The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(48)

The clock on the wall ticked. Jenkins turned his head when it emitted an annoying buzz, as if to find and smash a fly.

“It sticks,” Petrekova whispered. She shrugged and smiled, but her smile had a sad quality to it. “You get used to it. When you live alone, noise can be comforting.”

Petrekova’s leg shook a nervous beat, and Jenkins had trouble applying her makeup because she was sweating, despite an oscillating fan they had placed on the counter to move the air and, along with the television, disrupt any eavesdropping. Jenkins derived comfort from the fact that Petrekova displayed nerves and looked around her home wistfully as she discussed what had been her life. She pointed out the photographs on the living room mantel of her deceased husband and her son and her daughter. Her family. Jenkins knew she did so because she wanted to take those photographs with her, another indication she planned to leave, that she did not have an intent to deceive him. Either that or she had missed her calling on the Russian stage.

He dabbed a bit more makeup with the sponge, then sat back to admire Langley’s handiwork. He held up a mirror so Petrekova could see his creation. She gently touched the mask, then smiled.

“Slip on the clothes,” he said, checking his watch. “I’ll call for the delivery.”

Petrekova did as he instructed, then paced the kitchen while Jenkins put the makeup kit away. When he had finished, there was a knock at the front door. Petrekova startled, then seemed to regain her composure with a few deep breaths. Jenkins nodded to her, hoping to give her confidence, but inside he felt his own nerves and braced for the worst.

Petrekova walked to the entry and looked through the peephole, then turned back to Jenkins and nodded. He stepped into a darkened corner of the living room as she opened the door.



Roughly an hour after Zenaida Petrekova had returned home, a car with a Domino’s Pizza light attached to the roof drove down the darkened road past where Chernoff and Vinchenko had parked. The street, pitch-black and without streetlamps, was lit only by a few sporadic lights affixed to the fences and the ambient light from stars in a cloudless sky. Vinchenko remained behind the wheel, seat reclined, his eyes closed.

“Delivery driver,” Chernoff said.

Vinchenko grunted.

“Have you tried it?” Chernoff asked.

“Tried what?” he said, without opening his eyes.

She looked over at him. “Domino’s.”

“No.”

The Domino’s driver stopped at the gate to Petrekova’s home. Chernoff sat up, taking notice. She trained binoculars on the driver, face mostly hidden beneath a ball cap and shadows. “He’s going to Petrekova’s home.”

“I guess she didn’t want to cook.”

“I think it’s a woman,” she said, adjusting the focus.

“Who?”

“The delivery driver.” Chernoff gave this a moment of thought. “Does that seem odd to you?”

“I assume delivery drivers come in all shapes and sizes,” he said, still not opening his eyes.

“That’s not what I meant. Last night she posted a photo on Facebook after cooking a gourmet meal. Tonight, she is eating crap. Seems odd to me.”

“She got home late from her appointment, is tired, and doesn’t want to cook. What’s odd about that?”

“I don’t like it. With the fence and the window shades drawn we can’t see enough to know what is happening.”

“What’s to see?”

“Something is odd to me.”

“Are your spidey senses tingling?”

“What?”

“You have children. Surely you have seen Spider-Man.”

“Why is it taking so much time to drop off a pizza?”

Vinchenko sat up and looked down the road. “I think you are starting to let your imagination run wild.” The gate opened and the driver stepped out, walking back to the car. “There. You see. No big deal.”

“I don’t like this, Dima. I think we should check this out.”

“How are we going to check this out? We are to have no contact unless certain, and I am far from certain.”

Chernoff focused her binoculars on the Domino’s driver, who got back into her car. Chernoff jumped when something sharp tapped on the passenger window. An old woman stood outside the car. They had seen her before. She walked her dog each evening.

“She’s late tonight,” Vinchenko said. “We should take bets on who dies first, her or her dog.” He reached to lower the window from his driver’s seat.

“What are you doing here?” the woman asked.

“We are waiting for someone,” Chernoff said, keeping her eyes on the driver.

“Who? Who are you waiting for?” the old woman persisted.

“A friend,” Chernoff said.

“Go on now. Walk your dog,” Vinchenko said. “Go on. Move along.”

“I am going to call the police,” she said.

“Go ahead. Call. Tell them to bring coffee when they come.”

The woman scowled as she walked off.

Red taillights illuminated and the pizza delivery car drove away from them. “I think we should follow the driver. I don’t like this, Dima,” Chernoff said.

“What’s rattled your cage? The old bat?”