James Grippando - Beyond Suspicion

“Good morning, Katrina.”

She whirled, so startled that she dropped her juice glass. It shattered at her feet. A man was on the patio outside her kitchen, just on the other side of the sliding screen door. She was about to scream when he said, “It’s me, Yuri.”

She took a good look. She’d heard plenty about Yuri, but during her eight-month undercover stint, she’d met him only once, briefly, when he’d come to do business with Vladimir.

“You scared me to death.”

“Am I not welcome?”

She opened the screen door and said, “To be honest, a knock would have been nice.”

He stepped inside. Then he knocked-three times, each one separated by a needlessly long pause. It might have been his idea of a joke, but he wasn’t smiling. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who smiled much.

He pulled the screen door shut, and the sliding glass door, too. Then he locked it. “You have no reason to be afraid of me. You know that, don’t you?”

He gave her a look that made her nervous, but she tried not to show it. “Of course.”

His expression didn’t change. It was the same cold, assessing look.

Katrina grabbed a paper towel and cleaned up the broken glass and juice on the floor, then tossed the mess in the trash can. Yuri was still watching her every move.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Coffee, juice?”

No response. He pulled a chair away from the kitchen table, turned it around, and straddled it with his arms resting atop the back of it. “Where you been all night?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Just out.” She folded her arms and leaned against the refrigerator, as if to say it was none of his business.

Again, he was working her over with that penetrating stare, making her feel as if it were her turn to talk even though he’d said nothing.

“You sure you don’t want anything to drink?”

“Tell me something, Katrina. How’s the dirty-blood business?”

She shrugged, rolling with his sudden change of subject. “Fine.”

“You know, we invented the blood bank.”

“We?”

“Russians. Most people don’t know it, but blood banks never existed until the Soviets started taking blood out of cadavers in the 1930s. This was something I didn’t believe until a doctor showed me an old film about it. Soviet doctors figured out that there was a point, after someone died, before rigor mortis, and before the bacteria spread throughout the body, where you could actually take the blood from the dead body and use it.”

She said nothing, not sure exactly what point he was trying to make.

“Can you imagine that, Katrina? Taking blood from cadavers?”

With that, she realized where this was headed. It was as if he somehow knew that she’d snooped through Vladimir’s computer and discovered the truth about that woman in Georgia who’d turned up dead-short about three liters of AIDS-infected blood.

“Have you ever heard of such a thing?” he asked more pointedly.

“No.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t a warm smile. “Vladimir always trusted you, you know that?”

“We worked well together.”

“I always thought it was because he wanted to get you into bed.”

“So did I, until I saw a picture of his daughter. We look a lot alike.”

“Lucky you. I, on the other hand, don’t care who you look like. And I am far less trusting.”

“He told me.”

“Of course he did. Vladimir had a habit of sharing things he didn’t need to share. That’s why he had to leave.”

“He’s gone?”

“He had some vacation time coming. But that’s neither here nor there. What’s important is that you and I have to get past this trust issue.”

“I thought the Theo Knight hit was supposed to resolve all that.”

“It was.”

“So, what’s left to resolve? You found his car, didn’t you?”

“Right where you said it would be. As a matter of fact, I drove it over to Dr. Marsh’s house last night.”

“What for?”

“Theo had good reason to kill him. Thought I’d do my part to make sure the cops keep racing right down that rabbit hole.”

“I saw the news. Dr. Marsh is dead.”

“You bet he is. Deader than Theo Knight.”

Katrina felt chills. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I know for certain that Dr. Marsh is dead.”

“So is Theo Knight.”

“Is he?”

“You think I’d lie about something like this?” she said with a nervous chuckle.

“Probably not. But humor me. Tell me exactly how Theo Knight went down.”

“Not much to tell.”

“I’m a detail guy. Let’s hear ’em.”

“I hid in the back seat, waited for him to come out from the bar when his shift ended. Put a gun to his head and told him to drive out west to the warehouse district. Found us a suitable canal. Told him to get out and walk to the edge of the water. And that was it.”

“You’re leaving out the best part. I want to know exactly how you did it.”

“Shot him in the head.”

“Silencer?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Which side of the head?”

“Back. One shot.”

“How close?”

“Less than an inch.”

“The end of the barrel touching his skull or not?”

“Uhm, could have been touching. Real close.”

He rose and walked across the room, straight toward her. Katrina didn’t move, but she felt her body tense up, bracing for something.

He stopped at her side, formed his hand into the shape of a gun, and pressed his finger to the back of her head. “Like this?”

“More or less.”

“At that range, the bullet must have exited through his face.”

“It did. Right through the forehead.”

He stepped away and nodded, but she could tell he didn’t believe her. In fact, she felt baited.

“That’s strange,” he said. “All the hits I’ve ever done with a.22-caliber, never once has there been an exit wound.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s the beauty of a.22. That’s why it’s the preferred weapon of professionals. Doesn’t have enough force to pass through the skull twice. It’s not like a.38 or a 9-millimeter, in the left side, out the right. A.22 goes in one side and bounces off the inside of the skull, ricochets around until it turns the brain to scrambled eggs.”

She fell silent.

“Are you absolutely sure that your little.22-caliber slug came out his forehead, Katrina?”

“Of course I’m sure. Maybe it never happened that way for you, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“Except the first one doesn’t count if there are no witnesses.”

“You expected me to off him in public?”

“No. But if I’m ever going to trust you, I expect you to do it in front of me.”

“Too late. Theo’s dead.”

“Then we find another.”

“Another?”

“Yeah.” His dark eyes brightened, as if this was what he lived for. “There’s always another.”

•

Jack returned home at dawn. He tiptoed past the bed, squinting as the first rays of morning sunlight cut across the room. Cindy stirred on the other side of the mattress.

“Where you been?” she asked, yawning.

“All over, checking things out.”

“I was worried about you. I tried calling you.”

He dug his cell phone from his pocket. The battery was dead. “Sorry. I’ve been unreachable and didn’t even know it.”

“Did you find out anything about Theo?”

“I think so. Go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He watched her head sink back into the pillow, then lowered himself gently onto the edge of the mattress. The doorbell rang, giving them both a start.

“Now what?” he said, groaning.