24. Lacey
24
LACEY
THE NEXT MORNING
I wrap my arms around Freddy, pulling him into a tight hug. "Stay safe," I whisper. "Okay?"
His body stiffens for a moment before relaxing. It reminds me of all the times I tried to hug him when we were younger, how he'd always pull away with a sneer. But now, his arms slowly come around to return the embrace.
"I will," he says gruffly. "In and out."
My throat tightens as memories of Irina flood back—how quickly things went wrong in Paris, how her blood stained my wedding dress. I can't lose anyone else to this war with Kirsan. Not when Freddy and I have finally found some measure of peace between us.
Before either of us can say more, footsteps echo across the marble floor. I turn to see Aleksey striding toward us, briefcase in hand.
"Vadim Petrovich," he greets with a slight bow of his head before turning to me with that practiced lawyer's smile. "Mrs. Stravinsky, are you ready to proceed with our half of this dog and pony show?"
I straighten my shoulders and give Freddy's arm one final squeeze. "Yes," I say firmly. "I'm ready."
My heart pounds against my ribs as I walk with Aleksey into Captain Rutledge's office. The familiar sight of his weathered desk brings back memories of my first visit here.
But this time, I'm not here as a suspect.
This time, I'm ready to tell him the truth.
"Thank you for coming back, Ms. McKinney," Rutledge says, settling into his chair. His razor-sharp eyes study me with the same intensity as before. "I appreciate your willingness to share your side of things."
His face hardens.
"However, I am disappointed to see you're still using Mr. Sterling-Wright's services."
Aleksey lets out a smooth chuckle.
"Oh come on, Elwood, your personal feelings about me aren't relevant here." Aleksey's voice carries that practiced blend of amusement and warning. "What's relevant is that my client has information about Nathan Walker's death that she'd like to share. So can we cool it with the personal attacks?"
Rutledge's jaw clenches. I can see the wheels turning behind those sharp eyes—the same eyes that give my ring a passing glance—before he reaches for a notepad, his movements deliberately slow.
"Very well," he says finally. "Tell me what you know about Nathan Walker's death."
I take a deep breath, borrowing strength from the familiar weight of the necklace against my chest. “Nathan was involved with a man named Kirsan Kuular," I say, my voice even. "He helped facilitate a human trafficking network that spans multiple continents."
Rutledge leans forward, his expression hardening. "That's quite an accusation. Do you have any proof to back this up?"
"Actually," Aleksey speaks up from beside me, reaching for his briefcase, "we do."
My stomach churns as he takes out Vadim's list—the same one that started all of this when I accidentally took his suit jacket from Mrs. Klossner's. The paper looks so innocent, but I know the horror it describes.
Aleksey slides it across the table to Rutledge.
I watch as Aleksey leans forward, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something more serious. "Tell me, Elwood, are you on social media these days? TikTok? Twitter?"
Rutledge's weathered face creases with mild annoyance. "No, I'm not."
"Then you might have missed the viral shit storm that's been brewing for the past five weeks." Aleksey's finger taps the list meaningfully. "Women from all over have been coming forward, sharing their stories of abuse and exploitation at the hands of traffickers operating in the fashion industry."
"I'm aware of the Seattle Voice's coverage," Rutledge says, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Then you'll understand what that is.” Aleksey points to the list. "These aren't just SKUs, Captain. Each one represents a human being put up for sale. And these boutique fashion brands? Fronts for trafficking operations."
My stomach churns as I watch Rutledge examine the list more closely. The memory of Taliya's bruised face from Megan's interview flashes through my mind, and I have to grip the arms of my chair to keep my hands from shaking.
"And how exactly is this connected to Nathan Walker?" Rutledge asks, looking up from the list.
"I heard Nathan mention Chrysalis Designs several times before he died. He was working on finalizing some deal with them." The memory of finding him with Caroline flashes through my mind, how that betrayal led me to discover something far darker. "He seemed excited about it, said it would be his biggest commission yet. I'm sure Caroline would be able to verify that if you were to ask her."
"We have good reason to believe that Mr. Walker got careless with his bookkeeping," Aleksey cuts in smoothly, "The kind of carelessness that someone like Kirsan Kuular doesn't forgive."
I lean forward, seizing the moment. "You said it yourself when I was last here—Nathan's death had all the hallmarks of Russian mafia involvement." My voice stays steady even as my stomach churns at the memory of those clinical details. "The way his body was processed, the removal of identifying features..."
Rutledge's weathered face remains impassive as he studies us both. "That's all true," he says slowly, setting down his pen. "But..."
His razor-sharp eyes narrow, and I can see the doubt creeping in.
Rutledge's eyes drop to my hands, still wrapped in bandage, but his gaze is reserved for my finger.
"That ring wasn't there five weeks ago when you first came to see me." He points. "And I still haven't forgotten that you gave me a very unconvincing reason for how you knew the word 'bratva' before Mr. Sterling-Wright whisked you away."
I force myself to hold his stare.
"And if what you're saying about the fashion industry is true," he continues. “It seems awfully convenient that you're coming to me now with evidence that only Svoboda seems to have, when they're one of the biggest players in fashion."
"Elwood," Aleksey says. “Are you saying what I think you're saying? Are you accusing Svoboda of involvement in human trafficking?"
"Yes, Mr. Sterling-Wright, that's exactly what I'm suggesting." Rutledge's weathered face hardens as he turns to face Aleksey. "A company that size, with that much international presence? They'd have to be blind not to see what's happening in their own industry."
"That's a very serious allegation, Captain." Aleksey's practiced smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I feel compelled to remind you that slander is a very real criminal charge."
"So is human trafficking." Rutledge's voice carries the weight of steel. "And unlike slander, that comes with mandatory minimum sentences."
My fingers ball into a fist as I watch them face off. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
I take a deep breath, my heart racing. There's no point in hiding anymore. Not when we're trying to get Rutledge on our side.
"You're right about Svoboda being aware," I say, cutting through Aleksey's attempts to intervene. "But not in the way you think. Svoboda is the only organization actively fighting against the trafficking."
"Now wait a—" Aleksey starts, but I hold up my hand.
"No, he needs to know." I lean forward as Rutledge picks up his pen again. "Svoboda uses its position as a luxury brand to infiltrate fashion shows where these operations take place. Half of our resources go into maintaining that cover, while the other half goes to extracting victims and getting them to safety."
Rutledge's pen scratches across his notepad. "Go on."
"Vadim Stravinsky has dedicated half his life to dismantling these networks. He's saved thousands of women."
"And the ring?" Rutledge's sharp eyes fix on my left hand. "Care to explain that, Ms. McKinney?"
"Vadim needed access to Alexander Nevsky Cathedral in Paris," I explain, remembering the weight of the wedding dress, the bible hidden in its folds. "Kirsan keeps his records in a bible there—all the transactions and all the buyers. Vadim needed someone to pose as his wife in order to steal the bible. He chose me. He married me."
"Married?" Rutledge asks, his pen pausing mid-stroke. "Why you specifically?"
"Because I accidentally took his dry cleaning with this list in it," I explain, gesturing to the paper on Rutledge's desk. "When we met again at the Vorobyov memorial retrospective, he approached me about it."
"The Vorobyov memorial retrospective?" Rutledge's pen pauses.
"Yes. I was working there as catering staff. You can verify that with my former employer." My fingers brush against Mom’s necklace again, drawing comfort from its familiar weight. "That's where Vadim first explained what the list meant."
Rutledge makes another note before looking up at me. "And this operation in Paris. Were you successful?"
"We were." I swallow hard, memories of Irina's blood flashing through my mind. "But Kirsan has already shifted his focus to Los Angeles. He's planning to use L.A. Fashion Week as cover for expanding his operation."
"Ms. McKinney," Rutledge sets down his pen with a sigh. "Or rather, Mrs. Stravinsky. You understand that the Seattle Police Department has no jurisdiction in Los Angeles."
"I know that Seattle police can't operate in Los Angeles," I say, fingers tracing the edge of Mom's necklace. "But what we need isn't jurisdiction there, we need you to deal with the corrupt cops enabling Kirsan's operations here in Seattle."
Rutledge's sharp eyes narrow. "You're suggesting there are officers on his payroll?"
"I know there are." My voice stays steady despite my racing heart. "Something this big can't operate without protection from corrupt police. You know this."
"I do." Rutledge's face hardens. "And as much as I want to put away every one of those corrupt bastards giving all of us a bad name, I fail to see a connection between what you're asking us to do and what Svoboda is already doing."
"Because shining a light on the problem isn't enough anymore." The words come out quickly as I lean forward. "These exposés, these interviews. They're just making the buyers more eager. What we need is to show that the law will respond."
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "No matter how many people we save, vigilante justice will never bring people the same assurance as actual law enforcement. That's why I'm coming to you now."
Rutledge studies me for a long moment, his pen tapping against his notepad. "You're asking me to trust that Svoboda's intentions are pure."
"I'm asking you to trust that we're on the same team," I correct him. "That we want justice for these women. That we want an end to trafficking, not just here in Seattle, but elsewhere as well."
Rutledge leans back, lips drawn in a taut line as he considers everything I've told him.
"Your claim sounds plausible," he says finally. "The connections, the timeline, even Mr. Walker's involvement. But I can't launch an internal investigation based on speculation alone, least of all speculation for someone who is still technically a person of interest in an active murder case."
"What kind of proof would you need?"
"Names. Dates. Specific instances of corruption." He taps his pen against the notepad. "Something concrete that shows which officers are on Kirsan's payroll and exactly what they're doing for him."
"And if we could get you that information?" I lean forward, heart racing. "What then?"
" If you could provide evidence..." His emphasis on 'if' betrays his skepticism. "Then I could justify opening an internal investigation."
"I can get you what you need," I say firmly, feeling Aleksey shift beside me uncomfortably. "I promise."
"And just how do you intend to get me this information?" Rutledge asks, his sharp eyes boring into mine.
"Through Svoboda," I say, keeping my voice steady. "We have resources and connections that can help identify the exact officers who are working with Kirsan."
Rutledge frowns. "Svoboda seems remarkably capable for a luxury fashion brand."
"Everything we do is in pursuit of justice," I tell him. "For the women who've been trafficked?—"
"You've already said it once," Rutledge says slowly, "You don't have to repeat yourself." He pauses, and I feel myself starting to relax until he continues: "However, given everything you've told me about Svoboda today, I have every reason to believe it's much more than just a fashion brand."
Before Aleksey can start to protest, Rutledge raises his hand to demand silence.
"Let me be perfectly clear, Mrs. Stravinsky," Rutledge's voice carries the weight of steel. "Whatever partnership we make today between the Seattle Police Department and Svoboda will be one of convenience. If my investigation turns up even a hint of criminal activity or wrongdoing by Svoboda, its owner, or any of its employees, I won't hesitate to bring down the full force of the law on all of you." His razor-sharp eyes fix on mine. "Do you understand me? Mrs. Stravinsky?"
I hold Rutledge's steely gaze, letting his warning sink in.
He's an unbending servant of justice sits, I realize. One who won't hesitate to turn on us if that's what the law requires.
No matter how much good Vadim does, no matter how many women he saves, he'll always be operating in shadows that Rutledge would never accept.
The blood on Vadim's hands may be justified. But to Rutledge, it's still blood that needs to be answered for.
I consider the delicate balance we're trying to strike. Getting the police involved is like dancing with a cobra—one wrong move and he'll strike.
But we need him.
We need his unwavering moral compass to help expose the corruption enabling Kirsan's operations, and bring the full attention of the world upon L.A. for what we're about to do next.
For that reason, this alliance of convenience will have to do.
Like my own marriage to Vadim, sometimes the most unexpected partnerships can yield the results we need.
But I can't shake the feeling that we're playing with fire. The same righteous fury that makes Rutledge perfect for rooting out corrupt cops could just as easily turn against us.
Against Vadim.
Against everything we've built together.
"Well?"
"Yes, Captain Rutledge," I reply. "I understand you perfectly."