Hanging the Devil, page 10
That’s too easy.
Though she was inside the sanctum, Grace suspected there would be at least one twist. Exits should be quick, so she prayed there wasn’t a puzzle or hidden latch. She took a step back and almost stumbled over the cat. Xan had followed and was vigorously rubbing against her legs.
“Not now, Xan.”
Taking a deep breath, Grace stepped to the wheel and spun it counterclockwise. She closed her eyes as she gripped the wheel, tensed in anticipation of poison darts, electric shocks, or a fall through a trapdoor. Instead, she heard a click followed by a whirring sound as the half-ton slab of wood slid along its tracks.
The door was opening. Xan was first to exit, the cat bounding down the stairs before Grace could stop him. She knew he’d been out before and hoped he’d come back. Grace searched for a way to close the door, but after a moment, there was another click as the door reversed to slide back into place.
No turning back now.
Grace moved quickly down the steps to the street. From the shadow of the doorway, she looked left to right and got her bearings. Her uncle’s apartment was only a few blocks away.
She stepped from the shadows, sparing a glance across the street. The old woman, Rushi, was minding the fish market, talking to a young couple at the entrance. The overhead fluorescents cast a sepia light across Rushi and her customers, making it look like a scene from a vintage postcard. Grace felt frozen in time and fought an impulse to run back up the stairs.
Grace shoved her hands in her pockets and walked with her head down. She went half a block, then waited for a car to pass before she crossed the street. It was dark but early. Most of the tourists were gone, but the street was busy enough for Grace to feel safe. The crowds were nothing compared to Hong Kong’s, so she was able to glide along the ebbs and flows without making waves.
Ten minutes later she was standing inside the doorway of a building across the street from her uncle’s apartment. Grace tried to remember clever tricks she had seen in action movies. Her imagination had turned this excursion into a secret mission, because if she didn’t feel like a spy, there was every chance she might feel like a girl with a price on her head.
Which is precisely what she was.
Pedestrians came and went, but no one entered the building. Grace wished she was wearing a hat. She ran her hands through her hair to mess it up, pulling her long hair from the back across the sides of her face and over her eyes. She knew how that felt after she woke up each morning so didn’t need a mirror to know how it looked. With a final shake of her head, Grace paused for a passing car and dashed across the street.
She crept up the stairs to the landing. Her uncle’s apartment door was directly ahead, unobstructed by policemen or yellow tape. The red doormat was undisturbed. Her uncle told Grace that red was the most auspicious color since their apartment faced south. He also told her where the extra key was hidden, taped under the upper left corner of the mat.
Grace darted from the landing, knelt, and tore away the key. One turn of the deadbolt, then she slid the same key into the lock embedded in the doorknob. Grace slipped inside and pressed her back against the door, exhaling loudly.
The apartment was small and cozy, a modest one-bedroom with a convertible couch in the living room where Grace had slept. Diffuse light from a streetlamp cut across the rails of the fire escape outside the lone window behind the couch. The glow bathed the apartment in a crosshatch strobe that caught dust motes surfing the air currents displaced by the opening of the door.
Though Grace had been gone less than a day, the apartment felt abandoned.
Her eyes burned, but she blinked away the tears before they came. Grace knew it wasn’t safe to linger. With a determined clench of her jaw, she turned on the lights and moved to the end table by the couch. The photograph was there, in an acrylic frame next to an alarm clock.
Grace rummaged under the couch and found her backpack, grabbed the photo and clock, and tossed them inside. She spotted a stuffed animal in the corner of the couch. It was a red rooster. Her uncle bought it from a local shop the day she arrived, a reminder of her birth year and something to hug if she ever felt scared at night. Next to the rooster was a worn baseball cap, with the insignia of the local baseball team that her uncle wore all the time. On the coffee table was an old book he had read to her, traditional Chinese legends and myths. Grace grabbed the rooster, hat, and book, then headed for the adjoining room and closet she shared with her uncle.
The doorknob began to rattle.
Grace froze in mid-step. The lock inside the doorknob was automatic, but she did not turn the deadbolt after coming inside. A scraping sound now accompanied the rattle. Someone was trying to slip the latch.
Grace scrambled over the back of the couch, backpack over her shoulder, and wedged into the small space below the window. She pressed her face against the floor and inched forward to peek around the leg of the couch.
The door swung open with a metallic groan. A man stood in the hallway.
Even before he came inside, Grace recognized the stocky man from the museum. She had seen that silhouette before, backlit by flames. He stepped across the threshold, and light from the window bounced off the gun in his waistband.
Grace held her breath. She felt like she was back in the museum, crouching in terror behind the Buddha. The man took another step, his head turning as he looked for the light switch.
A heavy tread on the stairs preceded a second figure appearing in the hallway, much taller than the first. The stocky man jerked in surprise as a deep voice rumbled into the room.
“This isn’t your apartment, is it?”
The shorter man stopped in mid-turn. His gaze shifted, and a pair of nervous eyes caught Grace peering around the couch. A cruel smile spread across his face as his hand began to slide along his belt toward his gun.
“Show me your hands,” said the hallway baritone. “And I’ll show you my badge.”
Grace released the breath she’d been holding as the shorter man began to raise his arms.
Then he dropped into a crouch and spun on his heel. Lightning flashed in the hallway and thunder tore through the room. A hole the size of a fist appeared in the man’s right shoulder.
Grace tasted blood as it splattered across the couch.
The stocky man fell backward. His gun slid under the couch as his head hit the floor.
The gun smacked Grace in the side and she yelped. Without thinking, she grabbed the pistol and shoved it into her backpack. She didn’t want the gun, but at a primal level Grace didn’t want anyone else to have it, either. Panic flooded her veins, and she lunged for the window.
A deep voice shouted at her, but blood was rushing in her ears and all Grace knew was her nails were breaking as she frantically tried to slide the window up and escape.
She rolled onto the fire escape. The night air was a cold slap that sent her running.
One flight of metal steps, a hairpin turn, down and around on her zigzag race to freedom. When she reached the platform at the bottom of the stairs, Grace spared a look over her shoulder. A large man leaned out the window, his skin dark and his head shaved. Around his neck was a lanyard holding a gold badge.
Grace grabbed the ladder and hung in space but was afraid to let go. Her fingers were petrified, and she was suddenly unsure if she should climb back up to the apartment or drop into the unknown. When her right hand slipped, the fingers on her left hand made the decision for her. She fell hard and tumbled across the alley behind the building.
Grace was still on her hands and knees when a new voice cut through the night. Two shoes appeared on either side of her shoulders as a man straddled her, pinning her down.
“Zhù xiàlái.”
Grace craned her neck and recognized the second man from the museum, the tall one. She choked back a sob. The man had just told her not to move, but her arms buckled and Grace worried she would fall on her face if she didn’t stand up. She wished that Sally was there, but Grace was alone. Sally had told her to wait, and Grace didn’t listen.
Then Grace remembered the lesson of the day.
If I get away, I’ve won.
Grace tried to control her breathing. She stared at her bloody hands and knew things could get much worse. She was too weak to resist, and the man standing over her seemed to be waiting for her to calm down and be still.
Maybe he’s waiting for a ghost to appear.
That thought was all the motivation Grace needed. She rocked back on her knees, dug her toes into the concrete, and shot upward like an Olympic gymnast. Her tiny hands came together on impact, catching both testicles in a fist sandwich.
The man buckled as his face became an abstract painting of agony and rage.
Grace snatched her backpack off the pavement and ran. She didn’t look back until she made it across the street and ran two more blocks. No ghosts in sight, only couples exiting bars and merchants minding their shops.
She kept moving. With every slap of her shoes, she heard Sally’s voice in her head, guiding her back to the loft. Grace had almost lost everything, and now she swore that she would never stop running.
Not until she won something back.
22
“You won your wager,” said Valenko. “But if I may, I would like to speak first.”
“Shoot.” Cape remembered he was surrounded by guns and added, “Go ahead.”
Cape sat on Valenko’s left. The television was turned off, the game show over.
Behind the Russian mob boss, two men were attempting to pry the steak knife from the table without severing any arteries in the bodyguard’s hand. The wounded man put his good hand in his mouth and bit down hard. Valenko paid them no attention.
“You are not politsiya.” Valenko remained fixed on Cape as he tilted his head in Maria’s direction. “But your colleague holds her gun like a cop, in a textbook stance, even when shooting my television.”
“Relajarse, I only shot the wall.” Maria had returned to her table because the food had arrived. Her gun lay on its side next to her water glass, the barrel pointing at Valenko. If tempers flared, Maria could pull the trigger in less time than it would take to grab her fork.
“And for that I am in your debt.” Valenko seemed unperturbed, but his eyes caught the light as he smiled at Maria. It was the gaze of a lion caught in the beam of a safari guide’s flashlight, right before the guide got eaten alive. “How do you like the pelmeni?”
“What are pelmeni?” asked Cape.
“Little dumpling,” said Maria.
“I asked you not to use my pet name in public,” said Cape.
Maria almost spit her water across the table.
“Pelmeni are dumplings stuffed with meat.” Valenko was still watching Maria. “Did you get the veal or the pork?”
“Veal.” Maria used her left hand to pop one into her mouth.
Valenko shifted back to Cape. “Your colleague has good taste.” He waved at a waiter and said something in Russian. A moment later a plate appeared. He pushed it closer to Cape. “Try one.”
As Cape bit into a dumpling, Valenko added, “Pelmeni is a Siberian staple. I grew up with it. Have you been to Siberia?”
“It’s delicious,” said Cape. “The pelmeni, not Siberia. I hear it’s cold.”
“The town where I grew up is called Oymyakon,” said Valenko. “You have heard of it?”
Cape shook his head and swallowed his dumpling.
“It is the coldest place on the planet inhabited by humans,” said Valenko. “Minus fifty degrees Celsius in winter.”
“What’s that in Fahrenheit?” asked Cape.
“Very cold.” Maria called from the other table. “Can you boys skip the foreplay? I’m almost done eating.”
Valenko ignored her. “Only five hundred or so families live there, so close to the Arctic Circle.”
Cape felt like he was being tested. “Why do they live there?”
“That was a good question.” Valenko smiled. “Most people ask if there are reindeer.”
“Are there?”
“Naturally,” said Valenko. “Reindeer is one of the meats we stuff into pelmeni.”
“Is Santa okay with that?”
“We call him Ded Moroz,” said Valenko. “Grandfather Frost. He doesn’t use reindeer; his sled is a troika pulled by three magnificent horses.”
“Do the horses fly?”
“They don’t need to,” said Valenko. “They gallop across the ice and snow faster than any reindeer could fly.”
“Flying reindeer are pretty cool.” Cape took a sip of vodka. “Admit it, our Santa is better than yours.”
“Diamonds.” Valenko’s eyes glinted at the word. “That is the answer to your question. Oymyakon produces more diamonds than any place in the world, even Africa. That’s why Russians were sent by Moscow to live with the locals—the Yukats—to mine for diamonds. Russians like my parents.” He finished his vodka and poured himself another. “Go outside in January and you’re dead in sixty seconds. The ground is permafrost, unstable when spring comes.” His gravelly voice fell another octave. “The world beneath your feet may collapse at any moment.”
“Is that a friendly warning,” said Cape, “Or a metaphor?”
“It’s a lesson I never forgot,” said Valenko. “One I wished to share with you.”
“Before I start asking the wrong questions.”
“Imenno tak,” said Valenko. “Just so.”
Valenko smiled, and Cape became acutely aware of what it felt like to sit next to a man who had grown up in the coldest place on earth.
“I don’t care about your business.” Cape wrapped his hand around his glass but didn’t drink. He glanced at Maria, and their only gun, then at the bodyguards who had more guns than Maria had bullets. “I’m not a cop, and as far as you’re concerned, neither is she.”
Valenko gestured at the television. “You bet your life the last act would be a singer.”
“I played the odds,” said Cape. “And the last act was a magic trick…out of nowhere, a steak knife appeared in the back of your bodyguard’s hand.”
The two men behind Valenko finally pulled the knife free with a screech from the table and a squawk from the wounded bodyguard, who wrapped his bloody hand in a napkin.
“That was a good trick.” Valenko watched the wounded man disappear through the kitchen door. “Now tell me, why risk coming here if you don’t care about my business?”
“I’m desperate,” said Cape.
“I’m hungry,” said Maria.
Valenko and Cape turned in unison. They looked more astonished by Maria’s appetite than annoyed at her interruption. She had finished the share plates without any help from Cape.
“Impressive,” said Valenko. “Have the chernosliv.” He gestured at the waiter. “Walnut-stuffed prunes covered in smetana.”
Valenko held up a hand and answered the question before Cape could ask.
“Sour cream.”
“Suena deliciosa,” said Maria. She made a get-on-with-it gesture with her left hand. “Please, continue your dance.”
“Gracias,” said Cape. He turned to Valenko. “Where was I?”
“You were desperate.”
“I still am,” said Cape. “I need to find some people before they find someone else.”
“Who are you?” asked Valenko. “How do you know my name?” He took another drink. “Why haven’t I killed you?”
“I can’t answer that last one,” said Cape. “I’m a private investigator. Everybody knows your name; they’re just too afraid to say it.”
Valenko smiled, and Cape felt a chill as if someone had opened a door.
“And why should I help you?”
“Because someone lost a helicopter,” said Cape. “And I think you lost a pilot.”
Valenko’s smile disappeared as he whipped around and called to the guard across the table to his right, a broad-faced man with close-cropped hair and a thick scar across his nose.
They spoke rapidly in Russian, calmly at first, but in answer to one of Valenko’s questions the scarred guard grimaced. Valenko banged his hand on the table hard enough to make the vodka bottles jump.
Another terse exchange ensued before Valenko turned his arctic gaze on Cape.
“My nephew is a pilot.”
“Not anymore.” Cape gave an abridged version of the robbery gone wrong.
Valenko listened intently, the lines on his face getting deeper with every detail.
Cape finished by saying, “I need to find these men.”
Valenko didn’t speak for a long moment, his eyes on Cape but his attention elsewhere. The guard with the nose scar was making a call. No one moved as the one-sided conversation took place. When he hung up, his expression was grave.
Scar-nose said something in Russian that was barely a whisper. Valenko’s hand squeezed his glass until his knuckles went white.
“My question stands,” he asked. “Why should I help you?”
Cape anticipated this and omitted the most important part of his story until now. “You should help because your nephew didn’t die in the crash.”
Valenko was a marble statue chiseled by rage.
“They burned him alive,” said Cape.
Valenko’s glass shattered in his hand.
He stared at his clenched fist as blood and vodka seeped between his fingers.
With stoic deliberation, he pulled shards of glass from his fingers in sync with each word of his answer. “I will find these men, and when I do, they will not be handed over to the police. Can you give me the same assurance?”
“The police are already looking,” said Cape. “So am I, and so are you.” He took his cloth napkin and laid it on the table near Valenko’s hand. Wordlessly, Valenko wrapped his bloody fingers. Cape drained his own glass before speaking again. The burn in the back of his throat gave the words the edge they needed. “I don’t care who finds these men or what happens to them, as long as they can’t hurt my client.”
“Who is your client?”
“No one you care about.”
