The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(19)

“No.” Jenkins shook his head. “I’m a pragmatist. Take you, for example. You’re what, twenty-five or six? But you have the mental mindset of a fourteen-year-old prepubescent boy who gets off beating up women.”

“You insult me? Who are you?”

“Just a guy who wanted a little peace and quiet to enjoy a beer and something to eat before going to bed.”

“Looks like you came into the wrong bar at the wrong time.”

“We can all still win here. I’ll go someplace else to eat. The woman goes home. And you and the mountain can go back inside and finish your game.”

The young man broke the pool cue over his knee. “That is no longer an option.” He tossed half the cue to Pavil. “I think we’re going to finish this game right here. Right now.”

The young man lunged and swung the pool cue. Jenkins stepped forward instead of back, so his shoulder absorbed the blow. He grabbed the wrist holding the stick with his left hand, spun, and struck the elbow, hearing a snap. The young man bellowed in agony and dropped to his knees. Pavil, much bigger, but slower, lifted the pool cue like an ax. Again, Jenkins stepped into the man and threw a quick jab, striking Pavil in the trachea. Pavil dropped the cue and grabbed his throat. Jenkins kicked him hard in the groin, then struck Pavil’s chest, knocking him backward, off balance. Pavil toppled garbage cans as he fell into the debris.

The punk, one arm at his side, rose and came at Jenkins, slashing with a knife in his good hand. Jenkins avoided the first strike. When the knife crossed his vision a second time, Jenkins grabbed the arm with his left hand and snapped the wrist. The knife came free. He swung across his body with his right hand, striking the punk in the face and knocking him to the ground. He heard the clatter of garbage cans and turned. Pavil emerged from the debris, gun in hand.

At that same moment, the punk lurched to his feet, eyes burning with rage. He lunged at Jenkins.

The gunshot echoed.

The punk stumbled and fell into Jenkins’s arms.

The bar door to the alley swung open. The bartender. He looked at Jenkins, then at the man slumped in Jenkins’s arms, blood spreading from the wound, staining his T-shirt a burgundy red. The bartender’s eyes widened and he quickly pulled the door shut. At the end of the alley, Pavil retreated, gun still aimed. He stumbled over debris, struggling to keep his balance. Then he turned and ran.

Jenkins set the punk on the ground. The bullet had pierced his back near the left shoulder blade. He checked for a pulse, didn’t find one.

The woman cowered against the wall, looking both confused and scared.

“Seychas vy dolzhny uyti,” Jenkins said. You should leave now.

She stared at the punk facedown on the pavement, then shifted her gaze to Jenkins. Her eyes momentarily cleared.

Fear.

“Chto vy nadelali?” she said. What have you done?





7


Yakimanka Bar

Moscow, Russia

When married, Senior Investigator Arkhip Mishkin of Moscow loved everything about being a criminal investigator except nights he was called out to a crime scene and had to leave the warmth and comfort of his bed and his wife, Lada. Her parents named their daughter after the Slavic goddess of beauty, and for thirty-six years Lada had been Arkhip’s treasure. Since her death from breast cancer almost two years ago, Arkhip found little joy in life, but he no longer minded being called out to a crime scene in the middle of the night. His bed was cold. Most nights he fell asleep in his chair reading.

Getting called out was something to do.

Arkhip slowed his car as he approached a uniformed officer directing traffic, though few cars drove the streets at this hour. He checked his watch. Morning, actually. The officer vigorously waved at Arkhip to drive away. Instead, Arkhip lowered the car-door window.

The young officer looked angry. “What are you doing? Move along now or I will have you arrested.”

Ah, youthful exuberance, though the young man’s delivery needed work. You got more bees with honey than vinegar, his Lada liked to say. Arkhip smiled up at the officer and flashed his badge identifying him as a senior investigator with the Criminal Investigation Department for the Ministry of Internal Affairs. A mouthful, for certain.

The young officer raised his hands as if in surrender. He looked aghast. “My apologies, Senior Investigator.”

“No need.” Arkhip smiled again. “If you could just move those cones.” The officer hurried to pick up the orange cones, then waved Arkhip forward.

Arkhip parked and stepped from the car. He put on his lightweight summer sport coat and brown porkpie hat. “Thank you, Officer,” he said when the young man approached, looking chagrined. “If I might offer a word of advice?”

“Please, Senior Investigator.”

“Smile more often. One gets more bees with honey.” The officer tried, but the smile looked painful. “It will become easier with practice,” Arkhip said.

Arkhip checked his jacket pockets, felt the familiar shape of his spiral notepad and pencil, then stepped into a throng of police, a seemingly inordinate number for a shooting at a bar. One would have thought the president of Russia had been killed here. Someone had made the mistake of painting the exterior of the bar red, which was like that other saying of Lada’s . . . something about putting a dress on a pig. The peeling paint only drew more attention to the bar’s dilapidated condition. In an area of Moscow rapidly undergoing revitalization, the bar was not long for the wrecking ball.