Perri O'Shaughnessy - Unlucky in Law

“Strange way to put it.”

She didn’t know how else to describe the feeling, but looking at this case was like looking down a pit without a light. The end remained elusive, and could harbor whales, it was so deep. “Someone knows something. And I need to know everything about Christina Zhukovsky, what she hated, what she wanted from her life. She didn’t exist in a void over there in that fancy place on Eighth Street. She had friends, a lover, connections. Important emotional contacts. Find out who they are. We should already know these things!”

He stepped back from her quickly, as if trying to avoid a runaway truck. “Settle down, will you? I’m on it.”

She got up on her tiptoes and kissed him. His cheek smelled outdoorsy, like eucalyptus. “Of course you are. I’m just a little worked up.”

“Dinner at seven, okay? Bring the kid and the dog if you want, but we need to talk business. I’m not just sitting on my hands all day while you wrap those infernally pretty legs around Sandoval and Salas, you know.”

“That’s a relief.” Nina hustled out to find Klaus and drive him home, thinking all the while she didn’t like knowing about Paul’s past relationships. She didn’t like knowing about his past, period.

Paul doesn’t love me like Stefan loves Erin, she thought. He’s too experienced, too complicated. And I’m the same. She twisted the ring on her finger, for a moment wishing fiercely that they were some other kind of people.

Paul had never asked her if she wanted babies.

Wednesday evening 9/17

BOB AND HITCHCOCK, THE BIG BLACK MUTT, STAYED BEHIND, FEASTING respectively on canned spaghetti and kibble back at the cottage while Paul and Nina grabbed quick bites at The Tinnery, overlooking the ocean. After they ate, Paul asked her if she wanted coffee so they could discuss what he had been working on.

“A room and a car,” Nina said, sighing, looking at Lover’s Point beyond the window. “A car and a room. And then comes the night.”

“What?”

“I spend all my time inside.”

Paul put money on the table and stood up. “C’mon.” They walked outside to a summer evening in full swing. A gaggle of bikers swooped past, spandex taut. Twenty cameras clicked. Children dripped ice creams.

“Can you make it down the hill in those shoes?”

“No problem,” Nina said, letting the tangy ocean air refresh her lungs.

Like licks of transparent watercolors, sunset darted superreally over the beach, transforming Earth temporarily into Mars. Taking the warning signs on the rocky point seriously, they walked to the back side of the cove, where a rough path wound safely down.

Out on the point, closer to the gargantuan power of the ocean but careless of it, a group of Vietnamese tourists read the beware signs, had a good laugh, and headed down to flirt with danger, arms linked. They clung like barnacles to a rock, in a direct line with the treacherous sleeper waves. Arranging them on the rocks like flowers on a sunny, safe, dining room table, a friend snapped endless pictures. No wave knocked them down, nothing disturbed their placid belief in an innocent universe. Eventually, they clambered back up to the street, illusions of immortality undisturbed.

“Such faith,” Paul said, observing them. “Dumb luck?”

“Statistics,” said Nina, pushing hair out of her eyes. “How many tourists die every year, getting swept out to sea by these tides anyway? One out of thousands?”

“You let Bob go out on the rocks?”

“He goes when we walk down here. I yell at him,” Nina admitted.

“You don’t trust the odds, then.”

“If I made all my decisions rationally, would I consider marrying again? I mean, it would be my third time.” Her first marriage, to an attorney in San Francisco, had ended in divorce. Her second husband had died. “Yours, too. The odds aren’t good.”

“Good thing we’re odd, then.”

They laughed and started down the path. “Christina Zhukovsky,” Paul said, holding on to Nina’s hand as they picked their way, “had a lover.”

“I knew it! Great work, Paul! I’m so ready for a break!” Nina’s heels slipped dangerously over the wet rocks. She caught her balance just shy of a twisted ankle. They finally landed on the beach, locating a flat rock that commanded a view of a horizon flicking fire over the mirror water, and gingerly sat down, holding hands.

“And she had neighbors, a husband and wife. Too bad they were out of town the night she died, or we’d have our killer wrapped and waiting for us in the kitchen, with a satin bow tying him to the chair. The husband didn’t like the looks of Christina’s boyfriend,” Paul said.

“Don’t stop.”

The sun sneaked down, coloring the bottom side of the clouds peach.

“The boyfriend’s a Russian man named Sergey Krilov. I got a good description from the wife.” Paul’s voice got high and sweet. “Shiny, scraggly hair, so light it’s almost white, greeny-yellow eyes with brown specks around the edges, a chin you could scoop ice cream with, it’s so sharp, and a really well defined bod.” His own voice returned. “Her husband’s description conflicted slightly. He called Krilov an ugly but strong little runt with a nose big enough to park an SUV in, who didn’t shave as often as he needed to, with the manners of a mutt. He didn’t appreciate his wife’s interest in Krilov or in me, and shut the door soon after we spoke to explain why to her in loud detail.”

“Any time frame on their relationship?”

“They had seen Krilov hanging around for months, then, in the week or so before Christina died, he didn’t come around, as far as they knew. But”-Paul shuffled his position on the rock shelf, trying to get comfortable-“you know Christina organized a conference at Cal State Monterey Bay right before she died?”

Nina nodded. She had seen a mention of it in Klaus’s background materials.

“Well, Krilov showed up there. He went after Christina. They argued.”

“This was when?”

“About a week before she died.”

“Good,” she said. “How’d you find out about this?”

“After talking with our young neighbors, I dropped by the company that catered the conference, Thought for Food. The guy who started the business is only in his twenties, Rafe Barker, a natural-food fan and masterful vegan chef. He says he’s been working at the university since it started, and has grand plans to create the first campus to specialize in healthy eating. Slow food, as opposed to fast. Something different.” The sun slid below the lowest cloud, shooting golden beacons at them.

“Did Rafe witness the argument between Krilov and Christina?” Nina asked.

“No. He overheard two men, one of them Krilov, yelling at each other about it afterward. He got the impression Krilov was supposed to make up with Christina, whatever it took, but she didn’t want to get back with him. This other man was pissed about it.”

“Why?” Nina asked.

“Who knows?”

“Did Rafe know Christina?”

“Only as a person who gave him headaches bringing ‘damn crude foreigners’ around who missed their meat, and let it be known to the administration. He heard shouts that day, the second day of the conference. They caught his attention, and confirmed his negative opinion of all things not American.”

“How did Krilov react to getting dumped by Christina and then criticized for it?”

“With an undignified lack of decorum, according to Rafe. He smacked the other Russian and turned his back on him.”

“Any chance we have a witness?”

“In Russia by now,” Paul answered.

“Don’t tell me Krilov is, too.”