Tell Me No Lies (20 page)

"You remember what I told you about VIP treatment?"

Hank nodded, suspicions confirmed. "Yes, sir."

"You do?" Parnell shook his head. "Well, I would've sworn you didn't because I got a phone call from the mayor
and
the chief of police telling me you're being an asshole about Miss Baker." He leaned forward, pinned Hank with a look, every one of those thirty years staring out from his eyes. "Are you?"

"No, sir."

"You got something solid to connect her to the Kole murder?"

"Not solid like concrete. But something."

Parnell waited. Hank debated.

Shit.

"She's Kole's daughter. Estranged daughter."

Parnell's brows rose, and he sat back with a thump

"You're telling me A. J. Baker is related to the victim?"

"I found her in his apartment the day after the murder. The place had been ransacked. Not by her, I don't think, but by someone."

"And when were you going to tell me this?"

"When I had it figured out."

Parnell took it in. He knew what it was like to run a case, to hold his cards tight But he also believed in teamwork. And he hated not knowing what was going on in his own department.

"What was she doing there?"

"I don't know. Not for sure. She gave me some story about looking for a photograph of her mother, but that was mainly bullshit. The real reason?" He shrugged, shook his head. "I don't know yet."

"Jesus H. Christ." Parnell rubbed his forehead. "I knew something bad was going to happen today."

Hank threw him a bone. "She's clear of the murder as far as I can tell. But she knows something. I can't prove it I don't even know what it is I'm trying to prove. But she's connected. Somehow."

"But she's clear of the murder? You're sure?"

"As sure as I can be. Must be fifty people saw her that evening."

Parnell's face brightened. "Then lay off. She's got her panties in a wad, and I've got your brother and the chief on me. I don't like it Stay away from her."

Hank looked down, not gathering his courage exactly, but bracing for Parnell's reaction. Then he gazed back at his boss's face, telling it straight "Can't do that, sir."

Parnell returned the look. "Why the hell not?"

"She's tied in somehow." He scrubbed a hand down his face, wishing he could scrub all this away. "I think she knows the killer."

Parnell sighed. He clearly didn't like hearing this. "And you think this ... why?"

"She's running scared."

Parnell scrutinized him, gaze boring in. Then he spoke, voice soft, careful. "What's this really about Hank?"

The tone of voice, the piercing look. Hank spotted the psych-out, Big Daddy routine a mile away. He appreciated the intent, but he'd endured more of it than he could stand after he'd screwed up with Tom and Maureen.

"It's about solving the case."

"Is it?" Parnell rose, came around the desk, and perched on the end. He was a smaller man than Hank, lean where Hank was broad, but he had the air of command about him, and Hank respected that.

"Look, you know how I feel about your decision to leave. Frankly, I think it's a bad one. I gave you this case hoping it might help you see that. Has it?"

Hank stiffened, not wanting to talk about it now any more than he had at breakfast with his mother. He'd made up his mind, why was everyone always trying to change it? "One thing has nothing to do with the other."

"Then you're still determined to go?"

"Yes, sir."

Parnell nodded slowly, the disappointment in his face merging into thoughtfitlness. "You know, most people slack off right before they leave a job. But you " He shook his head. "Are you sure this grandstanding isn't some last-minute effort to leave under a winner's halo? Solve the murder and be the hero one last time? "

The hero? Not him. Not likely. "Look, I didn't ask for this case. I didn't want it. But now I've got it, and I just want to do my job."

Parnell sighed. "Then do it without pissing people off. I don't have to tell you how important the Renaissance Oil thing is to this town."

"No, sir."

Parnell gave him a last searing look. "Okay." He nodded toward me door. "Get the squad together."

Hank pivoted, then turned back. "One more thing."

Parnell's brows rose in question.

"McTeer's out."

Paraell muttered a curse under his bream. "How'd that happen?"

Briefly, Hank reviewed his interview with Shatiqua Williams. "I spoke to Mundy last night. He confirmed."

"That means we're back to square one."

It also meant Alex was now hanging from that limb alone. But Hank didn't say so.

***

The coroner's report on Sonya Ranevskaya came in later that morning. Heart attack. Hank read the medicalese, half of him glad and half of him disappointed. The postmortem results strengthened the coincidence theory and loosened any tie he was trying to uncover between Alex and whatever bad guys were out there. But it didn't take away his misgivings. And it didn't explain what Alex was really looking for in Luka Kole's apartment or why she lied abo,ut it.

At noon, Klimet came in, an excited look in his eyes. "We got latents." He threw down a report on Hank's desk. "A partial print at the Gas-Up matches one at the apartment after the ransacking."

Hank scanned the report. "No ID?"

"It's not Kole's, and it's not Baker's." Because of her securities work, Alex had been bonded, which meant her prints were on file.

"But we don't know whose they are?"

"Not yet. But at least we know the same guy was in both places."

A conclusion that would have been easy to draw, prints or no, though he didn't bother pointing it out.

"We also have the ballistics and the phone analysis."

Klimet handed Hank the two reports. The list of phone numbers contained both incoming and outgoing calls from Kole's apartment and his office. Hank scanned the list. Most were local, though a few were regional. Upstate. Manhattan.

Klimet said, "I'm going up to Karlsbeck. They started a joint task force with the rest of the Hudson Valley to find this convenience store killer. Parnell wants me on it." His voice had an edge to it, a note that said he'd be going, not Hank.

Hank shrugged. "Have at it."

After McTeer had been eliminated as a suspect, and Parnell and the rest of the planet had warned him off Alex, the department's theory had rotated back to the original that Kole's murder was one in a string that had hit the Hudson Valley over the last few months.

Hank didn't dispute the validity of the theory, but he didn't put any weight in it either. And since he wouldn't be around to help with a task force, he wasn't surprised Parnell had sent Klimet.

And it got the man out of his way, which suited Hank fine.

Klimet sauntered out, and Hank returned to the two reports. Ballistics listed the ammo as .38 caliber. But the bullet had been so damaged, they couldn't pin down weapon make or model. Which meant Hank didn't know whether the shooter had used an automatic or a wheel gun. A revolver would explain the absence of shell casings. Anyone could be the shooter. But if it was an automatic, the shooter might have been smarter than average. He would have had to pick up his shell casings, and how many convenience store killers stopped to do that?

The issue unresolved, he turned to the phone list. He'd asked for coverage of the last month, so there were pages of listings starting with most recent. He took a breath and committed himself to the drudgery of calling and identifying each one.

Halfway down the middle of the third page was a number answered by a female voice first in Russian, then English. "Petroneft USA."

Pay dirt. So Luka Kole
had
had some business with Miki Petrov's company.

"Hello? May I help you?"

Hank only knew one person at Petroneft. "Miki Petrov."

"Who may I ask is calling?"

"Detective Bonner, Sokanan Police Department."

"One moment, please."

A new voice came on the line. Male, this time, heavily accented. "Mr. Petrov is in a meeting. You want to leave message?"

He'd leave a message all right. "No, that's okay. I'd rather deliver it myself."

He debated whether to drive into Manhattan or take the train. Driving in the city was a pain, but if he drove, he could make a stop along the way.

He got in the car and, knowing he shouldn't, headed out toward Highbridge anyway. He took the turn into her drive with a sinking feeling. Alex wasn't going to like seeing him, but he owed her this.

It took her a few minutes to come to the door. When she did, she tried to slam it shut again, but he wedged himself inside the jamb.

"I just want to talk to you."

She released the door and scurried away. "I have nothing to say." She pulled a handbag from a nearby closet and fished out a cell phone. She was already punching in a number his brother's, the police chief's, maybe she had a direct line to God himself.

"It's about Sonya."

Her head snapped up, and her eyes went dead with grief, then alive with caution. "What about her?"

"I got the coroner's report. She wasn't murdered, Alex. She died of a heart attack."

She looked at him hard. What were those eyes telling him? That she didn't believe him?

"Christ, Alex, you think I'd lie about that? It's true."

"Yes, I'm sure the coroner was very thorough. Now get out."

"Look, can't we just "

"Get out, Detective. I have nothing to say to you, and you no longer have any business with me."

He shrugged, raised his hands in surrender, and backed out.

Alex closed the door behind him and sank against the wall, trembling again.

Damn him. And damn her for being such a fool about him.

She gazed at the cell phone in her hand. Tightening her hold, she resurrected her determination and punched in a number.

"He was here again. I thought you said you would do something about it. All right. Yes." She disconnected, then sank to the floor. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes, wishing it were tomorrow and this awful day was over.

***

Hank drove into Manhattan, trying not to think about the anger in Alex's face as she kicked him out. How many phone calls was she making this time?

Well, the more she fought, the more certain he was that she knew something. Something important. Did it have anything to do with Miki Petrov?

With Kole's phone records, he could now establish a link between Luka Kole and Petroneft. Didn't mean Kole had spoken to Petrov. But it didn't mean he hadn't either.

Petrov owned a swank midtown high-rise graced by a huge blue brushed steel
R
for Renaissance Oil. His company, Petroneft USA, occupied the top two floors. Security was tighter than ever since 9/11, but Hank's badge got him inside the building and into the elevators. At the large, curved Petroneft reception desk, he had to browbeat the receptionist a bit, but eventually a bulky man he recognized from the party came to the reception area.

"Hey, pal," Hank said. "How's the head?" The hangover must have been a doozy.

The man Yuri, that's what Alex had called him didn't respond, and Hank figured he didn't recognize him.

Too far gone to remember much of anything, eh, pal?

With slow, ponderous steps Yuri walked him to a private elevator and used a key to access it. The ride up was heavy with silence and the smell of cigarette smoke. Was that Yuri's cigarette Greenlaw had found? And if so, when had he left it?

Hank spotted a telltale bulge under the black leather jacket. An automatic or a revolver? Impossible to tell. So Yuri was what a bodyguard? A thug? The symbols etched into his knuckles indicated an ex-con if nothing else. Hank didn't know what the Cyrillic letters meant, but he knew prison tats when he saw them. What kind of businessman needed an ex-con armed guard?

The kind with enemies.

Had Luka Kole been Petrov's enemy? Was Alex?

Hard to believe after the way she'd thrown herself at the oil tycoon at the party. Then again, she had wiped her mouth off.

Secrets within secrets.

Petrov's suite consisted of an outer office with several desks and a beautiful woman occupying each. Heavily made-up, they were dressed in clothes that stretched tightly across breasts and revealed an airstrip of leg. Both were tapping halfheartedly on computer keyboards with fingers tipped in highly polished nails that were so long they curved.

Yuri stopped to talk to one in Russian. Sloe-eyed and sulky, she glanced over at Hank, lifted a phone, and spoke into it, also in Russian. Jesus, why didn't these people speak good old-fashioned English once in a while?

Two other men lounged around the room. Both immense white guys, they wore black track suits and black leather jackets. Heavy gold chains glittered around their thick necks, and bulges similar to Yuri's enlarged their waists. Buzz cuts leveled white-blond hair to near-scalp level. Aryan homeboys, they watched Hank through impassive blue eyes.

Cindy Crawford over there put down her phone and exchanged a few more words with Yuri, who nodded in Hank's direction.

"Mr. Petrov will see you."

"Nice talking to you again." He grinned, friendly, eager, the perfect small-town sucker. Yuri took it at face value, said something to his two compatriots, and everyone laughed.

Fucking asshole.

But Hank went in humbly, playing his part.

"Mr. Petrov." He extended a hand. "Nice of you to see me." His gaze swept the office, took in the wall of window with its bird's-eye view of Manhattan, the gold-framed artwork on the walls, the museum case that held what? Old swords, he thought. So Petrov was a collector. What else did he collect? Debts? Dead bodies?

The air was rich with quiet, sound absorbed by the velvet plush of the gold-and-red carpet thick under Hank's feet. Petrov rose slightly, extended a hand, and gestured for Hank to take a seat across from his desk. He sank into the upholstered crimson chair and wondered who had paid the price for Petrov's luxury-All of Mother Russia, if Alex's rumors proved true.

"It is always my pleasure to help the local police," Petrov said.