Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The cool air in the attic above his mother’s garage chilled his fingers as Aleksei stared at the little blue notebook, the cardboard cover firm against his palm.
It was a miniature version of the marble-style composition books he’d used in elementary school.
He fingered the edge of the cover, bracing himself against what he knew he would see when he opened it: Phillipe’s barely discernible scrawl and intricate doodles.
“Your boss was here yesterday.”
Even after nearly forty years in the US, his mother’s speech retained the long vowels of her first language. Hearing her voice usually warmed his belly like a cup of hot chocolate after a long snowball fight, but now, her words stiffened his spine.
He was a consultant. An independent contractor. He didn’t have a boss. Anyone claiming otherwise was full of shit.
And probably dangerous.
He should have come earlier. He hadn’t thought there was a need to rush.
His mom was allergic to dogs, so he’d dropped Jaka off at his sister’s place and stayed longer than he intended.
Kids changed so fast when they were young, and hers had grown like weeds.
They’d climbed him like a tree, demanded he play basketball on the new hoop they’d gotten for Christmas, and then his sister had brought out his old bow and arrow.
What he thought would be an hour stop turned into a two-night stay.
It had been too long since he’d visited Zina.
Far too long. After Phillipe died, spending time with the people he loved was terrifying.
Bone-bendingly, heartbreakingly terrifying.
All he could think about was how it would slice up what was left of his heart if he lost them.
He was a fool. And a fucking hypocrite.
He’d sat talking to Rosemary in his apartment in Philly, judging all the people who’d been laser-focused on Phillipe’s death, holding onto the holier-than-thou attitude that had smoldered in his gut for the past two years.
Yet he, too, had allowed his loss to control his actions every day.
He’d been doing the same goddamn thing as the people he criticized, just in different packaging.
Now it seemed his obsession with Phillipe’s death might have put his mother at risk.
“Who was here? What did they want? What did you tell them?” he demanded.
His mother narrowed her dark eyes and clicked her tongue. “Do not speak to me like that. I am no fool. Do not insult me by suggesting otherwise.”
His mother had always been fierce. A strong wind that pushed obstacles out of its way by sheer force of will.
He’d teased her, calling her RBG after she’d told him she was in the running for a federal judgeship—until she’d given him one of her lethal stares and said, “Enough of that. Do not joke about Justice Ginsburg. She is too good for that.”
He’d never used the nickname again.
Still, his throat went thick. His mom was a force to be reckoned with in the courtroom, but the size and strength of her personality seemed to make her forget she was a 5’3”, 115-pound woman in her early sixties.
She’d have no chance against a grown man, especially a professional.
What if Moresco had sent someone impersonating an FBI agent to his mother’s home?
To get close to her. To send him a message.
His pulse quickened, and then reason kicked in.
It didn’t add up. Didn’t quite fit. For Moresco to send a man, it would mean he knew exactly who Aleksei was, who his mother was, and where she lived.
It was a big stretch to think that Moresco knew he had been part of the FBI investigation three years ago.
And an even bigger stretch for Moresco to know he was now back on the case—solo and off the books.
Phillipe’s murder screamed thief, not a blown cover.
And it was hard as hell to get the home address of a federal judge.
That information was buried deep in the federal cyber abyss.
It would take a lot of time and effort, or a lot of money.
And for what? For someone to visit his mother and pretend they were an FBI agent? That was risky and inefficient. If Moresco had someone who could access federal records, it was a hell of a lot more likely Moresco would use that access to get his details and take him out.
Logic said something else was going on.
Hopefully, his mother could provide a good description of whoever had shown up here yesterday.
She was leaning against the rectangular opening in the attic floor, arms folded over her chest. She looked serious in a gray blouse and black suit jacket, with her black hair pulled back tightly in the twist she always wore when she was on the bench.
He didn’t know if her legs were covered with pants or a skirt, but either way, she’d have on low, sensible heels. Mila Stankovi? was a creature of habit.
His mom was in great shape, speed walking five miles a day and taking toning classes at the YMCA twice a week, but that didn’t mean he liked her climbing the attic ladder.
If she fell, she could break her hip or leg.
Yet expressing his concern would only make her climb up the rest of the way.
Determination was her strength, but the flip side of that attribute was stubbornness.
And that stubbornness meant she would be distant and aloof until he apologized for the insult.
“I’m sorry. I know you would never betray my confidence.”
Lawyers knew how to keep secrets, and a lawyer who’d spent forty years married to a cop was doubly good at keeping them.
Aleksei slipped the notebook back into its box and pushed the box toward the hole in the floor.
He left the second box sitting on the shelf behind him.
He didn’t need the pictures and medals. They held only pain and nothing valuable for the op.
That box was for later. After he’d avenged Phillipe. If then. Maybe never.
“I’ll bring this down. We can talk in the kitchen over tea if you have a few minutes.”
His mom gave him the same look she’d given him in middle school when he told her his homework was done so he could go outside and shoot hoops before it got dark. She knew he was bullshitting her. She knew her presence on the ladder made him nervous. Knew he wanted her in the safety of the kitchen.
She sighed and waved a thin hand in the air.
“Fine. I will go make us tea. Not because I am too old to climb into the attic, but because you will feel better when we are settled at the kitchen table. And then you will tell me what is bothering you. My first hearing isn’t until 10:30, so I have some time. ”
His mother was, as she was most times, correct. He did feel better once they were settled at the kitchen table. Her homemade oatmeal cookies and lemon ginger tea always soothed him. She made the tea from scratch. Lemons, grated ginger, a dash of turmeric, and a squeeze of honey.
“Remember when I bought you that box of lemon ginger tea?” he asked.
She grimaced. “Poison.”
He laughed, which he was sure was her intent. “Would you tell me about the man who came here yesterday?”
“He came in the afternoon. He flashed an FBI badge. I didn’t need to study it to know it was real.
Everything about him was government. Dark, mid-priced suit.
Dark, mid-priced car. Cagey but very polite.
Serious, placid face but sharp eyes. He told me twice that he was your supervisor but never gave me his name.
” She rolled her eyes. “These men always think I am stupid because I am a small woman and have an accent.”
“Only a fool would think you’re stupid. What did he want?”
She gestured toward the little notebook he had placed to the right of his placemat.
“He said he was looking for Phillipe’s personal effects.
He said there were some missing items that needed to be returned to his family.
He said that Phillipe had worked for him, and he was trying to do his best by him. He seemed genuinely distressed.”
She squirted a bit more honey into her tea and stirred, the spoon clinking. Both of their cups were porcelain, white with blue imagery. He looked at his cup more closely, seeing dragons in the sky, lightning bolts, shipwrecks, falling towers, and so much more.
“What are these mugs?”
She sipped her tea and released a satisfied sigh.
“Perfect. The mugs are catastrophe mugs. I use them when there is a bad omen. I sensed something unpleasant was brewing, and then that man came yesterday, and you visit unexpectedly today. If we drink from these mugs, the catastrophe will stay on the cups and out of our lives.”
“What would your colleagues think if they knew their esteemed judge seasoned her daily life with a good shake of Romani superstition?” he teased.
“They would know why I have been so lucky.” She waved at his tea. “Drink. I put ginseng and rosemary in your tea. For strength and luck. And a touch of lavender to open your heart.”
The strength and luck he’d take. The heart opening he could do without. He’d already opened his heart way too far to Rose.
He turned the conversation back to the visitor. “He didn’t give his name?”
“No.”
“What did he look like?”
She sipped her tea thoughtfully. “He was handsome. Around fifty, I think. Maybe younger, maybe older. Not short, not tall. Maybe five foot ten. Brown hair. A bit of middle-aged paunch but otherwise in decent shape.”
His mom’s description sounded like half the guys he saw every time he went to Home Depot.
“Any defining features? Scars? Tattoos?”
She shook her head, but then her eyes took on a bird-like intensity. “He smoked.”
“Smoked?”
“Cigarettes.” Her gaze grew distant, and her voice took on a wistful note. “When I was a teenager, everyone smoked. No matter where we traveled, people smoked. Even I smoked. I know it is a terrible habit, but I miss it.”
Vapes were more common now, but smoking was still a multibillion-dollar industry.
“A lot of people still smoke.”
“I guess. But the way he smoked was distinctive. He asked if I minded if he had a cigarette before he left. He was outside, so I didn’t care.
He had the oddest look on his face when he inhaled.
It was as if the cigarette was a religious experience.
And every exhale was like a hiss. I remember thinking he sounded like a snake. ”
Aleksei knew that look, and he knew that sound. He’d seen and heard it hundreds of times.
Gary fucking Kemper.