Pushover (Iris Thorne Mysteries Book 5) Page 2

  “You didn’t. Just thought I’d try. All fooling around aside, I’m sincerely glad you’ve found someone.” He looked at her affectionately. “However, I do have a brilliant investment opportunity for you.”

  “I hope so. How else am I going to deduct this trip on my taxes?”

  He chuckled and she looked out the window. The broad highway cut a path through a landscape of dry fields and low forests broken by clusters of boxy, run-down buildings.

  “So tell me about your business,” she said.

  His eyes were bright with enthusiasm. “Fillinger and Lazare, dealers in fine art. I’ve known Enrico Lazare for years. Actually, he was around when we were in Paris, but I don’t think you ever met him.”

  Iris replayed the name in her mind and shook her head.

  “He’s this crazy Corsican, always wheeling and dealing. Anyway, in his travels, he started picking up pieces of art. In my travels, I came across people who wanted to buy art. A year ago, I came to Moscow on a whim and discovered that the novie bogatie , the new rich, have an insatiable appetite for Western art to decorate their homes…”

  Two men on a motorcycle sped past the Mercedes, then slowed until they were even with it.

  A look of concern flitted across Todd’s face. “And offices.” He touched the driver’s shoulder. The man nodded once in response and floored the Mercedes, quickly leaving the motorcycle behind.

  “The novie bogatie are very big on keeping up with the Godunovs…” Todd glanced out the back window. He relaxed only when the motorcycle was a dot in the distance. “The logical next step is to open a chain of mid-priced galleries like you see in some of the better shopping malls in the U.S. It’s a completely untapped market. Iris, whoever gets in on the ground floor will make a ton of money.”

  “I’m impressed by this entrepreneurial side of you that I’ve never seen before.”

  “Who would have thought that a small-time freelance photographer would become one of Moscow’s top art dealers?” Confidentially, he leaned closer to her. “Lazare and I are about to close our biggest deal yet on a very rare piece of art. Worth megabucks.”

  “Really?”

  “It’ll set me up big time.” He jerked his chin toward the window. “We’re entering the city limits. That wooded area is called the Sparrow Hills, and that skyscraper is Moscow State University. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”

  The traffic and buildings grew denser the farther they drove into the city. Clutches of people, both young and old, were selling vegetables, bread, vodka, and cigarettes from impromptu shops set up on blankets on the sidewalks.

  “Sasha, go to Mziuri.” Todd glanced at a gold, antique watch that had a large, curved face.

  Iris admired it. “Nice watch.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you doing any photography?”

  “A lot, actually. Built up a good business here. Moscow’s wealthy like to do everything Western-style, so they’re into the lavish weddings, big birthday parties for kids, and so on. I’ve hired a couple of guys to do videos. It’s growing. I’ve also done a little magazine work. Life is good.”

  “I’m happy for you, Todd.”

  “You haven’t done too poorly yourself. That job that you left Paris to start has turned out well.”

  “I’m branch manager now, running the whole office. Hard to believe I only started working for McKinney Alitzer five years ago.”

  “A lot can happen in five years.”

  “Indeed.”

  Sasha wove the big car through the busy streets with little regard for lane markings. Iris had no idea where they were going, but sensed the driver was forced to take a circuitous route to avoid huge sink holes, building construction, and streets closed for no apparent reason. The air rang with the din from car horns and power drills. Shabby Soviet-era gray-block structures stood next to McDonalds and Pizza Huts. Aging babushkas and gangs of children panhandled near exclusive members-only clubs. Gold leaf was everywhere.

  Sasha stopped the car in front of an elegant but faded building where laborers were working to melt grime from the façade. He cut the engine and started to open the car door when Todd touched his shoulder and said, “Wait.” They both watched as two men dressed in dark suits walked toward them on the sidewalk.

  Sasha turned his head slightly and raised an eyebrow at Todd, then watched the men ascend the steps and enter the building.

  “Let’s go to King’s Head,” Todd said to Sasha who sped away from the curb. “You mind, Iris? It’s a British-style pub, few Russians go there. You’ll have ample opportunity to sample the real Moscow before you go home.” His expression suddenly became bitter. “You’ll be gagging on it.”

  “Todd, what’s up?” Iris asked. “Is somebody after you?”

  He pursed his lips and hesitated, then reluctantly admitted, “Yeah. I got crosswise with the Russian Mafia.” He shook his head. “Every time Lazare and I did a deal, a henchman for the local boss came calling, wanting a cut. I finally refused to pay. It wasn’t too smart, but I just got fed up.”

  Iris glanced at Sasha. “At least you’ve hired protection.”

  “It’s something, but I can’t fool myself. If they want you, they’ll get you.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Go about my business,” he replied, a bit cavalierly in Iris’s view.

  They got out of the car in front of a plain building and descended a set of stairs that led to a basement entrance. The smoke-filled pub was dark, loud, and lively, full of Brits and Americans. Several dartboards were seeing heavy use. Iris and Todd sat at a corner table and ordered Cornish pasties, fish and chips, and draft Guinness.

  Todd laughed at Iris’s grave expression. “Come on. I’ve been in worse fixes. If it gets too hot, I’ll just leave. Won’t be the first time I’ve blown a town.” Changing the subject too quickly, he asked, “Tell me about this boyfriend, Garland.”

  “He’s a partner in a small venture capital firm. Been married before, has two kids that are almost grown, and he lives in New York.” Speaking of Garland made Iris realize how much she already missed him.

  “New York? She likes distance between her and her men.”

  She didn’t respond to his all-too-accurate observation. He seemed to enjoy skewering her.

  “Does he know about us?” Todd asked. “I mean our history?”

  “More or less.”

  “I’m surprised he let you come here by yourself.”

  “He would have joined me, but he had meetings he couldn’t change. I don’t mind. I wanted to see you alone.”

  “You do?” He was glib. “A few minutes ago, you reminded me that we’re just friends.”

  “We are. But you’re right about what you said earlier. I didn’t come here only for business. You’re a loose end in my life, the source of many what-ifs, regrets, and above all, shame. I want closure on our relationship.”

  “Ahh, closure. Psychobabble from a genuine Californian.” He surveyed the crowd and drummed his fingers on the table.

  “Todd, I came to apologize to you.”

  When he looked at her again, he was smiling but it seemed forced. “Iris, what’s past is past. No hard feelings. Closure has been achieved.” His rigid posture belied his flippant comment. He quickly tipped back the glass of beer, leaving a foamy residue on his moustache, which he blotted with a square paper cocktail napkin. He carefully smoothed the napkin against the table top, folded a narrow pleat down one side, then folded another next to it.

  Iris took a breath, steeling herself, determined to say what she had traveled here to say. “I’m sorry I ran out on you.” She paused and he didn’t look up, absorbed in folding the napkin. She went on, “The three months we spent together in Paris, they…” She blinked at the memory, gazing at the smoke-filled room as if it were a window into the past. “I don’t have a good reason for why I left. All I can say is that it was too intense, too unreal. It seemed to be something that couldn’t go on, that was
bound to self-destruct.”

  He methodically folded pleat after pleat into the napkin, creasing each one with his thumbnail. She continued unreeling her limp explanation, knowing it didn’t make any sense as soon as the words hit the air. She kept putting them out there anyway.

  “I could have handled it much differently. Should have.”

  The napkin now completely folded, he released it on the table, the accordion folds bursting open. He closed it again, held the folds together at one end, letting the other end open in a fan. Now tired of it, he flicked the napkin across the table where it rested against glass salt and pepper shakers.

  She opened her hands toward him in a gesture of supplication. “I’m sorry.”

  When he didn’t respond, she went on. “A few weeks after I left, I tried to explain in a letter. Did you get it?”

  He met her eyes. “No.”

  “That’s odd. I sent it to your Paris apartment. When it came back, I sent it to your sister’s house in Bakersfield.”

  “I didn’t get it.” He smiled stiffly. “Iris, like I already said, no need to explain. If I was still angry with you, I wouldn’t have invited you here, would I? Let’s just enjoy the next few days and live for the moment. That is my specialty, you know.” He winked at her.

  A waitress brought their food and Iris dug in, relieved to have voiced the regret that she’d held in for five years. She couldn’t predict Todd’s response. He’d been a little strange, but she thought it had turned out fine.

  Iris took her time dressing for dinner in the room Todd had reserved for her at the elegant, Art Nouveau-style Metropolis Hotel. The ceiling was twelve feet high and decorated with elaborately carved molding brushed with gold paint. A crystal-and-brass chandelier hung from the center. Thickly looped wall-to-wall carpeting covered the floor. The furniture was heavy, made of dark wood, upholstered in rich fabric. Carved wood trim outlined in gold divided the walls into panels. It was elegant and old-world, a style, Iris recalled, that Todd appreciated.

  She gave Garland a call, surprised at the speed of the connection. Sipping Russian champagne and nibbling crackers spread generously with caviar, she told him the events of her day, leaving out Todd’s situation with the Russian Mafia, not wanting to give him anything more to worry about.

  “I’m glad I finally smoothed things over with Todd.”

  “I’m glad you’re glad.”

  “You wish I’d come home.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I do.”

  “I changed my flight. I’ll be home Thursday instead of Saturday.”

  “Iris, that’s only three nights in Moscow. Don’t change your plans on my account.”

  “It’s plenty of time to have a look at what Todd has in mind for these art galleries and to see some of the sights. It’s a little weird here.”

  “Is it Todd? Is he treating you all right?”

  “No, he’s great.”

  “How do you mean, weird?”

  She back-pedaled. “I just mean…I’d rather be here with you.”

  “Have a good time, sweets. Make the most of it.”

  They said their good-byes. She threw her coat over her arm and grabbed her unusually light purse. She’d stored her money, passport, and wallet in the hotel safe, carrying only a lipstick, California driver’s license, two credit cards, one hundred dollars in small bills, and enough rubles for small expenses.

  At the end of the hallway, she gave her room key to the dezhurnaya , a sort of concierge stationed on each floor of the hotel. She had long, dark hair and wore a pink dress that reminded Iris of a waitress in a U.S. diner. But this girl was tall and had the bone structure of a fashion model.

  Iris descended in a highly polished wood-paneled elevator to the lobby where she was to meet Todd in the bar. The elevator stopped several times until it was full of businessmen and tourists of many nationalities.

  She walked through the plush lobby, attracting stares from both men and women. She at first thought the stares were because she looked fetching in her black cocktail dress, which she did, but then realized the larger reason—she was a woman alone. She pulled herself taller and kept walking.

  Entering the bar through doors inset with beveled glass, she looked for Todd and didn’t see him. She went to a corner table by a window and slid into a banquette.

  A waiter wearing a short, red jacket and a stiff apron asked her something in Russian.

  She assumed he wanted to know what she’d like to drink. “Champagne,” she said, hoping it was part of the international language. She’d liked the Russian champagne she’d had in her room.

  Just then, Todd breezed into the bar, looking handsome in a dark suit and tie, his tan camelhair overcoat draped rakishly over his shoulders. “Sorry I’m late, Iris.” He didn’t move to sit down.

  “You’re not late. I barely got here myself.”

  “And I have to leave again. I need to make a quick phone call.” He shrugged apologetically. “It never ends.”

  “Take your time. I’m not on a schedule.”

  “I won’t be but ten minutes, then I’ll be yours for the entire evening.” He smiled and turned, the hem of his coat swirling out, and left the bar.

  Several minutes later, the waiter brought Iris’s champagne. She sipped it appreciatively and entertained herself by eavesdropping on a group of American tourists at a nearby table.

  Suddenly, there was a flurry of popping noises outside the hotel. The din in the bar decreased slightly as the patrons cast worried glances at one another. Someone started screaming.

  Iris turned to look out the window and saw a crowd gathering on the hotel’s front steps. Panic shot through her when she spied a tan overcoat draped haphazardly there. She kneeled on the banquette and pressed both hands against the glass. A man with a beard was crumpled next to the coat.

  “Todd!” she screamed. She clambered from behind the table, knocking over the glass of champagne and forgetting about her purse and coat. Whimpering, she pushed through the people gathering in the lobby and made her way out the front door. She clasped both hands over her mouth at the sight of Todd sprawled across the hotel’s front steps, his blood running down the worn marble.

  The crowd maintained a safe distance from the fallen man, no one offering assistance.

  “Oh my God!” Iris rushed to kneel next to him. His body was riddled with bullets, his face covered in blood. His labored breathing made small bubbles in the blood trailing from his lips. She took his hand and tried to remain calm.

  “It’s going to be okay, Todd. Hang on.” She lost her composure and started to sob. “Hang on, Todd,” she cried. Through her tears, she saw his eyes flutter. He exhaled a long breath. His chest didn’t rise to take another.

  “Todd!” She watched and waited, praying for him to breathe. He didn’t. She laid his hand, which still bore her class ring, against his chest and sat back on her heels, keening. She became of aware of someone behind her pulling her arm. She jerked away. Then strong hands slid underneath her armpits and raised her to her feet.

  “Wait a second!” She turned to see two men in blue-gray uniforms with red lapels and red bands around their hats.

  One of them said to her, “ Edyomtye samnoy .”

  She tried to struggle from their grasp. “I don’t understand. I don’t speak Russian.”

  They began pulling her away from the scene.

  “Wait!” she protested, dragging her heels and thrashing back and forth. “Where are you taking me? My purse—”

  They lifted her off the ground and carried her into a waiting Jeep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "For the third time, I met Todd Fillinger five years ago in Paris." Iris massaged her temples. “I was between jobs and took an extended vacation in Europe. We were friends. I came home to Los Angeles and we lost touch until last month.”

  “Why were you between jobs?” Detective Anatoly Davidovsky sat behind a desk with a fake teak finish that was peeling at the corners. A black r
otary telephone was on the corner. Next to it was an ashtray of gold pressed glass that was overflowing with cigarette butts.

  A tall, scrawny man leaning against a fingerprint-smudged metal filing cabinet in the corner pressed a fresh butt out in the ashtray. From his conversation with Davidovsky, Iris figured out that his name is Dmitri. He was wearing the blue-gray wool pants of a Militsiya uniform and a black turtleneck sweater. Iris hadn’t been introduced to him and suspected his knowledge of English was scant by the way he cocked his head toward her and frowned, nodding and appearing pleased when he seemed to catch a scrap of what she was saying.

  “I’d received my Master’s degree in Business Administration that June. In September, I was starting the broker training program at the firm where I’d accepted a position. I quit my job teaching grade school a few months early so I could travel.”

  Davidovsky leaned back in a rickety wooden desk chair. His thinning dark hair was rumpled. A double chin obscured his short, broad neck above his barrel chest. Behind him, rain pattered against a dirty window over which lime-green curtains of fraying nylon were pulled closed, but didn’t meet in the center. “Where did you travel in Europe?” His English was perfect, with a slight accent.

  “I mostly stayed in Paris. I fell in love with it.”

  “And with Todd Fillinger,” Davidovsky added.

  Iris sighed and let her eyes roll toward the ceiling. She was sitting in a straight-back, armless wooden chair. “I don’t see the point of this interrogation. I told you Todd was afraid of the Russian Mafia. He said they were demanding protection money from him. Find Todd’s bodyguard, this Sasha. He’ll tell you."