defected over to Father Giorgi's faction, a bunch of radical religionists. We wanted to make her a tsar, or at the very least, give her a beautiful power. Make her famous. Get her picture in magazines around the world.”

“You wanted a masthead for a phony monarchy you would run from behind the scenes. When Christina figured that out, she dropped you. At least Giorgi might have helped her do some social good.”

“She was an experiment that failed.”

“That sounds damn cold, from what I know of your relationship. You were lovers, weren't you?”

Krilov shrugged. He didn't seem to care about anything anymore.

“What happens when you go back to Russia?” Paul asked him.

“Oh, I won't go there again. My death would be slow. I think maybe Cuba.”

Paul nodded.

“What will they do with the bones?”

“Cremate them.” Paul would have a little talk with Gabe, convince him.

“Fine.” Sergey dropped his cigarette butt into a cup, where it sizzled. “We're all victims of tradition, even in America,” he said. “Bury the dead, all that kind of thing. Death.”

“Closure,” Paul said.

“Do we have any other business?”

“I'm afraid so.” Paul pointed his weapon through his pants pocket at Krilov. “It's a Glock,” he said. “My beautiful power.”

“You're going to turn me in? They'll never prove anything. Giorgi won't talk.”

“They'll deport you back to Russia,” Paul said. Krilov jumped up and ran at him, low, dangerous because he was willing to take a shot, but Paul's big hand with the gun came down hard on his neck.

“Kto kovo,”
Paul said. He opened the door and invited the cops in.