Tell Me No Lies (12 page)

"So Petrov was a black marketeer?"

She ran a finger down her beer bottle, tracing a line in the dew on the glass. "Not exactly."

"You're not going to tell me he got his start baking cookies?'

She smiled wryly. "Oh, no. Miki Petrov never wanted to work that hard. Not when he could punch his way in."

He paused, working the clue. "Punch? like in smack, hit, beat up?"

She sighed. No way to avoid it now. "Like in threat, interrogation, torture, and exile." She braced herself for his reaction. "He's ex-KGB."

She wasn't disappointed. His eyes widened in surprise, and he leaned back in his chair and whistled. But before he could react further, their food came.

The burgers were thick and juicy, grilled on chunks of French bread, slathered with mayonnaise and ketchup. Succulent slices of ripe tomato and leaves of crisp green ro-maine peeked out from beneath the bread. The smell was outrageous meat, charcoal, and spice and surprisingly, her mouth watered. AH of a sudden she was starved. She bit in, finding it as delicious as it looked.

Hank grinned, wiping sauce and juice from the corner of his mouth. "Worth the drive and the company?"

"I hate to admit it, but yes."

They chewed for a while in silence, then Hank put down his sandwich. "So how does a thug for the Russian secret police become the money behind Renaissance Oil?"

She'd hoped he would have forgotten, but not Hank Bonner. "Come on, Detective, figure it out. This is right up your alley. How do most thugs get ahead?"

"By stealing their way up the ladder."

She shrugged: Give that man a cigar.

"You're saying he stole his millions?"

"Who else but the KGB would be in a position to grab what it could when the Soviet Union fell?"

He tilted his bottle back and swallowed a mouthful of beer. "Yeah, but we're talking millions here."

She shook her head. "You're thinking small, Detective. Believe me, there was much more for the taking."

"How much more?"

Careful. Tread softly. "The entire treasury of the Soviet Communist Party for one. Billions of dollars in gold and cash, all of which disappeared in 1991 and has never been found."

He stared at her, his expression stunned. "You mean it just... vanished?"

"Into thin air. Or into someone's pocket." In the far distance her father's voice echoed over the years.
Thief. Betrayer.

"And you think Petrov "

"No one knows for sure, but only the KGB had the power and influence to get that money out of Russia and into foreign banks. And Miki Petrov was the KGB's golden boy in Moscow. Rumor has it he did anything he was asked. Anything. No qualms, no questions. Service like that gets rewarded. And no one knows where Miki got his initial stake."

"You're serious."

"It's as good a theory as any." And true, though she couldn't prove it. Yet. A pang went through her. She was so tired of tilting at windmills.

"Then why are you working with him?"

She pushed the plate away, her appetite gone. "Because, as Willy Sutton said about why he robbed banks, that's where the money is."

He looked disappointed and shame pricked her. She didn't like being judged, especially when he didn't know the whole story.

Then again, whose fault was that?

She picked at a french fry, moving it around on her plate. "Look, the US wants to wean itself of its dependency on Middle Eastern oil. Russia has huge arctic tracts of multibillion-barrel oil and gas fields, all undeveloped because Russians lack the money and experience to tap them. Without Western resources and expertise, those fields will remain undeveloped. But despite that there's been huge resistance to foreign investment in Russian oil."

"Why? If what you say is true, they need us as much as we need them."

"It's a question of control. There's a faction that's afraid of giving foreigners control of a vital resource. Think about it. How would you feel if Russians owned a controlling stake in Ford or GM? Or in the Alaska pipeline?"

"But Petrov doesn't care?"

"No. All he cares about is the money he can make." She tried keeping the contempt out of her voice and wasn't sure she succeeded.

"So Petrov's a traitor as well as a thief."

"Not if you look at it from a global capital perspective. From that point of view, he's a hero. He's bringing investment and development to an industry and country that needs them."

"With money he stole from the country itself."

She gazed at the thick wooden table, at the dozens of names and dates carved into the surface, and it struck her how eager some people were to proclaim their identities.

But she didn't have that luxury. It was time to pull back, muddy the waters, inject some doubt.

"Who knows? It could all be Miki's myth-making machine working overtime. Moscow in the nineties was like Tombstone in the 1880s. Maybe Miki is a Russian Wyatt Earp a legend built from a speck of truth surrounded by a fistful of fairy tale."

"Except Wyatt was on one side of the angels, and Petrov is on the other."

"Don't think black and white, Detective. Think gray. Always shades of gray."

He polished off his sandwich and sat back. "So what does your father have to do with any of this?"

Panic surged into her throat. "My fa " Then she remembered. "Nothing. Luka has nothing to do with it."

Hank's eyes narrowed. "I thought you said you hadn't seen him in years. How would you know?"

Damn. She had to be so careful with him. "I don't. I just meant that Luka didn't move in those circles."

"He owned the Gas-Up."

"An immigrant ambition. Hardly the stuff that puts a man on the same rung as Miki Petrov."

"Then why did he have the article in his wallet?"

"How should I know? Maybe he thought Renaissance CHI would be good for business, bring lots of people to his Gas-Up, Or maybe he was hoping to turn the Gas-Up into an RO franchise. Maybe he thought his connection with me would get him a better deal."

Hank was studying her. "Would it?"

She sighed. "Maybe. If only to get him out of my life as quickly as possible."

"I guess you don't have to worry about that now."

A chill settled inside her. "No."

"By the way, your lawyer called. He wants the body released for burial on Monday. I passed his name on to the coroner's office."

She nodded. She didn't want to think about burying Luka. "Have you made any progress on the case?"

He shook his head. "Nothing I can talk about"

Oh, he was good, this Detective Bonner. He extracted an encyclopedia of information from her while divulging nothing of his own. Well, she was through with his history lesson. "On that note, maybe it's time to go. You have someone waiting at home."

At the reminder of his niece, he signaled for the check.

"Thanks for dinner," she said quietly.

"Thanks for the information."

Once again she fought an absurd compulsion to tell him everything. But that would have been foolish beyond belief. She might have been many things a liar, a manipulator, an avenging demon.

But she was no fool.

***

Hank noted Alex's pensive mood on the way home but didn't press her about it. Instead, he sifted through the information she'd provided. The more he thought about it, me more it seemed he was chasing air. He'd seen Luka Kole's apartment. Wrecked though it had been, it was no penthouse suite. If he' d had access to the kind of money Petrov blew in a week, he wouldn't have been living in a working-class hovel.

No, something else was behind Kole's murder. Something as simple as an out-of-work troublemaker with a beef. He thought of McTeer. Klimet had rounded up one of Big Mac's alibis, but he'd been stoned to the eyeballs. Klimet wasn't sure if the guy knew what day it was, let alone remembered the day before.

Hank dropped Alex off at her front door. "Hope your housekeeper is all right. What's her name again?'

Alex hadn't said her name before, but it would be there on Pete's report. "Sonya."

Hank nodded. "Hope she's feeling better in the morning."

"Thank you."

She glided up the few steps, tall and royal. What was it about the way she carried herself? As if her skin were the only thing between the tough world outside and the tender secrets within. And why did he find that so compelling?

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. If he let go, she might pull him in after her, a great feminine tide that made him want to edge closer, drink deeper, despite the danger and bad luck he could bring her. As though she had some indefinable something, some hidden music only he could hear.

She used a key to open the door, turned briefly on the landing for a small wave, then disappeared inside.

Or maybe she was just one cold, distant bitch, and the music was just her ice cubes jangling. Better the latter. That way, he didn't have to feel so sorry for her.

A car was parked out back of Apple House when Hank pulled in. He groaned silently. The last thing he needed was an evening with Ben.

He pushed open the back door into the mudroom. The place was redolent of cinnamon and sugar, which meant his mother had spent much of the afternoon and evening baking apple pies for the weekend rush at the fruit stand. And just in case his nose didn't tell him what she'd been doing, a pie stood on the kitchen counter, one thick wedge missing.

The slice sat on a plate on the table next to his brother's hand. He leaned over their mother, pastry ignored, maps and brochures spread out in front of them.

"This is the best time to sell, Ma." Ben's voice was smooth and persuasive. "And I can arrange the sale so you can choose who gets to develop the farm."

Hank entered and Rose looked up, face tight, mouth pinched. Her hair sagged in its banded ponytail, the end drooping over one shoulder.

"Ben, it's late." Hank poured a cup of coffee from the never-empty pot on the counter and set it down in front of his mother. "Mom's had a long day. Why don't you table this for now?"

Ben glared at Hank. "I don't want her to be left behind." Rose laid a hand on Ben's. "I don't want to sell Apple House, Ben. I promised your father. Please try to understand."

"I know how you feel, Ma. This place has been in the family for generations. But times change, and if we don't change with them, they roll right over us." "I don't want to sell." "But if you'd just look at these " "Ben," Hank interrupted. "Sit down, eat your pie, drink your coffee. Pretend you're a son and not a salesman."

He'd said it with a teasing tone, a lightness meant to take the sting out of his words, but Ben didn't hear it. "That's a shitty thing to say."

Hank sighed. He didn't want to fight tonight. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Ben gave his mother a last close look, then folded up the maps and stacked the brochures in a tidy pile.

"How are Lori and the kids?" Hank asked by way of a further apology.

"Fine." Ben's voice was curt, his body stiff. "Josh told me Trey got into another fight at school."

Hank sat down, rubbed the back of his neck. He was suddenly bone tired.

"You know, this isn't working out," Ben said.

"It's what we decided," Rose said. "Let's not rehash it tonight." Using the table for support, she launched herself up with a sigh of effort, then shuffled to the counter, where she began covering the rest of the pie with plastic wrap.

"I'll be here full-time in another week or so," Hank said. "We'll make it work." How, he didn't know. He only knew they had to.

Ben garnered up his coat and briefcase. "There is another option. This place puts a lot of pressure on everyone. It doesn't have to be this way. I wish you'd think about it"

He kissed Rose on the cheek, and she patted his face, giving him a wan smile. "Love to Lori and the boys." She handed Ben the pie, and he left

Silence settled over the kitchen. Rose swiped at the counter with a sponge, and Hank ate a forkful of his brother's pie. It was rich and sweet, and tasted like all the days of his safe, innocent childhood. With a pang he remembered the kids whose childhoods would be forever altered.

"Mandy get to sleep all right?'

"Uncle Hank's voice does wonders," she said with a smile.

Hank didn't know about that, but he didn't want to argue either.

"You're good with her, Henry. She'll be all right. You'll see."

Hank shrugged, doubtful. His mother had always been his biggest cheerleader.

She disappeared into the back, where a cold-storage room held apples and a refrigerator held all the confections for the weekend rush. Most of them she baked herself; Rose Bonner's pies were famous. But she also had an army of women who baked for her, from apple tarts to apple breads to apple butters. Even in spring, when apple season was long gone, the cooking continued

Hank followed, leaning against the doorjamb and watching her go through her Friday night ntual. Counting pies. "She had another one last night." Rose paused in her tally "Did she?" His mother's gaze caught his, concern warring with understanding "The doctor said to expect nightmares. You know that None of us get over that kind of loss without a few side effects " For a moment her mouth trembled, and he was acutely aware of her own loss Her own child gone. Then she composed herself, gave him a brave smile. "Now go on. Eat a piece of pie You'll feel better"

Hank wandered back to the kitchen, saw the pile of brochures Ben had left behind. Slick and glossy, they portrayed homey collections of houses, each one glowing with family warmth. He felt the irony clear down to his toes. 'Trey awaked" he asked, when his mother returned to the

kitchen.

"Probably" She gathered up the coffee cups and placed them in the dishwasher. Picking up the half-eaten piece of pie, he started toward the hall His mother's voice called over his shoulder.

"Don't let that boy eat you alive, Henry "

"No, Ma." But they both knew it was easier said than done.

Hank sauntered upstairs to Ben's old room. It was Trey's now, and he'd turned it into a shrine to basketball and hip-hop ghetto music. A picture of Eminem emblazoned the door. The rapper stared from the
poster, ski cap pulled low over his forehead, eyes dark and dangerously intense. Was that how Trey felt furious at the world? Hank could hardly blame him.