Chapter 27
KATE
It was the feckin’ tile.
Just my bad luck the zoo had a nature theme for the jacks, and they chose those shades of green for the floor and the walls. I might not even have noticed, if I wasn’t already wired about Tarasov.
But I was thinking about Tarasov. About the Bad Men. About everything that happened eighteen years ago.
Because once again, the bratva’s a problem.
Tarasov’s a threat that will turn nuclear once Breagha tells Mam and Da she’s changed her mind about marrying the bratva brigadier.
The war that will result when my sister dumps Tarasov for her beloved grad student will make the Dogfight look like a stroll after Sunday church.
Breagha calls me three times on Saturday and twice on Sunday. She doesn’t believe I had food poisoning. Sunday night, after supper, she finally asks if I’m pregnant. If my life was a movie or a book, that would be a funny way for both of us to realize the truth.
I’m not up the duff. But my entire life is changing because the carefully packed box of my memories was ripped open in that green-tiled toilet. Now I can barely sleep, even with the light on.
I only feel safe when I’m with Cole. He ran into the jacks to catch whoever hurt me.
He brought me home and put me to bed. He’s made excuses, all day Saturday and Sunday, to stay close.
Three separate times, he’s walked me across the street to visit Granny.
He knows the men from Sawgrass are keeping us safe and I can work the biometrics on my own, but he understands I need him by my side.
So at lunch on Monday, when he asks if I want to go with him to the freeport, I jump at the chance. I need to prove to everyone—Tarasov, Cole, myself—that I won’t be intimidated by the bratva shitehawk.
Cole gives me five minutes to change out of my ripe hoodie and yoga pants. I grab the first decent clothes I can find—my cream linen pants and a white tailored shirt that looks like it was cut for a man.
“Why are we taking the Mercedes?” I ask in the garage. I expected him to choose the Jaguar for the two-hour trip, to eat up the miles in the luxury car.
“No reason,” Cole says, but he looks directly in my eyes as he answers. He’s lying, and I don’t have the faintest idea why. The guards stand at attention as we clear the iron gate.
I know Cole is going to Delaware to hand over the Picasso to Tarasov. I wonder if I can wait in the car and avoid seeing the Russian.
But that’s absurd. I have to get past these ridiculous memories. I have to get back to living my life. Cole will need my help to destroy Tarasov after today’s auctions.
“Did you take any road trips when you were a kid?” I ask, to distract myself from the memory of green tile.
“They weren’t really road trips,” Cole says. “More like running for the border.”
I laugh before I realize he’s serious. “Why’d you have to flee?”
“The first time was when Shannon pulled a Badger Game on a shop steward in the Teamsters.”
“What’s a Badger Game?”
“You get a man black-out drunk, then take pictures of him in compromising situations. He pays up to keep you from sharing the photos with his family or his employer. With the public if he’s running for office.”
“That guy was running for office?”
“For school board. So pictures of him going down on Shannon while she wore a schoolgirl uniform brought in a major payday. Until he came around with a couple of union enforcers, asking for a refund.”
“Why’s it called a Badger Game?”
“I don’t know. Shannon didn’t either, when I asked her.”
“How far did you have to go, to be safe?”
“We spent a year up in Pennsylvania, in a little town twenty miles past nowhere. The Badger mark’s wife caught him with his mistress and put a bullet through his forehead. It was safe to come back after that.”
I blink hard. I don’t tell stories about growing up in the Canton Crew because there aren’t a lot of people who want to hear about Da coming late to Sunday Roast, stopping to lean a bloody crowbar against the dining room wall. But Cole would understand, if I ever decide to share.
“You said the first time. How many other times did you run?”
“There was the time Megan ran a Short Count at the corner store.”
The instant he says her name, I picture her sitting across from me at the Four Seasons restaurant, running her hands through her chartreuse hair.
I’m surprised Cole just mentioned her. He hasn’t said her name since he threw her out of the house.
I’m only a second or two slow in asking, “What’s a Short Count? ”
“You buy a fifty-cent pack of gum and pay with a ten-dollar bill. After you get your nine bucks and change, you realize you had a one all along so you offer to trade back—the nine bucks you got you plus your one dollar, for a ten-dollar bill. When the clerk makes the trade, he’s holding a five and five ones and you’re holding a ten, so you’re even.
But then you realize you have a different ten in your wallet, and you ask to trade it for a twenty.
He makes the trade again and you walk away with ten of his dollars. ”
“People actually fall for that?”
Cole nods. “If you talk fast enough they do. Or if you distract them by asking a bunch of questions. But if you’re Nutmeg, you do it too close to home.
And when the store owner collects with a baseball bat, he breaks out every window of the crappy rental where you’re three months behind on rent.
Then you run. We went to West Virginia that time.
We were there for six months before Shannon scared up enough cash for first-and-last month and a deposit back in DC. ”
“Sounds like Megan made a rookie mistake.”
“Well, she was only five.”
I laugh, and he does too.
We trade stories for the rest of the trip—Cole teaching me half a dozen con games and me sharing the glamorous life of an Irish mob princess. I’m surprised when we pull up to a security gate that looks worthy of Fort Knox.
Cole produces ID, and we’re eventually cleared to drive onto the premises. We make our way to a parking lot between two modern glass-and-steel office buildings. A low structure made of shimmering white brick sits to our right, rising out of a soft hill.
Cole gestures toward one of the taller buildings with his chin as he pulls the Mercedes into a wide parking space. “That building holds the galleries. Most of it is underground. And that’s where the work gets done—lawyers, curators, all the other professional services.”
“And what’s that?” I ask, pointing toward the white brick building.
“A private home.”
“Who lives there?”
“Trap Prince, the freeport’s founder and CEO, and his Chief Operating Officer, Alix Key. There’s Alix now.”
Alix turns out to be a tall, slender woman dressed in a suit that looks like it cost ten thousand dollars and was hand-sewn to accommodate her extremely ample chest. She’s speaking on a mobile as she rounds the corner of the house, holding back her long thick hair from the breeze.
She freezes when she spots the Mercedes.
She’s too far away for me to be certain of the expression on her face, but she says something into the phone before dropping her hand to her side.
It takes a moment for her to start moving again, but by the time Cole and I have climbed out of the car, she’s found a bright, professional smile to paste onto her face.
“Cole,” she says, her voice a trifle cool.
He makes the introductions, and she gestures for us to enter the office tower.
Security here is as tight as at the front gate.
Cole and I present IDs, and we wait for the guard to check, double-check, and triple-check records on his computer.
We have to pass through a metal detector before we’re allowed past the lobby.
“We’ve got the big conference room,” Alix says. “We don’t expect most bidders to start arriving until four.”
“Excellent,” Cole says. “Pyotr Tarasov should be here shortly.”
“Mr. Tarasov opened an account with us earlier this week.” The brittleness in Alix’s tone makes me certain she’s familiar with the bratva.
“We have some business to conduct before I take him to my gallery.”
“You’re welcome to use one of the small conference rooms.” She turns to the security guard, who is performing an excellent imitation of an oak tree. “Gerry? Could you please have Housekeeping set up the Marquis Room?”
As the guard picks up his handset, Alix leads us down a short hall. We pass a framed painting of a can of tomato soup. I’m pretty sure it’s famous, but I don’t have any idea why. Alix doesn’t seem to see the art as she opens a polished mahogany door.
The room inside looks like a movie set, with a wide wooden table surrounded by eight massive leather chairs. A wall of windows looks out over a grassy field. A video screen fills another wall. Everything in here smells like money.
“If you don’t mind,” Alix says, “I’ll leave you to your meeting. I’m still waiting on the curatorial reports for your paintings. You have my number if you need anything at all.”
“Thank you,” Cole says.
Alix has her hand on the door before she turns back. “I’m sorry, Cole. I have to ask. Is there anything I should know about today’s auction? Everything about our arrangements have been somewhat…unusual.”
He looks straight in her eyes. “Nothing I can think of. I just need to raise some cash on short notice.”
She nods, but a frown tightens her lips.
As she leaves, a young man comes in, pushing a small metal cart.
He crosses to the credenza and lays out refreshments—a carafe of coffee and one of decaf, another with hot water for tea, cans of soda, an ice bucket, and bottles of water.
With crisp efficiency, he lays out mugs, glasses, and coasters.
He leaves so quickly I can almost believe the drinks were set up by magic fairies.
I glance at the clock embedded in the video screen. We have ten minutes before Tarasov joins us. My belly ties itself into a gelatinous knot.
Cole takes the chair at the head of the table. Plucking his mobile from his breast pocket, he begins to thumb through messages that arrived while he was driving.
I start to pace beside the windows, reminding myself that I purposely came here today. I want to confront Tarasov. My wrists start to ache, and I realize I’m crossing my arms. I’ve been clutching my biceps as I walk.
Annoyed to show so little self-control, I jam my fists deep into my pockets. The fingers on my right hand come up hard against my phone. On my left, though, I find something as soft as velvet.
Puzzled, I start to empty my pocket. I catch a glimpse of dirty white, splotched with black and orange. It’s Kitty Mew-Mew, Megan’s childhood toy. After she abandoned me at the Four Seasons, it never occurred to me to give the stuffed animal to Cole. I haven’t worn these trousers since.
I jam the ragged fur deep into the pocket. Flexing my fingers, I help myself to a bottle of water. I don’t want to drink it. I just need something to hold.
I check the clock again. Eight minutes until Tarasov arrives.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I mutter under my breath.
“You don’t have to stay,” Cole says.
“What?” I whirl to face him.
“You can wait in the car.”
“I’m not waiting in the feckin’ car.”
“You have a history with the bratva. No one can expect you—”
“So what, now? You’ve added head-shrinker to your resumé?”
“You clearly were indisposed the last time you saw him—”
“And you don’t want some hysterical woman to quare your business deal with him now?”
I don’t know why I’m doing this, picking a fight. I don’t want to be this angry woman. I don’t want to be afraid. But a vise is tightening around my brain, and the words keep boiling over, without my choosing them at all.
“I don’t know what your angle is,” I say.
“But you’re clearly lying to get what you want.
I saw the way you looked at Alix, right before she left.
She said things were unusual. But they’re a hell of a lot more than that, aren’t they?
What are you planning, Wolf? What exactly do you think is going to happen? ”
“Tarasov,” he says, looking over my shoulder.
I whirl to find the Russian mobster standing in the doorway. His smile is oil smeared over glass. “Please,” he says. “Do not allow me to interrupt a lover’s quarrel.”
Cole’s eyes flash with anger. I don’t know if that look is meant for Tarasov, for whatever they’re about to finalize in this meeting, or if it’s meant for me.
A hot flash of embarrassment ignites every inch of my flesh, and I know I’ve flushed bright red. The sensation, though, is immediately followed by a wash of glacier melt, the essence of the Cold Room, draining my blood from my veins.
My heart squeezes so hard in my chest that I whimper. Black fog rolls at the edge of my vision. The floor buckles as if an earthquake is tearing loose the luxury carpet, but I’m the only one who sways.
Cole takes a step toward me. “Kate,” he says.
“I’m fine.” I think I say the words. But maybe I only hear them in the depths of my brain. Maybe they’re too far away for me to ever say them out loud.
“Kate,” Cole says again, raising his hand to take my arm.
I pull away as if he’ll scorch me. Stumbling against the table, I bruise my thigh. Before I can register the dull ache, I reel into Tarasov’s side.
His body feels like it’s carved from breeze blocks. His breath stinks of onion. He starts to reach out, to steady me or something worse.
I was wrong to try this. I can’t stay. “I— I’ll be outside,” I say, and I stagger out the door.
Lurching down the hall, I find Alix about to enter another conference room. She looks up in surprise, and I know I must be moving too fast or swaying too much or making some other grave mistake. “Kate,” she says. “Are you—”
But I don’t hear the end of her question.
I throw myself across the lobby, out the door, and over the macadam of the car park.
I don’t have the keys to the Mercedes. I can’t let myself into the car.
But I can brace myself on the broad burgundy hood and wait to see if this is the moment my pounding heart explodes.