Chapter 9
Nikolai
Your Three O'Clock Is Here
Ivan had woken me quite rudely this morning and dragged me to the gym, despite my protests, mumbling about how I needed to get some sparring in. So I found myself dancing around the damned ring, dodging his blows.
He was on a roll today, and my sleep deprivation wasn’t helping matters. I swerved to avoid another one of his swings.
“Nikolai, tiger mentality,”
he yelled.
Of the Shaolin Kempo Karate system, the snake, leopard, crane, and dragon all used defense techniques to block or dodge before moving in for the strike. All offense, the tiger’s nature didn’t involve defense. The tiger—the deadliest and most robust in the kingdom—always went in one direction: forward. Hence Ivan’s gruff command.
“You’re getting soft,”
he sneered.
Ivan was our younger brother, although he stood taller and was broader. Alek was the oldest, my fraternal twin, with him being seven minutes older. I guess I should’ve been glad he wasn’t here, too, because he would give me shit as well.
“Fuck you,”
I said, sweat dripping down my face.
“Want to know what I think?”
Ivan teased. His words cut through the air like a whip as he stepped forward, determination etched on his face.
His taunting would have been fine on any other day, but today was not the day. Of course, the big lug punctuated his statement with a swift, calculated right hook that sliced through the space between us.
Damn, the man packed a punch.
The force behind it almost knocked me to my knees. He was making a point. Nothing like being schooled by your younger brother.
“Not particularly, but that’s never seemed to stop you before,”
I huffed, shaking my head to clear it.
“Jenna isn’t cutting it anymore. She obviously didn’t work out all your kinks. Maybe it’s time to move on. I think you should find someone a bit more stable, like a commitment. Hell, you and the Reaper both should. The two of you are getting old,”
he teased with an easy grin.
“And you’re an authority on commitment, huh? You’re just pissed Mother called you out for bringing a different girl to dinner each week for the past two months. You’re just trying to take the heat off yourself, asshole,”
I shot back.
“I’m just trying to help a brother out. What gives, then? You’re entirely too distracted today.”
He shoved me.
“I have several meetings and court at one. There’s something in the air. I can’t place it, but I know it’s there,”
I explained, trying to dodge his next blow.
He nodded. I often got strange premonitions, and he trusted me enough not to press. It had been that way since I was young. They would start like a whisper from the future, faint echoes of events yet to unfold.
It was the lingering sense of unease or anticipation that ate at me today. Something was in the air, and like the butterfly effect, it would create a ripple in the fabric of reality. All I had to do was wait it out.
As I said, he understood, but it didn’t prevent him from kicking my ass for another half hour before he called it quits.
“We’ll pick it up tomorrow. Your head is not in it.”
He snickered, giving me his hand to help me up.
The salty scent of sweat hung in the air as I dragged myself out of the ring. Each step felt like a Herculean effort. My breath came in ragged gasps, my body already sore from the workout. With a heavy sigh, I trudged toward the office. I peeled off my sweat-soaked gear, the fabric clinging stubbornly to my skin.
After adjusting the water temperature, I stepped under the massaging stream. I closed my eyes, letting it relax me. The tension seeped from my muscles. But a frown tugged at the corners of my lips; Ivan was right. My mind wasn’t in it today. He was also right that I needed a distraction, but a commitment wasn’t it.
As private investigators—among other things—my brothers and I followed select cases in and around the Seattle area. But lately, the day-to-day operations had been wreaking havoc on me. However, my mistake was I should have spent the night with Jenna and one of the new girls we’d hired. Two was always better than one. I washed up, my mind focused on a do-over.
A wild, dirty ménage à trois would provide exactly the distraction I needed. I dried off and grabbed my phone. After pulling up Jenna’s number, I sent her a message, telling her to make the arrangements and meet me at the club tonight.
Making my way to the courthouse, I walked along Third Avenue. It functioned as Seattle’s main transit thoroughfare. The distant rumble of traffic mixed with the sound of car horns blaring, and the chatter of pedestrians surrounded me.
The air was thick with the scent of rain, and the gray skies overhead cast a somber tone over the city. The narrow sidewalks and empty storefronts weren’t conducive to a leisurely stroll. Not that I had time for that today, anyway.
Quickening my steps, I scanned the busy sidewalk for the courthouse entrance. The sight of the imposing stone building, its entrance guarded by security personnel, did nothing to soothe my earlier apprehension. Walking in and through security, I made my way to the elevators, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.
Oxygen filled my lungs as I took a slow, deep breath before stepping out of the elevator and into the courtroom. I took a seat in the back so as not to disturb the proceedings. If this court couldn’t deliver justice for the family, then we would.
My gut sank as the attorneys presented their cases. A technicality? The man standing accused of raping a twelve-year-old girl was going to be let off on some stupid technicality. The victim had gone home and showered.
She’d kept her secret hidden for days before telling her parents. A medical examiner claimed there wasn’t enough physical evidence. What there truthfully wasn’t enough of was people willing to stand up to the rich. The sick fuck had bought the medical examiner’s testimony.
My jaw clenched as a dark-haired angel flashed in my mind. She slept angelically, or at least that was what I told myself to soothe the pain of losing her, but her face was forever ingrained in my brain. Her story was similar in that she’d kept her secret hidden, and when it finally came out, our lives were never the same.
And now she was gone. Although her memory lived on, it was only a lingering echo in the halls of our memories. Her ashes rested beneath solemn earth in her favorite spot, where time stood still. Her life forever etched on our souls and never forgotten.
The judge read the verdict, saying his hands were tied. Misery weighed heavy on the father’s sagged shoulders, and his wife’s body shook as she cried. From beginning to end, the proceeding only took ten minutes. I was so tired of watching families be torn apart by the shitty justice system. But this was where we come in.
The father stood and turned; he looked completely defeated. I took out the burner phone and sent him a text message, letting him know we would take over where the system left off. He squared his shoulders and stood taller. Giving him back a little hope was one of the reasons we did this. I slipped unnoticed from the room and made my way to the office.
Fifteen minutes later, Elena greeted me with several folders. I laid them down on my desk and looked out the window. The weather today matched my mood—gray and bleak. Throwing myself into the day, I got lost in one of the newer cases. I was reviewing the surveillance information when Elena buzzed.
“Mr. King, your three o’clock is here,”
she announced over the intercom.
Three o’clock already. Where had the day gone?
“Send him in, please.”
I grabbed a pad of paper. The man was adamant about not giving any prior information before the meeting. Not even his name. I wasn’t too fond of meetings like this. I enjoyed having as much information beforehand as possible.
“Mr. King, Pavel Lenkov.”
He thrust his hand out.
He looked to be in his early to mid-twenties, which surprised me a bit. He stood about six feet, with a powerful build. But, truly, it was his name that intrigued me. I glanced at his hands. No tattoos.
“Mr. Lenkov, it’s good to meet you. Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”
I offered, looking him over.
“No, I’m fine.”
His accent was thick. It would have given him away even if he’d given a false name. He took a seat across from me.
“What can I help you with?”
I fixed the crease in my pants.
“I got your name from the Russian community center,”
he began and then paused before the next set of words tumbled out. “I’m not sure if you can—help me, that is. I recently met a girl, and I swear I know her. She is either a twin I never knew existed, or she’s a girl that I attended a funeral for back in 2012.”
His statement was unexpected and intriguing at the same time.
“How’d you know her?”
“I used to dance with her. Knew her family as well as I know my own.”
He paused before continuing. “She and I started training together when she was four, and I was nine. But I’ve known her since she was born. Unfortunately, the girl I knew died in a car accident with her parents when she was eight.”
“How old would this girl have been now?”
I asked curiously.
“She would be twenty-one.”
“And is the girl you believe to be her the same age?”
“Well, I don’t know. She refused to talk to me. I sensed she recognized me and was afraid. Myshka, or Mouse, that’s what we called her, was easily frightened as a child. She had the same look in her eyes. It’s her,”
he said with conviction.
“Do you have a picture of her from before and now?”
I asked, fascinated by his story.
“Yes. Here’s a photo of her now. I had to sneak that one. And then this is one from a competition we were in together.”
He handed me two images, and I studied them. It could be the same girl.
“That was taken right before she died,” he said.
I studied the old and somewhat frayed picture he indicated. The child at the time was tiny—only seven or eight. Her long brunette hair was pulled back from her face. She had a turquoise sequin dance outfit on and was clutching the hand of a younger version of the man sitting across from me with the biggest smile on her face.
Moving the image closer, I compared it to the more recent photo. He had to have taken it at a dance studio. She had on a pair of pink dance shorts and a cropped T-shirt. She was the epitome of a tiny dancer. Her hair was pulled up into a tight bun, and she sat with her knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around her legs. Her head was tilted to the side.
“You honestly believe this is the same girl?”
“Yes, and if it is, then there’s something else you will need to know before you agree to take the case.”
“Go on, then,”
I said, unprepared for what he would show me. He took out two more photos and slid them over. I took them and waited for him to tell me the connection as my heart raced.
“Do you know who those men are?” he asked.
“Yes, this is Mikhail Romanov, the former Sovietnik. And this is his son, the new Sovietnik, Konstantin. What do they have to do with her?”
I asked, pointing to the photo of the girl.
The Romanov family was deeply involved with the Russian Mob. The head of the mob—Stepan Fedorov—and Mikhail Romanov had been friends for longer than I’d been alive. As Sovietnik, Mikhail’s job was to oversee and manage the mob’s operations.
He ensured tasks were carried out efficiently and goals met. He was second-in-command and the link between Fedorov and everyone else. His other job of knowing every moving part of the organization made him invaluable. I stared at the photo in my hand and sighed.
“If she is who I think she is, that man is her grandfather. But that man”—he indicated the other photo of the younger Romanov—“was not her father.”
His voice grew quiet.
“Excuse me?”
I said, breathing out. “If Konstantin is not her father, then how is Mikhail her grandfather?”
“I have no idea. Konstantin Romanov is the only child of Mikhail Romanov, and he has no children.”
“Maybe Mikhail had another child with a mistress.”
“I suppose it’s possible. Regardless, Mikhail is her grandfather.”
“But how can you be so sure of that?”
I needed more than just his word before I made any decision.
“Look, I’m taking a tremendous risk here. However, I’m told you’re the best. Can you help me or not?”
he huffed, sounding exasperated.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found. Have you thought about that? Truthfully, I investigate potential crimes with a specific specialty, and this doesn’t fit that narrative.”
“I’m aware of what you do. I’ve done my homework. But the accident, the one responsible for her and her family’s deaths, something was off about it.”
“Go on,”
I prompted when he grew quiet.
“Mouse’s parents and mine were approached by talent scouts two weeks before the accident. We scheduled separate auditions with an agency that wanted to send us to school here in America. Her father didn’t feel right about the talent scout or the audition. Or that’s what he told my father, at least.”
“Okay, what was off?”
“Something about the questions she asked and the way she looked at Mouse was odd and didn’t sit well. Coming back from the audition, their car suddenly lost control and went over a cliff. The authorities said it was an alcohol-related fatality. Except Mr. Dmitriev was adamantly against drinking of any kind.”
I sat there, trying to process what he was saying. My gut was screaming at me. He was being truthful. There was an honest sincerity in his eyes. He was in pain over this.
“And you’re thinking what? That this girl, your old dance partner, the granddaughter of this man, was what? Kidnapped? Possibly sex trafficked? And is now living here in Seattle? Are you aware that only 1–2 percent of child trafficking victims are recovered?”
“I didn’t know that. But I’m telling you, this girl is Mouse.”
“What’s her real name?”
“Mischa Natalya Dmitrieva, but that’s not all of it. My father got sick about four years ago.”
He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.
“Take your time,”
I coached him, and his jaw clenched as he got his emotions in check.
“He”—he sneered and pointed to the photo of Mikhail Romanov—“showed up after the Dmitriev funerals, demanding to talk to my father. It was late and confusing, but I distinctly remember him asking questions about Myshka and her family. The next day, my father received word that their…their graves were disturbed in the middle of the night.”
“Excuse me?”
I asked, sitting forward. He had my full attention, and any thoughts of turning this case down flew out the window.
“The graveyard worker confirmed the bodies were removed. Why would he do that?”
Bewilderment and disgust laced his voice.
“I couldn’t answer that for you. Tell me something. What made your father conclude that she was his granddaughter?”
“Mikhail was distraught and let it slip. He called her parents by their name, but my little Myshka, he called her his darling vnuchka. I heard it with my own two ears, and I don’t need to tell you what that means.”
“No, Mr. Lenkov, you don’t. I’ll need to discuss this with my brothers before committing to your case.”
“I understand. I’ll be in town for the next three weeks. I hope you will consider taking the case. If it’s Myshka, she deserves more than what life has given her. She should be on stage, touring the world and performing, not dancing in some small-town dance class. You can keep those.”
He indicated the photos. "Except for the one, that's mine. But you can make a copy if you'd like."
Standing, I walked to the copier and quickly made a copy of the one of them as children and handed him the orignal. “I’ll get back to you by the end of the week,”
I said, hearing the desperation in his voice.
I shook his hand and showed him out. The door clicked shut behind him. Settling back into my chair, I restlessly tapped my fingers on my desk.
The hum of the computer filled the room, accompanied by the soft rustle of the photographs Pavel Lenkov had left me. I looked at them once more.
She was exquisite, and there was an innocence about her. The longer I studied the photo, the more intrigued I became. There was certainly a resemblance to Mikhail Romanov in the eyes.
The reports were due in on Anton’s phone today. Factoring in Mr. Lenkov’s information, we almost had to rule out any connection between the Russians and this girl. Ivan and Alek would not be easy to sway.
The Russian Mob was not something to mess with. Hell, we had family back in Russia. Sipping on my tea, I clicked a few keys on my keyboard, attempting to corroborate Lenkov’s story. After several minutes, I made the decision and buzzed Elena.
“Elena, cancel my other appointments for the day. I need you to get Darren on the line for me, please. I need a full background check.”
It wouldn’t hurt to take a peek at this girl.