Kills Well with Others (Killers of a Certain Age #2)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

If Marilyn was upset that I called her names, she didn’t show it—she couldn’t. She seemed to be plenty upset already about everything else going on in her life at that moment. Next to her was a backpack—not a small knapsack, but one of the monsters meant for trekking up Everest or something equally torturous. On the floor, the pile of tortilla chips still smoldered, but nobody was looking at that. They were staring at us—except for Marilyn who was looking at the window in horror. Nat was clinging to the open panel like a monkey, her hands curled tightly over the frame. When she offered to cover the window exit, I figured she meant to wait discreetly outside in case anybody made a break for it. I should have known better. Natalie would never choose discretion over making an entrance. So she hung there like a spider monkey, face pressed to the glass as Marilyn recoiled in horror.

Tamara leapt to her feet—honestly she was so short, it didn’t make much of a difference. (Generally, I don’t make a habit of poking fun at things people can’t choose, but Tamara frankly scared the bejesus out of me, and thinking of her as a pocket person helped make her less intimidating. Or I’m just not a very nice person. Maybe both.) She kept her knees loose and her hands up, curled into fists. She was ready for a fight and wanted us to know it. Marilyn kept shrinking further back into her seat, but Galina was composed, sitting quietly with a little smile playing over her mouth, as if she’d arranged a very nice tea party and her guests of honor had just arrived. She was dressed in nondescript black, the fingers of her right hand buddy-taped.

“Hola,” I said.

To her credit, she laughed. “I didn’t think that would fool you for long.” Her voice was surprisingly friendly. “How nice to see you again. I trust Wolfie is well?”

“No thanks to you,” Helen put in.

Galina shrugged. “I did not shoot him. Personally, I don’t much like guns,” she added in the same confidential tone women use to discuss yeast infections.

“Neither do I,” I told her. “But I don’t need one to get what I came for. Where is she?”

Galina widened her eyes. “Whoever do you mean?”

“Oh god, she’s a talker,” Mary Alice muttered. “Why can’t they ever just answer a question the first time.”

“She likes the feeling of power it gives her,” Helen answered. “Like she’s calling the shots. She’s outnumbered two to four, but she thinks Tamara can take at least two of us which evens things up. And she probably thinks having a hostage gives her a leg up.”

“It’s rude to talk about people as if they weren’t here,” Galina murmured, grinning.

I jerked my chin at Marilyn. “Oh, she’s not a hostage.” As the others turned to her, she drew back even further, darting eyes around the compartment. She gnawed on her lip, and judging from the blood there, it wasn’t the first time. I took a step closer.

“She’s a conspirator, aren’t you, Marilyn?”

Marilyn’s mouth went tight. “I’m surprised you even remember me. Nobody remembers Provenance agents,” she replied sourly. “We’re just the data grunts, chasing down information and filing it away, day after day, year after year.” The last thirty years hadn’t been particularly kind to her. She’d been colorless and drab in 1994, but at least then she’d been neatly put together. Now her glasses were smudged and her jeans grubby. Her fingernails were as gnawed as her lip, and I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

“Is this where you explain your motive for betraying us is always being overlooked and how you’re just a tiny cog in a huge machine and selling us out was the only way you could take care of your poor elderly mother? Does she need an operation?” Mary Alice’s voice was so sharp with sarcasm, Swiss Army could have used it as an attachment instead of a corkscrew.

Marilyn blushed. Usually when you say that about someone, it means a pretty rose flush rising in the cheeks. On Marilyn it was a blotchy mess of bright red patches that made her look as if she were about to have a small stroke. She was breathing heavily, and her eyes were dilated. She was scared shitless, and the contrast between her obvious panic and Galina’s calm menace couldn’t have been more pointed.

“Let me guess,” I said. “She”—I jerked my chin towards Galina—“has been terrifying you just a bit. Because when all of this started, you were probably sitting in your little cubicle, getting one day closer to retirement and thinking how unfair it is that everyone else is out doing interesting things in the world. Then what? Did you stumble onto the information that Jovan Muri? had a lost Raphael masterpiece in his possession when he died? How did that happen?”

Marilyn licked at her lips, her tongue darting nervously. “It was my job to monitor the situation after his death, to see who took over his organization, if there were any loose ends we’d need to tie up. And then to write the final reports. I discovered Muri?’s widow was trying to move the painting. She was discreet, she never named the painting or the artist, but since I had prepared the dossier during the Bosque job, I knew exactly what she was talking about. And I realized I was the only person who would make that connection.”

“That connection was a potential gold mine. What then? You had the details of when it would be on the move and who would have it, all you needed was the muscle to help you take it, right?”

“Something like that,” she said through stiff lips.

I went on, laying out my pet theory. “But you’re not exactly the type to tangle with a Montenegrin gangster by yourself, are you? So you went trawling through the archives to find someone who could help.” I jerked my head towards Galina, who was listening with a little half smile on her face.

“And in the archives, you found the perfect accomplices in the Lazarovs, a brother and sister who had underworld connections, experience in dealing with art if you weren’t too fussy about the provenance, and who didn’t mind getting their hands bloody—just the right sort of people to help you in this little job. How am I doing so far?”

Marilyn turned even blotchier, but Galina laughed. “Full marks, Miss Webster.”

“But people like the Lazarovs wouldn’t take a job like this without a sweetener,” Mary Alice added. “So you gave them our names—and Lilian Flanders’s—so they could get a little revenge for their father’s death at the same time.”

“Working it out on paper is a little different than real life,” Helen said in a soothing tone. “Isn’t it, Marilyn? You’ve thrown in with people who would kill you without hesitating, and you have only just now realized how dangerous that is.”

Marilyn rubbed a cuff over her face and it came away damp. Sweat or tears, or possibly both. “I knew they were dangerous,” she said with a touch of defiance. I actually did feel sorry for her then. She really thought she could play in this particular sandbox and not get hurt.

“You know,” Nat said from the open window, “that’s a good point, Helen.” She looked at Galina. “Why haven’t you killed her yet? You have the painting. What do you need her for?”

Marilyn’s show of bravado was brief. She gave a little choked scream and clutched at her backpack.

“Because I’m betting that Marilyn is the only one who knows where the drop is,” I said. “She intercepted the information about who Muri?’s man was meeting in Athens. If she’s smart, she’s set up an account for the purchase money to be wired directly—I’m guessing Switzerland? The Caymans?” Marilyn didn’t confirm it, but she didn’t deny it either. I went on. “If she has any sense of self-preservation, she’ll leave the second the money hits her account, putting as much distance as she can between herself and Galina. Then Galina will get her share once Marilyn calls the buyer from a place of safety.”

Marilyn’s expression told me I’d hit a bull’s-eye. It wasn’t hard to figure out; it’s what anybody would have done in the situation. “Of course,” I added, turning to Galina, “she’s probably got the information in her phone, and phone security can easily be hacked. You don’t even need to keep her alive. Basic biometrics like Face ID and fingerprint scanners work for a bit after death.”

“It’s not on my phone!” Marilyn said, just in case anybody got the bright idea of murdering her in the next few minutes, I supposed. “I memorized the details of the drop. If I die, nobody gets the sale.”

“The buyer will be expecting Muri?’s man,” I said thoughtfully. “Why would he buy a painting from somebody he doesn’t know?”

“I contacted him from the courier’s phone and told him there was a change of personnel for the job.”

That accounted for why the courier’s phone was missing from his jacket. I gave her a skeptical look. “And he bought that?”

“He wants the painting,” she snapped. “He is buying it under the table. He isn’t exactly in a position to make demands. But if anything happens to me, he will not do a deal with anyone else. You need me,” she added to Galina. “Or you’ll never see that money.”

Her gaze darted from Galina to where Tamara still stood, springy as a cat. Her muscles were so tightly coiled, it was clear she was dying to take a pop at Marilyn and only Galina’s instructions were keeping her in line. Nat still hung at the window, and I realized she must be standing with her toes on a ledge, watching it all with interest from her perch.

“I do not care for threats,” Galina said politely.

“Especially when she can’t back them up,” I said. I turned back to Marilyn, keeping my voice kinder than I felt. She was already spooked enough. There was no point in making her more nervous because nervous people are unpredictable at best, and I didn’t need her doing something stupid. “Galina has her own contacts. She doesn’t actually need you to sell the painting. She can take it off you by force and move it herself. You’ve got to see it’s hopeless, Marilyn. You tried, and full marks for a hell of a ballsy move. But you’re swinging in the majors with a Nerf bat. You’re in over your head. We can give you a way out. Just hand over the painting.”

Her expression hardened. “You think I can’t do this? I orchestrated this entire deal. I’m the one who found the information, who put all the pieces together. I did this,” she said, puffing her chest a little and finding her confidence at last. “ I did this.”

I shrugged, palms out to show her I wasn’t picking a fight. “Okay. You did this. Fair play. But what’s your next move?”

She darted her eyes around again, assessing, before she turned to me. “I’ll cut you in. The four of you,” she clarified, gathering Mary Alice, Helen, and Nat in with a glance. “There’s plenty of money. Just act as my bodyguards, protect me until we get the deal finished. Make sure I get safely on a plane to wherever I want to go when it’s finished, and you can have a share of the proceeds.”

Looking back, I’m sure Galina would have had something scathing to say about that. She might have even unleashed Tamara to do her worst. I was about to laugh in Marilyn’s face, but just then the train gave another sudden lurch, throwing us all off-balance. Helen fell backwards into the corridor while Mary Alice landed at Galina’s feet. The train bucked again, and suddenly we were moving, and not just moving, moving fast, picking up speed as we headed towards the viaduct.

“Jesus Christ, Natalie!” I sprang towards the window where Nat was still hanging on, eyes wide and knuckles white to the bone as she gripped for dear life. As I leapt, Galina grabbed my leg, yanking me down. I fell across her and we landed on the berth, close enough I could smell her breath—black coffee and mouthwash—and powerless to do anything but watch what happened next. It was over in a matter of seconds. We hit the viaduct bridge with a thunderous roar, and Tamara went for Nat. She kicked out, once for each hand, landing the heel of her boot squarely on Nat’s fingers.

Nat screamed, but she held on.

Until she didn’t.

One second she was there, the next she was gone.

And that’s when all hell broke loose.