Tell Me No Lies (7 page)

"A uniform picked up Big Mac McTeer twenty minutes ago."

McTeer, who had argued with Luka Kole the day before, was at the top of their lead sheets. "What's he got to say for himself?" Hank asked.

Fenelli shrugged. "You and Klimet caught the case. We left that for you."

"What about ballistics on the round from the vic?"

"Haven't come back yet. Neither have the phone records."

"Canvass on the neighborhood around the store?"

"Deaf and dumb all around," Klimet said.

"How about a lead on the home address?"

"Clerk had no idea," said Fenelli. "This Luka Kole kept a profile lower than the ground. No one knows anything about him."

"We're working through his credit card statements," Klimet said. "Bills we found in the office, stuff like that. So far it's all tagged to the store."

"Keep digging," Parnell said.

The meeting moved on to other things, and when it was over, Fenelli turned to Hank.

"Uniforms said McTeer's a real tough guy. Not too cooperative."

Klimet wandered over, balled one hand into a fist. "I like tough guys."

Hank exchanged a look with Fenelli, suppressing his irritation at the younger man's bravado. He picked up the phone, punched in the number for the jail upstairs. "You got a McTeer up there. Bring him down to Interview Two."

He let Joe go in alone, watching from the observation room behind the two-way glass. A few minutes later, McTeer was escorted in, a wiry white guy with a black do-rag pulled low on his forehead.

From his record, he was nineteen, an unemployed high school dropout with an address in the projects on the north side of town. He wore baggy jeans that sagged over a pair of expensive Nikes and an old Knicks game shirt with Sprewell printed on the back.

He sauntered toward the table in the center of the room, hip-hop to the max. "Yo, when you gonna cut me loose?" He danced right up to the two-way mirror, as though Joe were insignificant and the real players behind it "I ain't done jack shit." The accent and body language were perfect homeboy black.

Not one to be easily dismissed, Joe grabbed the kid by the back of the shirt and shoved him toward the table. "I'm over here, big shot." He forced him into a chair. "Sit."

McTeer exploded, jumping up the minute Joe let go. "You ain't got no right to be all ova- me with that shit."

So the kid had a short fuse. Had it exploded over Luka Kole yesterday?

Joe shoved him back down again; this time a heavy hand forced McTeer's head to the table. "I said, sit"

McTeer stopped struggling.

"Ready now?" Beneath Joe's hand, McTeer nodded, Joe let him go.

The boy raised his head slowly, resentment written all over his face. He glared at Joe, and Hank saw generations of abuse staring out of those stark, dangerous eyes.

"Where were you yesterday about five p.m.?"

McTeer continued to stare.

"You want to get out of here, you'll cooperate."

McTeer crossed his arms, leaned back in the chair so the front legs pted off the floor. His face was hard and expressionless. He'd been here before.

Hank sighed, poured two cups of coffee, and let himself into the interrogation room. He set one cup in front of McTeer. "Coffee?"

McTeer eyed him suspiciously.

"Black or " From his pocket he took out a couple of packets of sugar and a small tub of nondairy creamer, threw them down in front of McTeer and waited for him Co coffee up.

"You like the Knicks?" He grabbed a chair and, turning it around, straddled the seat. "That Sprewell, he was something wasn't he?"

McTeer picked up the cup, sniffed it as though it might be poisoned. "I ain't done nothing," he said sullenly.

Hank shrugged. "No one said you did."

McTeer shot a hostile glance over at Joe, then back at Hank.

"But see, we got ourselves a problem. A man was killed yesterday at the convenience store on Rossvelt. We heard you had words with him earlier in the day, and we have to check it out. So helping us is really helping you. We just want to clear all this up so you can go home."

Distrust still rife in his eyes, McTeer said, "What man you talking about?"

"Luka Kole. The man behind the counter."

"That dumb-ass old man, don't speak English?"

"That's the one."

McTeer looked up at the two-way. He opened a pack of sugar and emptied it into his cup. He mixed it with the red plastic stirrer Hank had brought. Added cream. Sipped.

Klimet tensed, hands fisting, but Hank threw him a warning look and for once he backed down. Repressing the same inclination to throttle McTeer, Hank waited through the dumb show while the kid figured it out.

"The sucker shortchanged me, you know?" McTeer said at last. "I give him a twenty, he give me change for a ten. Fucking foreigner. So, yeah, we ex-change some words." He overemphasized exchange, moving his head from side to side as he did so, as though it were two separate words, ex and change. "He was throwing all kinds of foul shit at me. I ain't taking that shit. But I ain't killed no one."

"So where were you around five last night?"

His jaw set. "Nowhere. Hanging."

"With who?"

He shrugged. "I got peeps to hang with."

"Which people?" Hank studied the boy. He had no idea if the guy was lying; chances were he was. But Joe took down names and addresses, and they let McTeer go.

Hank sighed. Scouring the projects for deadbeats was not his idea of fun.

***

Alex dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of dark slacks and a black silk sweater, then grabbed a wide tote bag. She hadn't slept much and felt sluggish; if she could, she would have stayed in bed all day. But she had much to do, though she was dreading it.

A small army was cleaning up under Sonya's watchful eyes. Alex picked her way through an obstacle course of mops, dust cloths, and huge plastic trash bags, already half-f.

"You go to city?" Sonya asked, following her to the door. Her wrinkled face was calm. No sign of last night's concern lay in the soft lines.

"No, dear. I have some errands to run." She made her tone placid, but had a hard time pretending everything was all right.

"The party, it was good?"

"Very good." She kissed the old woman on the cheek to forestall more questions. "Don't wait lunch."

"Lunch?" Sonya scowled. "You don't eat breakfast?"

"I'll stop for a cup of coffee."

Sonya shook her head. "And dinner?"

"I don't know. Don't worry about me. I'll grab something if I'm hungry."

Sonya tsked tsked her, shaking a finger in a fond scold. "You are too skinny."

Alex smiled. Sonya was always trying to feed her, but food was the last thing on her mind at that moment. She rummaged in a drawer for a set of keys, swung a light jacket over her shoulders, and waved good-bye.

Once inside her car, she tried to breathe normally. For a moment, she laid her head on the steering wheel and took a deep breath. She didn't know if what she was doing was a good idea or not, but it had to be done, and soon. In fact, it might already be too late.

Last night Mason had told her not to assume mat Luka's death had anything to do with her. He promised to look into what had happened and told her not to panic. But panic was unavoidable.

Hands trembling, she turned the ignition and headed for the highway into town. Fifteen minutes later, she parked at the Wal-Mart and set off.

It was a two-mile walk to Luka's apartment Plenty of time for regrets and recriminations. Plenty of time to wonder if the price of justice was too high. It had claimed her youth, kept her apart from other people. Besides Sonya, she had no family, no roots, no relationships of any weight When other girls had giggled over boys, gone on dates and to dances, Alex had stayed behind. Getting close to people meant sharing secrets, and hers could never be revealed.

She bit back the sob that threatened to choke her. A week ago, Luka had called and said he'd found something. Something that would lead them to the proof they'd been seeking for thirteen years. Proof of her father's innocence. But what it was, he'd refused to say, and now he would never tell her.

She didn't believe for a minute that he'd been killed in a robbery. He died because he'd uncovered something. And if it had killed him, it must be important But what?

Head down, she wound around as many back streets as possible. Every few minutes, she glanced over her shoulder. No one followed.

It was a cool spring day, but she was sweating by the time she reached Luka's run-down apartment complex. The units, painted dull turquoise and dirty yellow, crawled around a crescent road. Luka's was in the back, hidden from the street.

He could have lived better. He could have afforded it on his own, never mind that she'd offered to help a thousand times. But lying low had been a way of life with him. Harvard, the house she'd bought, the public splash she'd made he hadn't been happy with any of it.

She teared up remembering the arguments. The way he'd sigh in the end, call her Sashka in his own gruff way and pat her head.
Kazhdomu rostku svoyo vremya,
he'd say. Every seed knows its time.

She went through the parking area with its series of covered slots and crossed the grass until she was out of sight of the road. Carefully, she jogged to the end, where she climbed a staircase, fished in her tote for the keys, and inserted them in the door.

She needn't have bothered; it wasn't locked. With the first touch of her fingers, the door creaked open. She paused. Luka would never have left the door unlocked.

Cautiously, she pushed the door open the rest of the way.

A cry of dismay escaped her. Every inch of the apartment's front area was covered with overturned furniture, upside-down drawers, papers, clothing, and the remains of a smashed television set.

Slowly Alex picked her way through the debris. Whoever had done this had been thorough; nothing had been left intact. Every closet, cabinet, and drawer had been emptied. Every cranny pried open. A blast of fury ripped through her. The damage made her angry in a way she hadn't been over the news about Luka. As though the death
itself were something she couldn't face yet, but this, this ...

She wanted to howl, to screech. Her chest rose and fell as she took in huge gulps of air.

With ironclad control she forced herself to calm down. No use getting upset; she'd only lose her ability to think.

Her foot hit something that rolled across the floor and butted up against the edge of a slashed sofa cushion. She stooped to picked it up. A can of vegetable soup. Vegetarian vegetable. She couldn't picture Luka eating anything as bland and ordinary. A hearty meat-and-potatoes dish yes, but vegetarian? The image made her giggle. The giggle turned into a laugh, then she couldn't stop laughing. She laughed so hard, tears pricked her eyes, and suddenly she was sobbing, clutching the can of soup to her chest.

She was sixteen again, staring down from the sixth floor at the small body below. Her father's body. Someone was screaming, screaming like an unnatural thing, and Luka hit her and the screaming stopped. And then he was wrenching her away from the window, her father's driver and bodyguard pushing her out the office door, down the back stairs.

They had to escape.

No one could ever know she'd been there. Heard the argument. Her father's accusations. Thief. Betrayer.

Luka, Luka. What would she have done without him?

Now she would find out, she thought as she sank onto the cushionless couch. Just as she'd found out all those years ago what it was like to face a harsh world without the warm security of her father. Then she had Luka, now she had only herself.

Except this time she wasn't a child.

She was an adult, with power and resources of her own. Alone, but she'd been alone for a long time. Why cry about it? Emotional scenes were a waste of time.

Breath unsteady, she sniffed back a sob and ruthlessly searched for the ice deep inside, forcing it to the surface. Feel nothing. Do something.

When she was in control again, she rose and began to search through the wreckage.

***

Miki Petrov put down the phone at his desk and frowned at the glass case across the way. Inside was a collection of antique swords. An English navy officer's saber, a Russian light cavalry saber, a French dragoon's weapon. All nineteenth-century. Not his best, of course, but good enough to display. If it wasn't good enough to show off; it wasn't good enough to own, a philosophy he freely applied to people as well.

To Alex Baker in particular.

After last night he wanted to show her off, but she was not in her office or at home. He'd been annoyed enough that she'd refused to come home with him last night. Now he couldn't even reach her.

He rose from the desk and glided to the huge window overlooking midtown Manhattan. He liked the view from the ninety-eighth floor. Cars and buses, people everything in miniature, toys in his own private playing field.

Except Alex, who wasn't available for play. Was she avoiding him?

Impossible.

Women didn't avoid him, they sought him out Why should Alex Baker be any different?

A knock sounded on his office door.

"Enter," he barked in Russian. He wasn't in the mood to be interrupted.

Behind him the door opened, but he stared out the window, a rush of petty anger surging through him and keeping whoever it was waiting. And waiting.

At last, the person spoke.

"You... uh... wanted to see me?"

Slowly, Petrov turned. A pasty-faced Yuri stooped in the doorway. As always, he wore a black leather coat over black shirt and slacks. The inky color made his face appear even more sickly. He had a half-smoked cigarette in the corner of his mouth, which he sucked in and removed with a shaky hand.

"You made a fool of me last night," Petrov snapped, sticking to their native tongue and making the man stand when he clearly longed to collapse in one of the upholstered chairs in front of the desk. "Repeat that performance, and I'lll send you back to Russia."

"Da, tovarish'nachalnik,"
Yuri muttered.