Tell Me No Lies (5 page)

Hank felt the blood drain from his face. "We're not talking about me."

"Oh, yes we are. Quitting your job, your life. Taking the safe road and crawling back to Momma."

Shame grabbed Hank's gut and twisted into rage. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about"

"I'm talking about you, little brother. And the way Tom Stiller left you one of the walking dead. Christ, he might as well have killed you, too."

The words struck deeper than Hank cared to admit, and to deflect their truth he balled his hands into fists. But before he could use them, a commotion went off over his shoulder. Raised voices. Shouts.

Drunken shouts.

In an instant Hank was back outside his brother-in-law's toolshed, the afternoon sun beating down on him like a search light His sister and her husband were barricaded inside, and he could hear Tom's out-of-control drunken raving as he smashed anything he could lay his hands on.

In the next instant Hank was back at the party. It was evening. Smoke and talk swirled around him and he found himself moving toward the sound of the argument.

***

Alex turned in horror as the angry sounds of dispute reached her.

"Russia is the greatest country on the earth!" a male voice insisted loudly in Russian, the words an angry slur. "Always we will be the greatest country. We don' need America's help." She turned to see one of Miki's entourage red-faced with fury and leaning drunkenly into the governor's aide. "Fucking asshole," he said clearly in English.

Alex scanned the crowd. Heads were turning, reporters and photographers swiveling to see who was making a scene. The drunk raised his fists and a flush of horror raced through her as headlines appeared in her imagination.

"Mikail," she said sharply to her companion. "Who is that?"

"Yuri," Miki growled, then muttered a curse in Russian.

"Get rid of him."

He looked around, as though searching for someone else to handle the situation. "I can't get involved. Not in front of the media."

His gaze caught Jeff Greer's, the State Department's liaison, who scuttled over to Yuri and put a calming hand on his shoulder. The drunk jerked the arm away, then bent over Greer in such a threatening way that the smaller man almost tipped backward.

Damn him. She dropped Miki's arm and hurried toward the commotion, hoping to pacify the man herself, but she'd gone only a few steps when someone else appeared next to the drunk.

The cop from earlier in the day, the one who'd told her about Luka. He'd said he wasn't on the security detail; what was he doing back here?

As if watching a scene play out on a movie screen, she saw the policeman what was his name? lean over and say something to Yuri. Yuri turned his attention to the cop, staggering as he shifted position. With a snarl, he said something she couldn't hear, and the cop Bonner, that was it, Detective Bonner put a hand on Yuri's neck.

And like that, Yuri was cowed. Cooperative. His hand still in place, Detective Bonner led Yuri through the crowd and out the door. The whole thing was over in seconds. Reporters returned to interviewing the governor, waiters resumed serving guests. The party was back on track, disaster averted.

She swallowed and glanced back at Petrov. He was already occupied by someone else a fawning reporter from
Business World
magazine. He wouldn't miss her. And she needed a break from his obsessive clutching. She felt sticky from his touch; he'd barely let her out of his sight all evening.

This morning, she would have been delighted by his persistence, but now, after she'd heard about Luka, her plans had changed. She had hoped to go back to Manhattan with Petrov. Her invasion of his business was going well, but the assault on his home, his life, and especially his computers still needed to be done. But now she would have to put him off.
Luka, Luka. What happened?

She wove her way to the front door and met Detective Bonner as he was coming back in. Her instincts on high alert, she fought to keep the anxiety off her face. Why was he here? "What did you do to Yuri?"

"Pressure points." He pointed them out on his neck. ''Works every time. I left him sleeping it off in one of the limos." He seemed calm enough, though a faint sheen of sweat filmed his forehead.

"That was very discreet, Thank you." He nodded and gave her a measuring look that sent a flush of heat through her.

A wash of resentment quickly followed. She had no time for distractions, especially when they came packaged in good-looking cops with ridiculously wide shoulders, compelling faces, and sharp green eyes. "You said you weren't going to be here tonight. You had plans."

"Yeah, well I changed them."

"Why?" A beat of fear. Was it something to do with Luka?

But the detective didn't say a word about Luka. Instead, a lazy grin crossed his face. "You're not going to make me say it, are you?"

"Say what?"

"Why I changed my plans."

She studied him. She didn't like playing games, not unless she could control them. "I'm afraid I am."

He gave her a sheepish look, which she would rather not admit was charming on his big craggy face. "Isn't it obvious?" He leaned in. "I wanted to see you again."

A teasing light shone in his eyes. Careful. She had to keep her distance. But she also had to find out if he was telling the truth.

"Are you flirting with me, Detective?"

"Hank. And I'm just being honest."

"Honest."

"You know. Like in truth and justice. What I'm sworn to uphold." He propped himself against a wall, watching her. "Occupational hazard."

She nodded sagely. "I see." Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe the calculation she saw in his eyes was just masculine conceit Maybe he was no threat, and she could dismiss him and get back to her real quarry.

And maybe not

She shivered and touched the locket at her throat.

Give me strength, little sister.

"Cold?" He started to remove his jacket, but she forestalled him.

"I'm fine. Too much vodka, probably."

"Maybe you should eat something. I haven't had dinner. Bet you haven't either."

He took her arm, and she let him lead her into the library, where a large table was laden with food. His touch was warm, his hand large and sure. A responsive zip raced through her. She ignored it. She couldn't afford to do anything else.

She wasn't particularly hungry, but she filled a plate and followed him to an empty corner. He ate, and she pushed the food around her plate.

What are you after, Detective Bonner?

He looked around. "Your home is striking. How long have you lived here? "

Interrogation or something innocent? "Thank you. I bought the place several years ago."

"Must have cost a small fortune."

"Snooping into my finances?"

He laughed. "Why not? Just as easy to marry a rich girl as a poor one." He winked, and she was sure it was another attempt to disarm her. "How did you get involved with all this anyway?" He gestured with his fork, indicating the clamorous party.

"By way of Harvard Business School and some lucky guesses in the emerging Russian market."

His brows rose in an I'm impressed look, then he scanned the room, his gaze lingering on the floor-to-ceiling bookcase across the way. Her collection of Russian folk art ma-tryoshka dolls and bottle-cases, boxes decorated with lacquered miniatures were scattered over the shelves. From where they stood, details were obscure, but the hand painting was bright and colorful.

"Must have been some pretty lucrative guesses."

How much to tell, how much to hide? The story of her life.

She nibbled on a mushroom while she made her decision. "Are you a gambler, Detective?"

"I've done my share."

"Well, the new Russia is like one giant game of high-stakes poker. I arrived there six years ago, as a representative of Lyon, Peterson Financial."

"And they are..."

"Investment bankers. Old Wall Street firm. My first job out of Harvard. I speak a little Russian, so I asked them to send me to Moscow."

"I didn't know Russia was any great place for business."

"Once the Soviet Union fell, it was is probably one of the fastest moneymakers in the world."

He raised his brows in surprise. "Hard to imagine Boris and Natasha doing much but stepping on their own feet."

"Boris and Natasha?"

"Sure. You know the bumbling spies on
Rocky and Bullwinkle."

"Rocky and ...who?"

He gaped at her. "You've never heard of
Rocky and Bull-winkle?"

A flutter of nerves went through her. He was looking at her so strangely. Had she just made some horrible mistake? Rapidly, she reviewed the possibilities, landing on what seemed the most obvious.

"What are they characters in a book?"

"Cartoon."

How could she tell him that her childhood hadn't included American cartoons? She laughed it off. "Oh, well, I never did like cartoons."

"Also a movie with Robert DeNiro."

She shrugged. "Perhaps I was out of the country when it came out."

"Perhaps." The word seemed overly enunciated. Was he making fun of her? No, he was nodding thoughtfully, trying to figure things out.

Moving the conversation to safer ground, she said, "You should update your perceptions of Russians, Detective. The Soviet Union is dead, and as you can see" she gestured out toward the party "the new Russia is doing quite well."

"And taking you with it."

She shrugged. "I have a strong tolerance for risk."

A shadow crossed his face, but was gone so quickly she thought she imagined it.

"Ah, that gambling instinct you mentioned."

"Precisely." How much longer would this continue? Surreptitiously, she looked around, searching for a way to excuse herself. Before she could do so, he shifted positions, effectively blocking escape.

"So, Moscow was the place to be?"

"Moscow was a free-for-all. A Wild West town."

"And you came riding in with your deck of cards?"

"I came riding in with a nose for bond trading."

"Government bonds? No one gets rich on bonds."

"I did. GKO's. Russian Treasury bills. Short-term yields were astounding at the time, as much as 22 percent. You could earn more in three months than in ten years investing in US T-bills. I made Lyon, Peterson millions, and they gave me a bonus with lots of nice zeros."

He whistled, and she smiled, enjoying his sticker shock. "People expect women to marry or inherit their money. Not earn it."

He held up his hands in surrender. "More power to you. Any way that works is fine by me. Though you do seem kind of young to have accomplished so much."

"Do I?"
She couldn't help another smirk, "At the time, Moscow was ripe for young people. The World Bank's International Finance Corporation sent hundreds of twenty-somethings to Russia to help with economic reform and privatization. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time."

"So is that how you moved on to oil?"

"I had the connections and the credentials to broker a deal, yes. A deal that should be profitable for everyone, including Sokanan."

"But expensive. What was the initial investment?"

She didn't hesitate. Why should she? She'd been giving press conferences on this stuff for months. And far better to talk about business than herself. "Three and a quarter billion split between Petroneft Miki Petrov's oil company and Norm American Petroleum, a joint venture between three US companies." She turned to point out a few relevant players, powerful men in their own right

He didn't seem intimidated. "Lot of egos there. And you right in the middle. A den mother."

She looked at him blankly. "Excuse me?"

"A den mother. Cub Scouts."

Another cultural phenomenon that seemed to have passed her by. "Sorry," she said stiffly, tired of fencing with him. "I never was a Scout. Or a boy."

"No, ma'am." He grinned, but the innuendo was quickly undercut when he laid down his plate and wandered over to the bookcase. "So you have another bonus in the making. Going to spend it on special collections?"

She followed what was he looking for? and picked up one of the figurines. "I have a weakness for Russian folk art. Like Clever Vania here. See the detail? A perfectly rendered peasant carved out of lime-tree wood and hand-painted. And inside ..." She opened the case and smiled. "Just enough room for your secret stash of vodka."

"I know a couple of guys down at the station who could use one of those. Handier than the old bottom drawer trick."

"And much prettier."

"I don't think the guys worry about pretty, if you know what I mean. Me, on the other hand..." He crossed his arms and studied her, and she forced herself not to squirm under his intense scrutiny.

"So you speak Russian."

With slow, precise movements, she closed the case and replaced it, all in an effort to buy time. He'd changed the subject. Why? "I have an ear for languages."

"How do you say" he gazed at her mouth, then slowly, back up to her eyes "you are beautiful?"

Heat spiked in her cheeks, but she met his gaze head-on. "It depends on whether the 'you' is a man or a woman."

"Definitely a woman."

Coolly, she said, "You're flirting again."

He shrugged as though helpless in the face of her charms. "It's that bonus. It's gone to my head."

She surprised herself and laughed. Outright She hadn't done that in a long time.

"Laughter looks good on you," he said. "You should do it more often."

'The world is a serious place, Detective."

The smile faded from his eyes. "Yes, it is." And suddenly she knew he was thinking about Luka.

"The man who was murdered today," he said. "Luka Kole. He spoke Russian, too, didn't he?"

"I... I wouldn't know. Did he?"

"He was an immigrant from Russia."

"Was he? Well, I'm sorry for him then. To come all this way and to ... to die like that. What happened exactly?"

He shrugged, but observed her closely. "Looks like a robbery. We've had a number of them over the past month."