Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

Tony had built the cabinet when she pointed out that he couldn’t have guns around with children in the house. He’d closed off about eighteen inches at one end of their bedroom closet and installed the cabinet there. With the clothes pushed up against it, the opening was all but invisible. There were only two keys to the tiny lock hidden near the floor in the darkest corner. Bianca kept one and had given the other to one of Tony’s old friends who had promised to empty the cabinet if anything happened to her.

The guns had been replaced with Bianca’s tools- wigs, glasses, specially designed canes, and of course, poisons and the means of administering them. She took a bottle of clear fluid from the cabinet and two unlabeled brown bottles secured to each other with a heavy rubber band. One bottle held a common variety of sleeping pill that matched the fluid in the bottle, the other a barbiturate. They weren’t an exact match for the fluid, but that wouldn’t show up on any tox screen the coroner was likely to use.

Before she left, she took one final precaution. She called Sophia to make sure that Reznikov was still in jail. ‘‘I know you think I’m a worrywart,’’ she said, ‘‘but I just wanted to know what was happening with that Russian fellow.’’

‘‘He’s in jail, Mom. Really. He’s in jail. His bail hearing isn’t scheduled until Monday.’’

‘‘But that doesn’t really mean you’re safe. I mean, he could arrange for someone else to go after you. I’ve heard that happens.’’

‘‘He’s made his one phone call, Mom. And he’d have to be a real fool to arrange a hit from inside the lockup. But, just so you can relax, the police are taking his threat seriously, and they’re keeping close watch on him.’’

‘‘Well, then, that’s a good thing. A very good thing.’’

‘‘Mom, I’m sorry if I’ve been short with you about this,’’ Sophia said, her voice softening. ‘‘I understand why you’re worried, and I appreciate it. I’m sorry to put you through this.’’

Bianca experienced the odd mixture of warmth and sadness she always felt when Sophia let down her tough façade. She was a sweet kid, always had been, but from the time she was in grade school, she’d needed to appear tough. Bianca had never understood why. She’d hoped that someday her eldest daughter would feel safe enough to let her softer side show, but now that she was a prosecutor, there was little chance of that.

Sophia was not lying to her mother when she said that Reznikov was in jail and that the police were paying special attention to him, but she was stretching the truth when she mentioned the bail hearing on Monday. It had been scheduled for then, but his attorney had requested that it be moved up. Ordinarily she’d have objected, and that would have been enough to keep him in the lockup, but the cops had decided that it fit their interest to cut him loose. They had plans for Yuri Reznikov, and they needed him on the outside for those plans to work.

As she hung up the phone, Sophia felt a moment’s guilt about misleading her mother. She valued her mother’s trust. When she was a teenager and the other girls’ moms had treated them like whores or criminals, her mother had accepted her word. But, she told herself, technically, she hadn’t lied. The hearing wasn’t for forty-five minutes, and it was worth shading the truth to give her mother some peace of mind.

Bianca parked her car up the street some distance from Reznikov’s house. There was no fence, so she didn’t have to worry about a dog in the yard. She checked for an alarm system, though she’d have been surprised to find one. Guys like Reznikov figured they were so tough that no one would dare break into their house, and the last thing they wanted was to give the cops an excuse to enter without a warrant.

Out of sight of any neighbor, she pulled on thin surgical gloves. The back door had a ridiculously simple dead bolt. Bianca had it open in less than a minute. Inside, the house smelled slightly stale and the kitchen had the off odor of garbage going bad. She set down the mop and bucket of cleaning supplies and did a quick reconnaissance.

The house was fairly tidy, too tidy for a bachelor. Mob thugs didn’t vacuum or mop floors. He’d have a cleaning service. No one had cleaned since he left, though. There was a scattering of grounds spilled next to the coffeemaker and bits of dried food on the counters.

A check of the kitchen suggested that Reznikov didn’t do a lot of cooking. There was more beer than food in the refrigerator, and the freezer held frozen dinners and a bottle of vodka.

The living room was set up for a single guy who didn’t have a lot of company. A huge plasma TV with mammoth speakers on each side dominated the room. A dark brown leather lounger sat squarely in front of it, a small table to the side of the chair. The guy probably lived in that chair, Bianca thought.

The dining room looked like it hadn’t been used in ten years. There was a china hutch but no china, further proof of Bianca’s theory that there’d been a wife who’d stopped putting up with the thug.

She checked out the upstairs bedroom, hoping to find a stash of junk food or treats that might be doctored, and the bathroom, looking for prescriptions, but she struck out on both counts. A second bedroom held weights and expensive exercise equipment, but nothing to eat or drink.

She was checking the medicine cabinet in the downstairs bathroom when she heard the click of a key in a lock. She froze. She heard a lock turn, and a door open. The sounds came from the front of the house.

Reznikov was supposed to be in jail. There was no sign that he shared the house with anyone, no cat to be fed or plants to be watered. But someone had just come in the front door. It could be a friend. Or-the realization hit her with a shock-it could be that Sophia had lied to her.

The door slammed shut. A man coughed.

It took only seconds for Bianca to react. ‘‘Mr. Reznikov?’’ she called out. ‘‘Is that you, Mr. Reznikov?’’ There was no response.

She pulled on heavy blue plastic gloves over the thin surgical ones as she headed for the front door. She shifted her gait to a shuffle, rolled her shoulders forward to hunch her back, and thrust her head out. By the time she reached the entry, she was inches shorter and years older.

The man she confronted there was at least six feet tall and heavy-broad shoulders, substantial gut, thick black hair flecked with gray. He wore dark pants and a thigh-length black coat. He had one hand inside the coat, as if he might be reaching for a gun.

‘‘Who the fuck are you?’’ he demanded in a low, slightly raspy voice. His heavy accent muffled the words, but their hostility came through loud and clear.

‘‘I’m Irma, the cleaning lady,’’ Bianca said, giving her voice a nasal quality. ‘‘Your regular’s sick. I’m filling in. Didn’t they tell you? They was supposed to call.’’ She shrugged, the put-upon employee. ‘‘They said the house’d be empty.’’ A note of complaint in the last part. ‘‘What’re you doing home?’’

The man stared down at her. Not a guy hired to do any heavy thinking, Bianca decided. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from his coat. ‘‘You’re not supposed to be here till next week,’’ he said, but he didn’t sound suspicious, just surprised.

Bianca pursed her mouth and shook her head. ‘‘It’s that Mary Louise in the office. That girl has spaghetti for brains, and since she’s started dating the delivery guy, she can’t keep nothing straight. I can go if you want, or I can finish up now. I won’t get in your way.’’ She paused, but not long enough to let him answer. ‘‘You look tired, Mr. Reznikov,’’ she said, now a picture of maternal concern. ‘‘You should rest. Can I get you a cup of tea or something?’’