Top Secret Twenty-One (19 page)

Morelli and Bob were watching television when I walked in.

“My mother called,” Morelli said. “Someone got Bella with a chocolate cream pie. A full-on face job.”

I squeezed in between Morelli and Bob. “Seems like a waste of a perfectly good pie.”

“I wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of whoever did it,” Morelli said.

“Do you mean because of the curse thing?”

“I mean because of the Sicilian revenge thing.”

He hooked a finger under the hem of my T-shirt, lifted it up, and peeked under.

“This is going to be fun tonight,” he said. “Just you and me.”

“Are we going to use the One-Second Wonder Tool?”

“No. We’re going to do it the old-fashioned way. We’re going to use
my
wonder tool.”

Oh boy.

I WAITED UNTIL
Morelli was out of the house before I showered and dressed in my black all-purpose suit and high-neck stretchy pink shirt. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and went with the fresh-face look. A swipe of mascara and some lip gloss. That’s as natural as I get. I stuffed my sliced-up bra and my white shirt with the gash in it into my messenger bag. I told Bob he should be a good boy and that Morelli would be home at lunchtime to let him out. And I chugged off in the Buick to get Briggs.

Briggs was waiting for me by the back door of my apartment building. He was dressed in a tan suit that almost fit him, a light blue dress shirt, a yellow and blue striped tie, and the running shoes he always wore.

“Sorry about the shoes,” he said, climbing onto the passenger
seat. “They’re all I’ve got right now. But what do you think about the suit? It’s not bad, right?”

“It’s great. I appreciate your help.”

“What?”

“I appreciate your help.”

“No, I don’t need any help,” Briggs said. “Where are we going? Are we going to the courthouse? Do you have an office set up for the scam?”

“We’re going to the bail bonds office to meet Ranger,” I yelled at him. “And then we’re going to New York to the Russian consulate on the Upper West Side.”

“Are you shitting me? We’re going to scam the Ruskies? I’m there. I’m ready.”

“That’s not exactly it. I need information on someone I believe is associated with the consulate. I only have a description of him, and I need his name, so we’re going to say I was at a party two nights ago and this guy attacked me. If I can get someone to pull his dossier, I might be able to create a diversion and steal it.”

Briggs nodded, but I wasn’t sure he’d understood a word I’d said.

“What about Ranger?” Briggs asked. “What’s his role?”

“He’s driving us in and waiting outside for us. He’s security.”

“He’s a secretary?”

“Security.
SECURITY
.”

“Cool,” Briggs said. “Security. We’re going to kick some Ruskie ass.”

A black Rangeman SUV was already parked in front of the
bail bonds office. I pulled in behind it, and Briggs and I got out and got into the SUV.

I buckled myself in next to Ranger and we drove in silence to the Turnpike, through the tunnel, up Tenth Avenue to the Upper West Side. Ranger parked in the lot we’d used before and called the man he had in place watching the consulate.

“Business as usual,” he said to me. “No sign of our friend. I’m going to hang back, but I’ll keep you in sight. Pretend I’m not here.” He gave me a new earbud. “If you get into trouble, feed Briggs to the dogs and run.”

“What?” Briggs said. “What about Briggs?”

“He has some hearing loss from the blast,” I told Ranger.

“Babe,” Ranger said.

I figured that pretty much covered it, so I stuck the earbud into my ear and yelled at Briggs to walk with me.

We got to the consulate, I pushed the intercom buzzer, and I told the voice at the other end that I needed to speak to someone in charge. The door was buzzed open, and Briggs and I were in.

A man in a suit came forward and asked if he could help me.

“I was at a party here two nights ago,” I said, “and one of the men attacked me. I got frightened and left, but I’m back today with my lawyer.”

The man gave Briggs a curt nod. “I’ll see if I can find someone of authority.”

Five minutes later we were taken to a second-floor office. It was a small room dominated by a large oak desk, and a large Russian man sat behind the desk.

“My name is Sergei Yablonovich,” he said. “Please have a seat.”

The two seats in front of the desk were brown leather, overstuffed, and big enough for Paul Bunyan. I perched on the edge of mine, and Briggs stood looking at his. I imagined he was wondering how he was going to get in it and, more to the point, how he was going to avoid looking ridiculous. After a long moment he sacrificed dignity, climbed up onto the chair, and sat back with his legs sticking straight out in front of him.

“Comfy chair,” he said.

“My associate tells me you had an unfortunate experience at our consulate two nights ago,” Sergei said to me.

“I came with one of the men who was here for the trade show. It was a nice party, but I went to the ladies’ room down the hall, and when I came out a man I had never seen before jumped out at me and held me at knifepoint. He put his hand on my breast and said that if I didn’t cooperate he’d kill me. I tried to get away, and he slashed at me with his knife.”

I took my bra and shirt out of my bag and made sure Sergei could see that my hands were trembling. Truth is, it wasn’t hard, because I was close to hyperventilating sitting in this guy’s office, trying to pull this off.

“I brought my clothes to show you,” I said. “I was lucky I wasn’t badly hurt. Some people came out of the party room just as he went after me with the knife, and he ran away. I was so scared that I left the building without even saying goodbye to my date.”

Sergei shook his head at the sliced shirt. “This is terrible. Have you gone to the police?”

“Yes, and they said I should come to you about it. I didn’t want to come alone, so I brought my friend Randy Briggs. He’s also a lawyer, and he’s advising me on the matter. I think someone should find this man. And someone should at least pay for me to get a new blouse.”

At the mention of his name, Briggs craned his neck up so he could look over the edge of the desk.

“Was this man with the trade delegates or the consulate?” Sergei asked.

“I don’t think he was with the trade delegates, because I didn’t see him at the party. He spoke English with a slight British accent. He had an odd tattoo on his neck and a patch over one eye. I would definitely know him if I saw a photo.”

Sergei hit a speed dial button on his desk phone, and a woman answered on speakerphone.

“I’m looking for a man with a patch over one eye who might be associated with the Russian vodka trade show or with this consulate,” Sergei said to the woman.

“Viktor Volkov wears a patch over his eye,” she said. “He’s a representative of the Russian Ministry of Industry and Trade. He was sent here from our Miami office for the vodka trade show taking place in Atlantic City.”

“I’d like to see his dossier.”

He disconnected from his call and turned back to me.

“Ordinarily I myself would have welcomed our vodka makers at that party,” Sergei said, “but we have a very important
general arriving, and I had to personally see to his accommodations. He’ll be speaking at the international trade show in Atlantic City. He travels with several aides and much security, and we had to take over an entire floor of the hotel.”

A very competent looking woman with short brown hair and a pleasant, makeup-free face knocked once on the open door and walked into the office with the dossier. She handed it to Sergei and left without a word.

Sergei read through the file, found the photo, and showed it to me. “Is this the man?”

“Yes!”

I clapped a hand over my mouth and gave my best shot at looking horrified and terrified, and to my credit I think I might have even gotten a little teary.

“I can assure you we’ll look into this,” Sergei said.

“Yeah, but what about her blouse?” Briggs said. “Who’s going to pay for the blouse?”

“I’m not actually authorized to reimburse her,” Sergei said, “but when we conclude our investigation I might be able to recommend some compensation.”

Briggs cupped his ear. “What?” He looked at me. “What did he say? Did he say something about condensation?”

“He has a temporary hearing loss,” I said to Sergei.

“Yeah,” Briggs said. “Someone blew up my car, and I was standing too close.”

“It was a political act,” I said to Sergei. “I’m sure you understand about these things.”

“So what about the blouse?” Briggs said. “There was no condensation on it. Just handprints. And my good friend and client here has a big scar on her tit from where this Viktor guy went after her.”

Briggs was having a hard time seeing Sergei, so he got up and stood on the chair seat.

“We demand action,” Briggs said, jumping up and down. “Action, action, action!”

He lost his balance on the third jump, fell off the chair, and crashed to the floor.

“Ow!”
he yelled. “My leg. I broke my leg. I need a doctor. Call the paramedics.”

He was rolling around on the floor, holding his leg and moaning.

“I feel sick,” he said. “I’m gonna throw up. I need air. Someone get me some air. This office is closing in on me.”

He crawled to the door, dragging his broken leg behind him, making gagging sounds. Sergei was on his phone again, calling his assistant, telling her to call for an EMT. Briggs made it into the hall. Sergei hovered over him, not sure what to do. And as soon as I was left alone in the office, I took photos of the three-page dossier on Viktor Volkov with my smartphone.

I went into the hall and looked down at Briggs. “Are you sure your leg is broken?”

“I thought it was broken,” Briggs said. “But now it’s feeling better.”

“He has panic attacks,” I explained to Sergei.

“You might think about getting a new lawyer,” Sergei said.

I grabbed Briggs by the arm and hauled him to his feet. “Upsy-daisy,” I said.

Briggs gingerly tried his leg. “It’s a miracle!”

“Oh gosh, look at the time,” I said. “I have to be at work. Thank you so much for looking into this for me. I’ll check back next week.”

“I didn’t get your name,” Sergei said.

“Joyce Barnhardt.”

Briggs was already in the elevator, holding the door for me. I jumped in, and Briggs hit the button for the first floor.

We passed the brunette on our way out. She was at the door, presumably waiting for the EMTs.

“False alarm,” I said to her. “So sorry.”

A black Rangeman SUV rolled down the street and stopped in front of us. Briggs and I got into the backseat. Ranger was in the front seat, and one of his men was driving. A second Rangeman SUV was behind us.

I removed my earbud and gave it back to Ranger. “It looks like you’re ending surveillance on the consulate.”

“I am. I don’t see Vlatko returning.”

“We did good, right?” Briggs said to me. “Did you see the brilliant way I diverted the Ruskie’s attention away from his desk so you could steal the dossier? That was an Academy Award–winning performance. I should be a movie actor. I’d make all those other Hobbits look like crap.”

Ranger turned in his seat and looked at me. “Did you get the dossier?”

“I photographed it.” I pulled the document photos up on my phone and sent them to Ranger, and he downloaded them into his phone.

“Viktor Volkov,” he said, reading off his phone. “He’s here as a representative of the Russian Ministry of Industry and Trade. A government liaison to the Russian spirits trade mission.”

“Vodka,” I said.

“Yes, among other liquors, but primarily vodka. This gives a Moscow address as his permanent residence, and several contact addresses while he’s in this country. The contact addresses are all hotels. One in Miami, the Gatewell Hotel, and a hotel in Atlantic City.”

“There’s a big international trade show coming to Atlantic City,” I said. “The Russian vodka makers will be part of it. The consulate official I spoke to said he was there making arrangements for some important general who would be speaking.”

“From the little I know about Vlatko, I’m guessing almost everything in this dossier is cover and not true. He probably has a local handler who knows more, but the consulate staff would know only what they see here and take it at face value. Russian bureaucrats learn not to ask questions.”

“But we know he’s going to Atlantic City,” I said. “He might not have stayed in the hotels he gave, but he
was
in Miami and New York. And it looks like his cover was created to bring him into contact with the vodka makers. So maybe his primary target is one of the vodka makers.”

“That’s too simple,” Ranger said. “Someone went to a lot of trouble to get Vlatko here. He’s a Russian government assassin
and a specialist. He’s been sent here to eliminate someone who’s difficult to reach, or he’s been sent here to create chaos.”

“He’s off to a good start in Trenton,” I said.

“Fortunately, there was only one death. It looks like McCready is going to be okay. And I should be back in my building sometime tomorrow.”

RANGER DROPPED BRIGGS
off at my apartment.

“Thanks,” I said to Briggs. “You were great.”

“What? I need a mate?”

“No! You were great!”
I yelled.
“Thank you!”

“Yeah, anytime,” Briggs said. “I could use some wine when you get back this way. Mine went when the car blew up.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll make sure you get wine.”

“I could have someone pick him up and drop him off in North Carolina,” Ranger said.

I declined the offer, and parted company with Ranger at the bail bonds office.

“Hey, look who’s back,” Lula said. “Is everything secure in Rangerland?”

“Pretty much. I think he’ll be able to go back into his building tomorrow.”

“I have a new skip for you,” Connie said. “Forest Kottel. He’s a low-level bond, and there’s no rush on it. Gives his address as a cardboard box on Geneva Street, off Stark. Wanted for shoplifting in a grocery store on Stark.”