Susan Warren - In Sheep's Clothing

“What? We’ve already talked. You tell him whatever he has to ask, he’ll ask it now.” Wait, who was she kidding? Mr. Games knew how to speak English. She glowered at him.

Andrei closed his eyes and grimaced. She waited for him to translate, but instead he breathed wisdom into her ear.

“Gracie, he’s with the FSB. They don’t understand the word no. They’re like your FBI—above the law.”

“The FBI is not above the law.”

Andrei shrugged. “Believe what you like, but here the FSB doesn’t answer to anyone.”

Gracie dug her fingers into Andrei’s arm. “Don’t you dare tell him where I live.”

“He probably already knows.”

Gracie felt like a child with a giant name tag around her neck, the type they gave her in kindergarten to help her find her school bus. She had absolutely no control over her own life.

Acting like she didn’t exist, Andrei and Investigator Shubnikov talked a moment longer. Gracie turned away and sulked.

Andrei finally settled a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll call you if he needs anything. You’re supposed to stay in town. I think we can leave now.”

She shrugged off his touch. Oh, sure, she’d stay. Long enough to pack a carry-on for her trip south. “I need to get Dr. Willie’s computer.” She whirled and leveled a piercing glare at the two-faced captain. He blinked as if shocked, but she jutted her chin and brushed past him, hoping her cold shoulder sent him frostbite.

Gracie bumped past the cops dusting the room, kept her gaze off the sheet-draped body and walked over to the coffee table where the black laptop hummed. With a jerk, Gracie unplugged the computer from the wall. It died with a gasp. She was putting her hand on the cover to push down the screen when a hand clamped her wrist.

“Let me go!”

“That’s evidence, we need it.” Shubnikov’s English seemed fine now.

Games, games, Mr. KGB. So very typical of all men.

“I need it. I have to write to America, tell them what’s happened.”

“Call them.”

Gracie snatched her arm out of his grasp. She tugged her coat around her and knotted the sash. “When can I have it?”

His gaze roamed over her face. She felt it burn, but kept her expression neutral. He turned and barked at one of the techs, who mumbled something in return.

“Tomorrow.”

The air puffed out of her. “What?” She licked her lips and scrambled for an answer. “Well. Fine. Tomorrow, then.”

For the briefest moment she thought she saw him smile. Arrogant jerk. Brushing past him, she joined Andrei standing by the door. Her satchel dangled from his hand.

“Take me home, please.”

Andrei hung the satchel over her shoulder, then crooked his elbow. She slid her arm through his and left the Youngs’ apartment for the last time.

A muscle knotted in Vicktor’s neck as he watched Miss Benson leave with her chauffeur. But he didn’t realize his teeth were clenched until Arkady sidled up behind him.

“She’s a looker, eh?”

Yeah, looks like trouble. What was with her sudden about-face in demeanor, as if he was the one who’d dragged in reinforcements? He didn’t lead her on with a smile. He’d been warm, kind, supportive.

She had all but kicked him in the teeth. So much for his feelings of pity. Vicktor turned, and nearly plowed into Arkady behind him.

Arkady smiled. “She got to you.”

“Not a chance.” Vicktor stalked past him to the bedroom.

“You know what this means,” Arkady called after him. “You’ve just inherited problems. You know Americans can’t keep their noses out of anything.”

Vicktor stopped. “She’s got other things to worry about. Her boyfriend, for one.”

Arkady drew in on his cigarette. “Chauffeur.”

“Yeah, right. I saw the grip he had on her, and from the expression on her face, I don’t think she minded.”

Arkady’s cheek twitched in another smile.

“I gotta work,” Vicktor mumbled. He strode into the bedroom, Arkady’s chuckle ringing in his ears.

The faster he solved this crime and washed his hands of the blond American, the better. Arkady had her pegged. If Grace Benson were anything like Mae or David, he’d have to beat her away from the investigation with a stick. Americans never let anything lie.

The woman’s body had been outlined and bagged. Two techs were taking blood samples from around the room, from the comforter, the carpet, a nearby bookshelf and even the hallway. A scant trail of brownish red led from the bedroom to the front door. Vicktor stared at it, rubbing an irritating whisker on his cheek.

“Why did he kill the two separately?” Arkady’s question voiced his thoughts.

Vicktor glanced at him and watched Arkady blow smoke from his nose like a medieval dragon.

“Why didn’t he just tie them both up and torture them until they got what they wanted?”

“Maybe he came in, killed the husband and then surprised the wife. Or vice versa,” Vicktor suggested.

“What about motive? If it were a burglary, the computer would be gone.”

“Seems that way.” Vicktor cupped the back of his neck with one hand and leaned his head back, stretching his taut muscles. Two Americans, from all outward appearances living like their Russian neighbors, here on goodwill visas, victims of a Wolf attack. Why would the Wolf murder missionaries?

The Wolf always attacked key players—FSB agents, informants, even mafia brass. But missionaries? Tyomnaya Delo. They had to be up to their elbows in something nasty. Vicktor strolled around the bedroom. He stopped at the tall bookshelf next to the door, squinted at dusty books, Bibles and commentaries, and nearly pulled out an English version of The Last of the Breed, by Louis L’Amour. On the night table sat a photograph of a small boy wearing a cowboy hat. Cute. Chubby cheeks and blue eyes, with a patch of tawny brown hair.

He lifted the edge of the bedspread and found dust balls, sunken suitcases, a broken pencil and a pair of crumpled black dress socks.

Rubbing a thumb and forefinger over his eyes, he tried to recall what Grace had said. They were missionaries. Dr. Willie worked with a few doctors in town, but I don’t know who. Oh, that was helpful. Then again, that was during the cooperative stage of the interrogation. Perhaps she hadn’t been worth the effort of yanking off the train. His shin began to throb. Next time he had to apprehend her, he would wear his hockey gear.

Next time? No, thanks.

Stepping over the woman’s corpse, he crossed the room and noted a pair of glasses, a thin book and a medicine bottle on the floor next to the bed. Sighing, he pulled back the lace curtains and stared out the window. Outside, children ran in a wild game of tag, their school backpacks propped against rotting wooden benches. Laughter and games. Life skipping by while inside the building that shadowed their play, two human beings lay slain, their lives spilled out like spoiled milk.

Senseless. He wondered whom the victims had left behind.

An angry and frightened blond Americanka for one.

He was about to let the lace fall when he noticed a curling photograph, covered with a translucent film of dust, wedged between two ceramic pots of blooming African violets. He pulled it out. A tanned and smiling version of the victim in the family room stood in the middle, his arms draped around the shoulders of two men. On the left stood a Russian with a wide face, a bushy salt-and-pepper goatee and a mustache. Set against steely gray eyes, his smile could have been a wince.

The other man was not Russian. He was small with straight dark hair, brown eyes and a bright smile. Vicktor guessed Korean.

Vicktor turned over the picture, hoping for identification. Nothing. Disappointed, he slid the photograph into his pocket.