Рон Рэш - The Best American Mystery Stories 2019

It was luck that I had a metro card — no, Oyster card, as they whimsically call it. I raced after him, dog squirming in my arms, through the turnstiles, over to some tube line or other, onto a platform, into a subway car, and out again at Liverpool Street, where we made our way to the train station. He made a beeline for a self-serve ticket machine and I found one too, as close as I could get to his. We bought tickets, me juggling credit card, dog, and purse. He then race-walked to a platform, and I hurried after, boarding a train labeled NORWICH. I walked the length of several cars, ignoring the stares of the presumably dog-averse until I found Mirko, at a table for four. As I approached, the train gave a lurch and I lost my balance for a moment, grabbing Mirko’s shoulder to steady myself and ending up with a handful of shirt, at which point Gladstone scrambled out of my arms and into his lap.

Mirko accepted the dog but raised an eyebrow at me. “Took your time, didn’t you?”

I plopped into the seat across from him, still panting. “Okay, where’s Robbie? Also, who do you work for and what do you do, and also, what do I call you, because you’re obviously not Mirko, and while we’re at it, how do you know all those things about me, things not even Robbie knows? And don’t say you’re psychic, because you’re as clairvoyant as a bagel.”

He held my look. “One, that’s what I intend to learn, but lower your voice, please, because I’m following someone and while he is three cars ahead of us, I imagine the entire train can hear you. Two, a small agency within the British government. Three, call me Kingsley. Four, observation. You’re an American because of your accent. Someplace hot, because it’s winter, yet you have a tan line near your clavicle from a sports bra, and another at your ankle, from your trainers, so not a vacation tan but a resident’s. Your diction has no tinge of the American South, so not Florida, and the freckles on your left forearm suggest an inordinate amount of time spent on motorways with your arm resting on the window side, more likely in the ungodly traffic of California, than in Hawaii, and from the shade of your hair, Los Angeles. The lead on the dog is fashioned from a luggage strap and still bears the knot of elastic from an airline identification tag.” He picked up the slack leash and proceeded to unknot the elastic. “Your neck is stiff,” he continued, “suggesting someone who slept with her head against the window on the left side of an airplane. Front row, coach, standby, so last to board. With no seat in front of you to stow your bag, and by the time you boarded, there was no overhead space left, so the flight attendant checked your carry-on, which explains the tag.” He set the leash down and Gladstone looked up at him. “You dozed — fitfully — on a floor last night, as evidenced by the bits of shag carpet in your hair.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?” I asked.

“It does impress you,” he said. “Your turn. How did you know which ticket to buy? You couldn’t possibly see my touch screen.”

“No,” I said. “But I had a clear view of your forearm. I calculated the length of that, plus your fingers, factored in the fifty-five-degree angle your elbow was bent at, which told me where your fingers would land on the touch-screen keyboard, given the destination list from the drop-down menu.”

That shut him up.

The train conductor approached. “Tickets, please,” he said.

In unison, Kingsley pulled his out of his hoodie pocket and I pulled mine out of my jeans. We handed them over.

The conductor punched a hole in mine but frowned at Kingsley’s. “Stansted Mountfitchet Station? You’re on the wrong train, sir.”

Kingsley blinked.

I gave the conductor my most charming smile. “I’m so sorry. My cousin is legally blind but refuses to ask for help. May I pay the difference for him?”

With a shake of the head, the conductor accepted the twenty-pound note I offered him, made change, and issued Kingsley a new ticket. “An assistance dog, is it?” he asked, directing the question at me.

“Gladstone? Yes,” I said. “Years of training.”

Once the conductor was out of earshot, Mirko said, “You nicked my ticket. Nicely done.”

“I traded tickets,” I corrected him. “Which is harder. Robbie and I played pickpocket as children.”

“Not so good, though, at buying the proper ticket. You disappoint me.”

“Same. Where’d I go wrong?”

“You assumed I used my index finger on the touch screen. I type with my thumb. A three-inch difference. Classic schoolgirl error,” he said, but I could tell he was warming up to me. “When did you last talk to Robbie?”

“Five days ago,” I said. “He texted me, saying would I please fly to New York, pick up his cat, Touie, and get her to London because his subtenant was threatening to drown her and he was stuck in England on a job. So I did. It was hell. Whatever lies ahead, let me tell you I survived Live Animal Border Inspection at Heathrow, which can make grown men cry, so your Russian mafia doesn’t scare me.”

His long fingers, on Gladstone’s tall ears, stopped mid-pet. “Russian mafia?”

“The Streisand fan. At the shop. Some low-level operative, right? A smurf?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Oh, please,” I said. “You’re obviously laundering money, you’ve got a tunnel filled with black market goods, a wheelie suitcase full of rubles—”

“What makes you think rubles?”

“Your Russian friend, during a sappy pause in ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers,’ said eight hundred million. If that was pounds or dollars, you’d need a U-Haul to transport them. Rubles, on the other hand, come in denominations of five thousand, and yeah, you could stuff fifteen thousand of them into a suitcase. Which is around a million pounds, a million three in dollars.” I wondered if, behind those gray eyes, he was checking my math. “Anyhow,” I said. “My brother was part of this adventure. Whatever it is, it’s got ‘Robbie’ written all over it, him being a Russian interpreter, as you of course know.”

He studied me. “Have you told the police he’s missing?”

“Yeah, they’re gonna care that some random American won’t answer his sister’s texts. Or that his cat’s been kidnapped and a dog has stolen her collar.” The thief in question was now dozing, emitting fitful dog snores. “Nope. I’m gonna throw in my lot with you, Kingsley-if-that’s-even-your-name.”

“Not entirely your call,” he said.

“I can be persuasive.”

“Persuade me.”

“I’ve got a gun in my purse,” I said. “Once you catch up to your Russian friend, the one we’re following to Norwich, it could come in handy.”

An eyebrow went up. “Nicked that too, did you? From the tunnel?”

“Yeah. Which wasn’t easy, given that I was in the dark, in a hurry, and hauling a dog.”

“Is that it, then?”

“I’ve also got your wallet. You’re flat broke.”

The other eyebrow went up. “Pinch any bullets?” he asked, and held out his hand.

“You didn’t give me much time.” I passed him the wallet and our fingers touched.

He smiled. “Fair enough. Even a nonloaded weapon is a weapon.”

The countryside out the train window raced by, deeply green, with hills so rolling they looked fake, accessorized by contented-looking sheep. To someone used to the parched fields of Southern California, it was downright exotic. Kingsley, in the seat opposite, had a view of coming attractions, while I watched what we were leaving behind.

Kingsley and I had steaming cups before us, thanks to the Greater Anglia Railway dining coach. Kingsley was a far cry from “Mirko” — unrecognizable, even — but even so, it took confidence to risk running into the guy he was tailing just for a cup of tea. Not that I was complaining; he’d brought me back a black coffee. I didn’t ask how he knew my beverage preferences. Perhaps I had a speck of ground espresso on my earlobe.