Iris Johansen - Deadlock

"Murder," Emily said. It was strange thinking of Staunton as a child, even the vicious child painted by Dardon. It was as an adult that he had dominated her life and imagination.

"Evidently he does it well enough to earn a sizeable income," Dar¬don said. "And attract very affluent clients."

"Where does he live?"

Dardon shook his head. "No address. He moves around a lot." "Can we contact any of those clients and see if they know any¬thing more about Staunton than we do."

"If we have the time," Garrett said. "I'm not sure we will. We'd do better to concentrate on having him come to us."

"I'm still checking." Dardon started the engine, and the rotors be¬gan to spin. "I'll let you know if I come up with anything."

But they knew more than they had moments before. They could see the pattern, where he had come from. Staunton had been a mon¬ster who had dominated her thoughts and emotions since the first mo¬ment she had seen him. Now he was being made into a human being.

"He did kill his mother," Garrett said. "He told me that he'd taken care of the bitch. He didn't mention the baby."

"It probably wasn't important to him." Emily said. "What differ¬ence does the life of a little baby make?" Her lips tightened. "I want to show him how much of a difference it makes. I want to-" She stopped. Control. Keep cool and calm. "How long before we'll reach that airport in Connecticut?"

"YOUR GUN." GARRETT HANDED her a box when he came out of the tall brick building at which they'd stopped after they'd landed at the small private airport in Connecticut. "A.40-caliber Glock as you re¬quested. I'd like to see you shoot sometime."

She shook her head. "After my father taught me, he said I should never pick up a gun unless I meant to use it. He was in Special Services before he became a photographer. He never wanted to kill anything or anyone again, but he knew there was always a threat out there." She smiled reminiscently. "I got pretty good. He used to tell me that he'd put me up against any of the guys in his unit. It was bullshit, but it gave me confidence later when I had to deal with the scum who were trash¬ing the museums." She opened the box. "Nice. Is that all you bought here?"

"No, Dardon is picking up some long-range electronic equipment. He'll be out in a minute." "Electronic equipment?"

"We're going to see if we can trigger a response from Mr. Zelov." "Got it." Dardon opened the car door and got into the backseat. "Pretty sophisticated. It may be good enough."

"Providing this is the right Zelov, and he has a guilty conscience."

Garrett started the car. "We'll have to see. Or rather Emily will have to see."

Emily looked at him in surprise. "What?"

"I think you should be the one to do the Q and A on Nicholas Zelov. He might be less defensive." "Why?"

"What did you tell me about the private life of Nicholas Zelov?"

She glanced down at the computer she'd been studying since she'd gotten on the jet in Pakistan. "He's divorced, no children, parents dead, was in drug rehab eight years ago. Likes women, loves gambling, hates work." She looked up. "Evidently not like his rather bizarre an¬cestor."

"Likes women." Garrett said. "And I phoned his house while I was buying your gun. He's not at home, but the housekeeper said that he was at Foxworth, a very plush casino near here." He quoted. " 'Loves gambling.' Put the two together and we might hit a home run."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"That's up to you." He got on the freeway. "It should take us about ten minutes to get there. Tell me about what else you found out about Nicholas Zelov and his great-great-grandfather, Mikhail."

She pointed at the photo on the monitor of a palatial-looking man¬sion on the hill beyond the wrought-iron gates. The ground lights shin¬ing up at the onion-shaped towers of the building gave it a Disney-like magic. "That's the Zelov family home. It definitely has a Russian flair. It's said to look like St. Basil's in Moscow. It was built by Mikhail Zelov in 1922." Emily looked up from the laptop. "He kept a low pro¬file and lived in a tenement in east New York when he first arrived, then he took a trip to Canada, stayed there two years, and when he came back, he said he'd struck it rich in the Klondike gold mines."

"Maybe he did," Dardon said.

"And maybe he didn't," Garrett said. "Evidently anything was possible with Zelov."

"At any rate, he lived the high life and left an enormous fortune to his two children. He died in 1943, and his heirs promptly started to run through his money," Emily said. "The present head of the family, Nicholas Zelov, was on the verge of bankruptcy five months ago but managed to pull himself out of it." She glanced at Dardon in the backseat. "That's about the time Warwick told him about Mikhail's private influx of money. Nicholas is still not doing well, but he can live marginally in the style to which he's accustomed." She closed the computer. "I'd like to know if Nicholas is getting any electronic trans¬fers as old Mikhail did."

"That's one question you could ask him," Garrett said. "But I doubt if you'll get an answer." He nodded. "There's Foxworth. Quite the little Indian reservation, isn't it?"

"Indian reservation?"

"The casinos are Indian-owned."

The neon-lit hotel-casino glowed in the darkness like a magnifi¬cent beacon in its setting of lush green terrain. "It's almost as palatial as Zelov's castle."

"Then he should feel right at home." He pulled in front of the casino. "We'll park over there." He handed her a tiny black nodule. "Plant it somewhere on Nicholas Zelov before you leave him."

"I feel like some kind of spy. Anyplace in particular?"

He shook his head. "It's powerful and should broadcast from ten feet away. Just touch him anywhere, and the nodule will attach. I just like to be sure."

She got out of the car and looked at the brilliantly lit lobby. "I'm not dressed for this." She looked down at her black slacks and white long-sleeved shirt. "I'll duck into the washroom and at least wash my face and touch up this wig."

"You look great."

"Bullshit." She strode toward the glass doors, which were immedi¬ately opened for her by a uniformed doorman. Clean up. Make dis¬creet inquiries and have Zelov pointed out to her. Then see what she could do about finding out what she had come to find out.

NICHOLAS ZELOV WAS SITTING at the long, granite bar, and Emily had watched him drink two whiskeys in the space of the time she had been studying him. He was a big man in his late forties, with ruddy complexion and black hair. Zelov was barely upright on the stool, and his voice was slurred when he'd ordered that last whiskey. Evidently his alcohol rehab hadn't worked out, Emily thought.

Sad, but that might be better for her purpose.

She slipped onto the stool next to him. "My name is Emily Hud¬son, Mr. Zelov. I wonder if you'd answer a few questions for me?"

"No, go away." He took another drink. "No whores tonight. A few more drinks, then back to the tables."

"I'm not a prostitute, Mr. Zelov. I work for the U.N. I was inter¬ested in your family history."

"U.N.? What the hell?" He suddenly stiffened and turned to look at her. "You're that woman who was kidnapped. I saw your picture in the newspaper." He reached out and touched her hair. "But the color is different."

She leaned back away from his touch. "People recognize me. This helps a little."

"I don't know why you want to talk to me anyway. I read that you were in seclusion somewhere. Why don't you go back there?" He took another swallow of the whiskey. "Ten minutes. That's all I'll give you."

"Thank you. I'll try to be brief."

"You'd better." He was gazing at her critically again. "You look better than you did in that video they released after the CIA got you away from those bandits. You need some meat on your bones, but you're not half bad looking. Would you like a drink?"