The electronic lockpick took several tries before it released the high-security lock on the small side door. Artur drew his Ruger and entered, waiting quietly for any signs of life inside the shop. The air smelled of old blood, fingerprint powder, and other chemicals typically used by law enforcement at a crime scene. He wrinkled his nose and moved into the small office.
After closing the door, he activated his pinpoint flashlight and scanned the room. No window. He took a man’s lightweight jacket from a nearby coat tree and shoved it into the small opening at the bottom of the door. Then he flipped the light switch.
He powered the computer on and was not surprised to find it password protected. A few simple tries—Mikhail, Lebedev, Swanson, metal—produced nothing, so he inserted the flash drive containing Yevgeny’s software and let it run through millions of combinations, hoping it would find the right one quickly. Testing all of them could take hours.
While he waited, he turned to the paper files in the metal cabinet and began to shuffle through the documents. Only business-related stuff. Chert poberi—damn it!
He turned back to the computer. Ah—he was in! Yevgeny would escape his anger this day. He might even get a bonus.
Settling at the desk, Artur ran a search for his name, home town, army unit, Bratva, blood, and the words cousin and Chechnya. Only 'blood' returned a hit. The file contained information about Mikhail’s health status, including blood type. Nothing there to help him.
However, a folder named Legal, with nested folders for Will and Property, caught his interest. He downloaded them to the USB drive and secured it in his zippered pocket before logging off.
Mick’s spiral-bound calendar lay open on the desk. He snapped pictures of each month’s entries and, on a whim, flipped through the business card holder. Ah—Attorney Rebecca Franken. She might prove helpful.
After powering off the computer, he flipped off the overhead light and replaced the jacket on the stand. With a quick look to assure himself that all was as it had been when he entered, he left the office behind.
The bathroom would be unlikely to contain what he wanted, but he checked the usual hiding places anyway—toilet paper holder, toilet tank, under the sink, in the garbage can, inside the light fixture, behind the mirror, behind the vent. Nothing.
Glancing to the right, he followed the siren call of the death scene to the public area of the shop. The police outline of the body and the detritus of the technicians’ tests littered a small area of the floor.
He circled it, careful to stay away from anything that would leave a clue to his having been there. For a moment, he envisioned where Mikhail had stood and the ensuing violence. It had not been his finest moment, he thought, but what can one do when the opponent fails to cooperate? His cousin had been ever thus.
He shined his pinprick flashlight at the ceiling, reassuring himself that no security cameras were watching. Then he turned to circle the crime scene again on his way out.
A light flickered from a shop at the front of the U. What was this? Surely no one was there this late at night. But… no, there was a person moving inside the shop. He held his phone up, using the camera’s zoom to get a better look.
A woman glanced toward Mikhail’s shop and pressed her finger to the phone as she quickly stepped back into the shadows.
Could this night get any worse? It was as if his cousin cursed him from the grave.
Artur took the Ruger from its shoulder holster and installed the silencer. Then he grabbed a hammer from the workshop and exited from the dock door, not bothering to reengage the lock. As he ran along the street toward the stolen sedan, he hurled the heavy tool into the shop where the interfering woman hid, most likely waiting for the police. If that didn’t keep her home at night, further measures must be used.
Within minutes, he reached the Cadillac CT6—an old man’s car that would not attract attention—and made for the on-ramp to I-94. Once on the highway, he activated his phone’s voice recorder and spoke. “A Crossing of Threads. First on the left as you look at Mikhail’s shop from the street.”
Chapter 16
They want what you’ve got. Don’t give it to them.
Security slogan
Emma woke me from sleep, her voice pitched high and her words rushed. “Mom, the Arts Galleria owners are in trouble and I said I’d ask you to help.”
“Okay, take a breath and slow down. Of course I’ll help if I can. What’s happened?” I reached for my robe and padded into the kitchen to start the coffee maker.
“Last night, Debby stayed late after closing to catch up on bookwork. She was in her office in the back of the shop, she told me, and the lights were off out front. She came out to get something from under the counter and saw a small light in Mick Swanson’s shop, so she called 911 and waited inside in the dark. She heard a crash out front and locked herself in the bathroom until the police arrived. Her front shop window was in pieces, and a hammer lay on the floor inside.”
“How frightening,” I said. “What did she do?”
“The police called for a board-up service, and Debby stayed until the shop was secured. She’s freaking out and wants someone to take a look at things. I guess she’s been nominated to represent the other owners. Can you help them? Please?”
“Give me her number and I’ll call now. And don’t worry too much, Emma. It might be a simple case of vandalism.” Although I doubt it. My inner Angie whispered that this had to be connected to Mick’s murder.
I arranged with Debby to meet in an hour at A Crossing of Threads and left a message for Bobbie to that effect so he wouldn’t worry about me. Then I dressed in skinny
