Chapter 18 Alison
ALISON
One week later
“Okay,” said Caroline, grabbing her purse. “I’m outta here. Now remember, you’re meeting Edgar at eight. Don’t be late. And wear something...you know…nice.” She looked at my gray trouser suit. “Maybe a skirt?” she said hopefully.
Not her fault. She didn’t know about my leg. “I’ll think about it,” I lied. Edgar would get jeans and like them. “Go!”
She finally left, and I sighed in relief.
It had been a week since Gennadiy had given me the tip about the cesium.
I’d taken it to Halifax, claiming it came from a confidential informant, and it had paid off.
The counter-terrorist unit had arrested three guys, and it had been a big win for the bureau and for our office.
Halifax was delighted and had put me back in charge of the case.
All was good...other than I now only had three days to catch Gennadiy.
..and Caroline had decided to set me up on a blind date with a single dad she knew from her kids’ school.
I’d told Caroline, firmly, no. But then she’d given me big, pleading eyes: she just wanted me to be happy, and she’d gone to so much trouble to set it up.
..I’d caved and said I’d go. I scowled at the Post-it note she’d stuck to my computer monitor: Edgar, 8pm.
Then my eyes tracked down to the rubber duck Gennadiy had sent me.
I’d been going over and over why he gave me the tip-off. Because he wanted me back on the case: better the devil you know. Because I saved his life and he has some weird Bratva sense of honor.
Because he cared about me?
I glared at the duck. Everything had been a lot easier when I’d just hated him.
I thought of the bodies we’d found. I thought of my parents. All the innocent lives lost to the fighting between families like the Aristovs. He’s still the enemy.
But he was seeming more and more human..
.and more and more like me. He’d had a shitty start in life, too.
And it had turned him into an obsessive workaholic, too.
If my life had been just a little different, if Master Sun had turned me away that night instead of helping me, could I have wound up on a very similar path?
It was getting harder and harder to hate him.
And without the hate, there was nothing to hold back the attraction that had been there from the start.
Now, every time I saw him, it was like my whole body woke and came to breathless attention, as if the time in between was just a waste.
And then it would start: my eyes darting everywhere, racing over his suit, his shirt, sneaking looks at the triangle of tattooed, tan flesh at his shirt collar.
I’d catch his scent and have to dig my fingernails into my palms because I was imagining sliding my hands around his waist, feeling the hard, warm ridges of his abs through the soft cotton of his shirt.
Then he’d speak, and I’d have to force myself to focus on what he was saying because each low growl resonated right to my core, each word a little bomb that exploded there and sent liquid silver racing straight down to my groin.
And it was more than just lust. Whenever I was close to him, my right cheek—always my right cheek—would prickle with the memory of how his pec had felt when he’d hugged me against his chest at the graveyard.
I’d been bawling my eyes out, but the warmth of him, the solid wall of him, protecting me, had been the best thing I’d ever felt.
I put my head in my hands. “What are you doing, Brooks?” I muttered. Was I really so lonely and fucked up that I was starting to feel things for a gangster?
Yes. Yes, I just might be.
I screwed my eyes closed and gave a silent scream of frustration, then sat up straight in my chair.
Focus! I’d printed out a photo of Viktor Grushin, my Russian counterpart, and stuck it beside my monitor, for moments like these.
He wouldn’t let himself get...distracted like this.
He would have had Gennadiy locked in a cell by now. God, I wish you were alive.
Maybe it was because I wanted to shut out the thought of my blind date, but I brought up Viktor’s file and idly flicked through it, wondering how he’d died. Heart attack. He’d only been in his early sixties but he’d been a smoker, so that made sense…
Then I saw something that made me lean forward in my chair.
I’d been looking at the scan of the autopsy report, which was in Russian.
My computer was helpfully translating the text into English, overlaying it on the Cyrillic.
But there was one line right at the bottom that stood out because it wasn’t translated.
It was just a filename, a string of numbers and letters.
And part of it was the date and time the autopsy report had been created.
The date was two weeks before Viktor’s death.
I sat there staring at it. Maybe the date was wrong on the pathologist’s computer?
Or maybe this was someone else’s autopsy report, and they’d copied it and changed the details to Viktor’s, but not noticed the date code at the bottom.
What if Viktor had faked his death? I turned the idea over in my mind.
This was a guy who’d put some of the most notorious criminals in Russia behind bars.
A national hero...but someone every gang wanted dead.
The man couldn’t just retire and go fishing; he’d be dead in a week.
..unless everyone thought he was already dead.
I started typing in searches, digging deeper and deeper. The FBI is hooked into a lot of databases around the world, and I knew exactly what I was looking for: a man of Viktor’s age, with Viktor’s face, but with a different name. And eventually, I got a match.
I sat back in my chair. “Holy shit,” I said aloud.
Viktor Grushin was living under a new name, pretending to be a Polish national.
And he was regularly flying between Russia and New York, LA.
..and most recently, Chicago. He’s alive.
And he was right here in my city. I tried to download a copy of his file, but hit a server error, so I settled for snapping a photo of my screen with my phone.
Could I contact him? Maybe ask for his help?
He was retired and probably wouldn’t take kindly to someone blowing his cover, but maybe if I pleaded…
My eyes fell on the post it note on my monitor: Edgar, 8pm. The clock on my computer said 7:51pm.
Shit! I was going to be late! And I couldn’t just not show up and leave the poor guy sitting there. I looked down at my suit. There was no time to go home and change. Well, at least I skip the agonizing about what to wear.
When I showed up at the restaurant in my biker leathers, the staff thought I was a delivery driver and tried to give me a takeout bag.
I found the bathroom and scrambled out of my leathers and into my suit, then looked despairingly at myself in the mirror.
I put on some lipstick, then unbuttoned a button on my blouse. That’ll have to do.
I hurried back into the restaurant, and a waiter showed me to the table.
Whoever this guy Edgar was, I had to grudgingly admit he had good taste.
The place was classy but not too formal, dark and cozy enough that it felt private but not so quiet that there’d be awkward silences.
There was a great view across Lake Michigan with the lights of the city reflected in the dark water, and the food looked and smelled amazing.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten something that wasn’t takeout or instant noodles.
We rounded a corner, and I saw him, waiting at the table. Oh, he’s cute! Edgar had pale golden hair and beautiful, expressive blue eyes. I mentally shifted gears. I’d been dreading this; now I was wondering if I still remembered how to flirt.
Edgar jumped up when he saw me and gave me a big, honest smile. He pulled my chair out for me, which was old-fashioned but sort of sweet. We ordered and started talking. He’d been divorced about two years, had two kids he obviously adored, and his weaknesses were Godzilla movies and red licorice.
He was nice. And attractive. I decided to get this over with before I got my hopes up too much. “I want to tell you right up front,” I said, “I work for the FBI.”
Edgar grinned, which gave him dimples. “Cool.”
I blinked. “Really? That puts most people off.”
He tilted his head to one side. “Mine’s worse.”
“I doubt it.”
He cleared his throat theatrically. “Investigator for the IRS.”
My jaw dropped. “Oh. Okay, yeah. That’s way worse.”
“Does it put you off?”
I locked eyes with him and smiled. “No. No, it doesn’t.”
He smiled back at me, and then both of us reached for the bread, and we bumped fingers and laughed, and maybe this could work and—
I froze. You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Marching out of the shadows was Gennadiy.
I started to get up, but he was already at the table, looming over us. And he was pissed. “Who is this?” he demanded, glancing at Edgar.
I just stared up at him, dumbstruck.
“I’m Edgar,” said Edgar, uncertainly. Gennadiy didn’t even look at him. Edgar looked at me. “Is this your...ex?”
“No!” Gennadiy and I both said as one. I was annoyed at him showing up like this, but Gennadiy was seething. What’s his problem?
I managed to shake off my shock. “What are you doing here?!”
“My family owns this restaurant.” He looked between the two of us. “What are you doing here?”
I looked at my hand, still touching Edgar’s. Gennadiy and I had spent three months in close proximity, but this was the first time he’d ever seen me with a man. Oh God, is he...jealous?!
I jumped up from the table. “Don’t move,” I told Edgar.
I put my hands on Gennadiy’s chest and guided him back across the room, which felt like being a mouse pushing a bull.
He was looking annoyingly amazing in a midnight-blue shirt, and I could feel his heart pounding under my palms. He kept glancing back at Edgar, a murderous look on his face, and that stoked my own anger.
Partly, it was that Gennadiy had no right to be jealous.
Partly, it was that there was a weak little part of me, deep down, that was melting at the fact that he was jealous. I hated myself for that.
I pushed Gennadiy up against the wall, and he scowled down at me. “You’re really on a date with that zanuda?” he snapped.
“Yes! Gennadiy, what is this? You can’t just—”
He was turning scarlet. I’d never seen him so angry, not even when I first met him at the casino. “After dinner, what happens? You’re going to go to his place and—” He broke off, panting, too angry to say it.
But I was pissed, too. “Yes!” I hissed. “Yes, I’m on a date with him, yes, I like him, and yes, Gennadiy, if everything goes well, then I might just go to his place, drop to my knees and worship his dick!”
His eyes flared, the gray ice turning so bitterly cold it was frightening. Then he turned and walked away. I stood there panting, my palms still warm from the heat of his chest. Jesus.
I walked back to the table and, before Edgar could speak, I grabbed my glass of Chardonnay and glugged half of it. Then I gave a huge sigh. Better.
“Was that guy...someone from work?” asked Edgar gently.
I nodded, my heart rate still slowing. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Are you okay?” He sounded genuinely concerned. And even a little protective, which was all the sweeter because he was half Gennadiy’s size.
I nodded firmly. “Yes. I’m sorry about that. But don’t worry, it’s all over. I dealt with it. Now...where were we?”
He smiled, and I smiled back. But I felt a flutter of unease in my stomach.
I dealt with it. Right?