Last Violent Call (Secret Shanghai, #3.5)(31)

“Yes, well, I was born here.” Roma let go of the postman. He pondered for a moment. “Do you have any idea who he was?”

The postman swallowed hard. Though he had been released, he didn’t move, as if he were afraid Roma might attack again on the slightest provocation. Roma hadn’t even grabbed him that hard to begin with.

“I don’t know. B-but, uh, he has been to the post office enough times that I did recognize his face. Actually, one moment…”

Eagerly, he plunged a hand into his bag, sifting through a large wad of envelopes. Roma watched him search, eyeing each stamped corner he flipped through until he brought one out.

“Here—his return address, on the back. I think this is merely a shopping catalogue order, so he gave them to me together.”

Roma plucked the envelope from the postman’s hand, flipping it over fast. The address wasn’t far from here. A short drive.

“I hope there are no hard feelings,” Roma said, clapping the postman on the shoulder. The postman recoiled with fright, but Roma was already running for the main road, an envelope in one hand and the bouquet of roses still in the other.

Juliette was waiting by the road, leaning up against the township’s main gate. Her eyes widened when she saw him approach, taking in his disheveled appearance.

“You found him?”

“Get in the car,” Roma instructed in answer, tipping his chin toward the gravel lot beyond the gate, where their vehicle was parked. “We have an address. Oh, and…” He gave her the flowers. “These are for you.”





12


“How do we want to do this?”

Juliette was busy burying her face in the flowers, inhaling the sweet scent. “Guns blazing?”

Roma gave her a wry look. After a forty-five-minute drive, they had arrived at their destination, close to Suzhou. A train rumbled nearby, loudly enough that it vibrated the paved roads. He put the car in park, the two of them peering out the windshield at the town streets.

“How do we want to do this before the guns come out?”

Juliette hummed in thought. She slid her hand along his arm, squeezing once. “I will do the shooting if you want, my love.”

Before Roma could protest, she set her flowers down gently, then hopped out of the car, smoothing her hair back. Roma followed suit quickly, closing his car door.

“Here is another idea,” he said. “We pretend to be solicitors. He invites us in; we confirm if it is Mr. Pyotr.”

“What are we soliciting?” Juliette asked. They started to walk. The house—the apartment, really, on closer inspection—was located at the end of the street, tucked between what looked to be two drugstores. It was all one building, the middle spliced out for a single-level segment with a green front door.

“Funds for medical research.” Roma reached his hand out. “That will get his attention.”

“All right. I like that.” She took his offered hand, fingers interlacing. “And then the guns start blazing?”

Roma sighed with affection and exasperation in equal measure. “You,” he muttered, “are such a pain in the ass.”

Juliette sidled closer. “I could really be a pain in your ass—”

“That was absolutely not an invitation to begin wheedling me about your infernal agenda again.”

“Roma. Do consider it. Other men have said—”

“Shhh… I’m knocking.”

They released each other, then straightened their postures and smoothed their expressions out. Roma’s knuckles thudded against the painted green surface.

When the man on the other side opened the door, it was certainly someone who matched Mr. Pyotr’s description. He eyed them curiously, hand gripping the frame.

“Do you have a moment?” Juliette started in Russian. She smiled brightly when the possible Mr. Pyotr blinked in surprise. “Sources have sent us your way to canvass for help.”

“We have come from a rural hospital for immigrants,” Roma continued. “There’s a proposal underway, and we would love for you to be a sponsor. Might we come in?”

Before they could be denied, Roma stepped over the threshold, firmly inviting himself into the apartment. Juliette pressed down on her urge to smirk, biting her tongue as she hurried to follow. There was only one window inside, on the far wall. Understandably, the afternoon sunlight was having a difficult time seeping through, the corners of the living room lurking dark and gloomy.

Juliette paused by a framed diploma hanging on the wall. PYOTR GAVRILOVICH SPIKOV.

They had found the right man. She inclined her head toward the certificate, directing Roma’s attention over.

“What is this about?” Pyotr Gavrilovich said. He hurried to close the door, his brows knitting together. Patches of silver threaded through his hair at the sides, which Juliette had to guess put his age in his late thirties. He had a calendar propped next to an empty vase on the table. The month was prematurely turned to November.

“Let me tell you about some of the hospital’s history,” Roma started. Taking a seat on one of the armrests on the couch, Roma launched into complete make-believe, which was something he had gotten better at over the years after realizing that if he left the make-believe to Juliette, she would often go too far and get caught too early. She was rather prone to exaggeration. Juliette could admit that about herself.