clothes here.”
“Wait a minute, why am I changing?”
“You want to see Nick,” Olga said, hand extended as she admired her manicure. “Nick in
“
Olga rolled her eyes, clearly frustrated with the slowwitted American woman. “
Wrapped in nothing more than the barely adequate towel, with rubber flip-flops on my feet, I stepped out of the cubicle five minutes later. Olga was waiting for me at the lockers. She took my purse and watch and made a show of locking them up, then she handed me a key on a long white string, which I wrapped around my wrist.
“Follow,” Olga commanded.
She led me to a stout wooden door, painted black, with a comically large metal ring for a handle.
“When I open, go right in,” Olga instructed. “Nick don’t like to lose heat.”
Then the door opened, and a blast of steam washed over me. My eyes filmed, and I blinked to clear them. Olga placed her hand on the small of my back and shoved me over the threshold. The door slammed behind me.
The bath was incredibly hot, hotter than any health club sauna I’d ever sweated in, hotter than the hottest kitchen I’d ever cooked in. Hissing steam rose from stones piled around a black cast-iron stove in the center of the room. The only source of light was the flickering glow of yellow flames through the grate.
Someone had just dumped water on the rocks as I’d entered. Now much of the steam had dissipated, and I looked around. The concrete room contained ascending levels—essentially long, wide steps, rising up to the high ceiling. On each tier I noticed spigots with aluminum buckets under them.
My eyes adjusted to the gloom, and I counted eight men, all clad in white towels. Four were young and fit enough to be bodybuilders, the terry cloth around their loins hardly larger than hand towels. The rest were seated on the higher tiers. They had towels wrapped around their heads, obscuring their features.
“My name is Clare Cosi,” I called out. “I’d like to speak with Nick.”
“I’m here,” a voice boomed from the highest tier. “Talk.”
I tried to see the speaker, but between the steam and the shadows, he was no more than a silhouette. I didn’t recognize the voice, but why should I? When I’d met Nick the other night, he’d barely uttered a sound.
“You may not remember me, but we met at Solange,” I continued.
“I don’t remember you,” the voice replied from on high.
“Okay,” I said. “Could you answer a few questions, then?”
“I suppose so, Clare Cosi,” the voice replied. “Since I doubt very much that you’re wearing a wire.”
The others chuckled. Self-consciously, I readjusted the towel, but the narrow strip of terry cloth was barely up to the task.
“Do you know about Tommy Keitel’s death?” I asked carefully.
“I read the papers.”
“You knew Brigitte Rouille, too. No point in denying it. I found your name and address among the papers she left behind.”
“Yes. I know Brigitte. Why do you speak of her that way?”
“What way?” I asked.
“You say I knew her. I
One of the bodybuilders rose and tossed a bucket of water onto the rocks. More steam filled the room. I touched my forehead. My skin was slick with sweat, my hair stuck in dark ringlets to my face and neck.
I cleared my throat. “I said
There was a long pause. One man bathed his face with a blast of cold water from a spigot.
“When you visit a Russian man, it is customary to bring a gift as a gesture of goodwill. Did you know that, Clare Cosi?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“All you have brought me is bad news.”
The door opened behind me. A draft of chilly air ran over my flesh, giving me instant goose bumps. I looked over my shoulder as another bodybuilder entered. This one had tattoos on his forearms and across broad shoulders that tapered down to narrow hips and sculpted, powerful-looking legs.
“She’s not a policewoman,” the newcomer said, standing uncomfortably close to me. “I went through her purse. Ms. Cosi here runs a coffeehouse.”
“Coffee?” the voice cried. “Bitter, black mud! Russian men drink tea!”
The bodybuilder brushed past me and plopped down on the bottom tier, clad in barely more than a wisp of steam.
Once again, I cleared my throat. “I’m not here to defend my trade,” I told the man. “I want to know how you’re connected to Brigitte Rouille. Are you a chef? A restaurateur? A vendor or importer?”
“I’m a businessman,” he replied. “My business of selling
“Sorry?” I said.
“I peddle recreational drugs to people with the cash to waste on them. Do you understand, Clare Cosi?”
“I understand you sold drugs to Brigitte.”
“A long time ago. When I first met her at a Manhattan nightclub, she was just another customer. But I enjoyed her company, and Brigitte became very special to me. So special I cut her off when I saw that she could no longer handle the drugs. When she hooked up with that worthless artist who was always on the
“On the what?” It was so hot I was having trouble following his words.
“Toby De Longe was hooked on the injection. Heroin. When the
Someone else tossed a bucket of cold water on the rocks. The sizzling hiss was deafening. Rising steam swirled around me, and the heat started really getting to me. I felt myself losing balance, swaying on my feet.
“I…You…” I couldn’t seem to form words. The room was too hot. My grip on the towel faltered, and I almost dropped it. My head began to spin.
“Feeling…dizzy…”
Nick said something to me in Russian. But I couldn’t understand him, and then I saw a figure quickly scrambling down from the steam bath’s highest tier. My legs started giving out.
I must have gone down, because the next thing I remember was coming back to reality by the shock of cold water. Someone had filled a bucket and dumped it over my head. I yelped and opened my eyes at the icy jolt. A large man with beefy hands and thick, muscular arms was holding me. His round head was shaved, but his shoulders, chest, and torso were covered with curly hair. He looked at me through brown eyes filled with concern.
“Are you all right, Clare Cosi?”
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“I’m Nick, of course. The man you came to see. Nikolai Pedechenko.”
“You’re not the man I met at Solange!”
“I’ve never been there. And we never met, Clare Cosi, because I would’ve remembered someone as attractive and determined as you.” He grinned.
I disengaged myself from his grip. “This has been a
“No trouble at all,” Nick replied. “But I believe I know the man that you are looking for. His name is Nick, too. And he was a friend of Tommy Keitel’s, the chef at Solange.”
