The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(39)
He moaned. “Bosh! I cannot. Something has come up. A problem I must deal with before Chairman Petrov will have my head.”
“Pity,” she cooed. Her tongue traced the contours of his ear and she pulled his face deep into her cleavage. “Tell me you’re sorry. Tell me.” When he didn’t immediately respond she jammed her knee again into his crotch. He winced, then felt himself release all the tension of the day, maybe the week.
He moaned. “I’m sorry.”
16
Do or Dye Beauty Salon
Moscow, Russia
Charles Jenkins stepped down the back staircase to the storage room, hiding in the shadows but still able to watch the mirror on the salon wall, angled so he could see the store’s front. Bells atop the shop door rattled. The young woman wearing shorts and a T-shirt who Jenkins had spotted outside the Metro station closed the door behind her. Jenkins looked to Suriev, standing behind the salon chair. He had shut his eyes, realizing too late his failure to lock the door and turn the window sign to “Closed” after Petrekova had entered.
Suriev opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, speaking casually. “Ya vernus’ k vam cherez minutu.” I’ll be with you in a moment.
The woman stepped to her right to better view the person seated in the chair, not doubt to confirm it was Petrekova, but Suriev had also stepped to his right to block her view. When the woman took another step, Suriev reached for a jar on his tray, unscrewed the top, and applied green cream liberally to the look-alike’s face. Then he approached the counter.
“Chem ya mogu pomoch’ vam?” How can I help you?
“I’m thinking of a haircut,” the woman said, speaking to Suriev, but looking past him to the chair. “Perhaps some highlights.”
“Can you remove your hair band, please?” The woman did. Suriev stepped forward. “Turn around, please.” The woman turned toward the street. Suriev played with her hair. After a moment he said, “I can cut your hair for you, but I wouldn’t highlight it. Your hair has beautiful natural highlights as it is.”
A beeper buzzed. “Suriev,” the woman from the chair called.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, Zenaida.” He moved to the counter, looking at a computer monitor. “I could squeeze you in next week. Say, Tuesday evening at five thirty.”
“I have an engagement this weekend. Can you do it tonight?” the woman said.
“I’m afraid not. Zenaida is my last client.”
“Then I’ll have to go somewhere else,” the woman said. She moved to the door, glancing over her shoulder one last time before she departed. This time Suriev locked the door and turned the window sign, releasing a huge sigh.
17
Ministry of Internal Affairs
Building 38, Petrovka Street
Moscow, Russia
Arkhip returned to his desk following an hour-long meeting with his captain. He could no longer hide the news of Eldar Velikaya’s death; the murder at the Yakimanka Bar had leaked inside the department and was being broadcast all over state TV. People would now be guarded about what they said—if they said anything. His captain wanted to know the status of Arkhip’s investigation, whether Eldar Velikaya had been the victim of a mafiya hit and if the ministry should brace for a possible war on the streets of Moscow.
Arkhip assured him any such conclusion was premature and unsupported by the current evidence, which was admittedly limited. Though twenty years Arkhip’s junior, and light-years behind Arkhip in experience, that didn’t stop the captain from telling Arkhip how to do his job. He’d even suggested that, with Arkhip on the verge of retirement, the file be transferred to investigators with more vested interest in the outcome. Arkhip gently reminded the captain that he had a perfect record as an investigator, and he assured him he had a vested interest in seeing that the murder of Eldar Velikaya did not besmudge all that he had worked so hard to achieve. He would see the investigation through to its conclusion, and he preferred to remain active until his final day on the job, though if the resolution of this case lingered, he would willingly continue.
Arkhip’s desk computer pinged, an e-mail from the medical examiner’s office with an attachment for his eyes only. He opened the e-mail, then the preliminary medical report on the death of Eldar Velikaya. He picked up his reading glasses from his desk and slipped them onto the bridge of his nose, skimming the opening paragraphs, which provided details about where the body was found, its position, etcetera, etcetera.
Near the bottom he found what he was looking for.
Cause of death: trauma caused by a single gunshot wound to the abdomen.
Arkhip read the sentence a second, then a third time, not believing the words on the screen. He had seen the body. He had seen the bullet hole in the man’s back and the ragged exit wound. He had seen the excessive bleeding on the front of the man’s shirt, the pool of blood on the ground. The man had clearly been shot in the back. Any idiot with even a modicum of training and experience would know this to be true. Which left just one conclusion. This was no error. This was a deliberate fabrication.
He reached for his desk phone to call the medical examiner’s office just as the phone rang. Caller ID did not come up on the digital register, and Arkhip did not recognize the number to be within Building 38, Petrovka Street.