The misfit 06 the broken.., p.30
The Misfit 06-The Broken-Hearted Many, page 30
part #6 of The Misfit Series
Family and friends of Alexandra Katerina Romanov will celebrate her life at her home today from 2:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. The family requests no flowers.
iv.
Boundary Waters Canoe Area—5 Nautical Miles from Ely, MN— November 21—10:25 a.m.
The skeleton lay tethered by wrists and ankles to a sturdy scaffold above the sandbar, face up, gazing through rain-filled sockets at Ranger Wiley Gowdy.
Christ, the bullet hole in the middle of the forehead told more than the bare bones.
No matter how long the deceased had been in the water—and Wiley guessed years—he’d bet his pension the poor bastard didn’t drown.
Drowning victims rarely showed up on a scaffold that showed all the workmanship of a wilderness expert.
v.
Los Altos, CA—November 21—1:25 p.m.
“Take that out of here!”
“But ma’am. You said—” The deliveryman’s voice rose to an adolescent’s crack behind the reeking tower of white peonies, Calla lilies, and carnations. “You said you’re AnnaSo—”
“Get out of here or I’ll call the police.”
“Okay, okay. You don’t have to yell. Or shoot the messenger.” He delivered the last with an audible laugh in his voice—as if he’d invented the cliché.
As he stepped backwards onto the walkway, a white envelope tumbled out of the bouquet. The envelope landed with an oomph on the sun-soaked step.
“Pick that up. Come back here. Don’t leave it. Pick it up.”
He kept walking backwards, then turned and fled toward the black, unmarked hearse idling in the street.
vi.
Los Altos, CA—November 21—1:35 p.m.
No sign of the cop. Surprising he didn’t open the front door instead of The Bitch. Or at least stand next to her—close as a leech. Bastard. Damn, the game would lose most of the challenge if the cop stayed on the sidelines.
Slipping now that he’s a civilian? The driver of the black hearse zigged and zagged through the tony Moscow neighborhood streets he now knew as well as his Patriarshiye Prudy district. After vetting this much smaller area for more than a hundred hours and reviewing Google Maps for an additional twenty hours, he ought to know his way around.
Constant checks in the rearview mirror revealed no tails.
Another surprise.
He’d spotted Special Agent Patrick Reid as soon as he drove onto AnnaSophia’s street.
So obvious. The FBI could take lessons.
The driver parked the hearse a mile from the Romanov house. Plenty of out-of-the-way spots in the deserted park. He smiled. Planning. Most people considered plan a four-letter word. He laughed, ripped off the synthetic yellow wig, and replaced it with a longish, curly black hairpiece made from the finest Peruvian virgin hair. He popped out the blue contacts and slipped on Harry-Potter spectacles. The turquoise stripes in the Eton tie coordinated perfectly with his black eyes.
No one—least of all AnnaSophia Romanov—would recognize him.
His iPhone beeped. A reminder he still had to walk five blocks to pick up the Audi. Blue, not red. But still a brand-new R8 Spyder … Another smile played around his lips. He pulled a navy Armani jacket off the backseat of the hearse, stepped onto asphalt, and casually slung the jacket over his shoulder with two fingers.
Eat your heart out, George Clooney.
vii.
Los Altos, CA—November 21—1:55 p.m.
AnnaSophia answered the door on his first ring—almost as if she were waiting for him. This time, ex-Detective Satish Patel stood at her elbow. Music—Taylor Swift or Beyoncé or Katy Perry, he’d never learned to tell them apart—played below the buzz of voices from the back of the house.
“Yuri Turgenev.” The mourner extended his hand and fought the impulse to flinch when he enclosed AnnaSophia’s fingers. Christ, more blood flowed through a corpse. “Alexandra was my favorite student.”
She frowned. “In what subject, Mr. Turgenev?”
“Russian. Alexandra had perfect pronunciation—far superior to any girl I’ve ever tutored.” He deliberately avoided eye contact with any of the four girls he’d chosen to attend the celebration. Eye contact was unnecessary. They knew the consequences if they fucked up.
A slight flush colored AnnaSophia’s high cheeks. “I-I didn’t know Russian was offered at Woodside Prep.”
“Oh, not at Woodside, Mrs. Romanov. I met Alexandra at Westbrier.”
“At West—”
“Mamá.” Lovely forehead puckered, the blonde Anastaysa hurried into the foyer. “One of Alexandra’s friends cut her finger. Can you examine it?”
Naturally she went. And where she went, so went her hound Patel.
Neither looked back.
The girl with the cut finger was the center of attention. Following his earlier instructions, she milked her injury. So no one noticed the white envelope he laid on the pile of condolence cards. God, what he’d give to be present when AnnaSophia opened this expression of sympathy.
Sentry Patel stood outside the circle, his gaze sweeping over the room. When the doorbell rang again, he answered—as if he lived there. Half a dozen celebrants entered, speaking in hushed tones, nodding like puppets as Patel ushered them into the room where AnnaSophia played doctor.
No one except me notices the bulge at his hip, Yuri thought, his mouth curling in involuntary contempt. A Glock. More a toy than a weapon.
AnnaSophia finished with her doctorly ministrations, gazed around the room, and immediately returned to Yuri. He fed her pathetic ego with superlatives for Alexandra’s language ability. Mourners interrupted, but AnnaSophia kept Yuri close, introducing him as if he’d been special to Alexandra.
Which—of course—he had been.
Around 4:00 a cloud passed over the sun, dimming the rooms where celebrants of Alexandra Romanov’s short life huddled like herds of walruses too gorged on the tiny crab and shrimp and ham and cucumber sandwiches to move. Soft lights came on throughout the house, but the air carried a chill. One after another of his girls leaned into Anastaysa, pecked her cheek, and swarmed toward the foyer. Yuri joined them, but stopped in the door—hijacked by AnnaSophia.
Despite her lifeless eyes, she shone with a transcendent luminosity. Yuri wanted to smash her face to a pulp.
She said, “Thank you for representing Westbrier today and for bringing some of Alexandra’s friends. Coming from the East coast… thank you. I hope you’ll stay in touch.”
Yuri smiled. “You will definitely hear from me again.”
CHAPTER ONE
ANNASOPHIA
Los Altos—November 21—5:00 p.m.
Fatigue hung on AnnaSophia’s shoulders like a cement coat. The caterers, efficient from arrival to departure, had left the house immaculate, the leftovers covered in the fridge, and the condolence cards neatly arranged in a basket in the foyer. Magnus, Anastaysa, Soshanna, Ari, Benazir, and Satish stood in a half circle silent as statues in a cemetery.
What did they expect? That she’d start howling? Tearing her hair? Ripping her clothes? Rend, not rip. That was the Biblical phrase.
Biblical phrase? Where the hell did that come from? Not from her rational mind that was for certain. She jammed her hands in her pockets and made a pathetic attempt to smile, then stopped. The seven faces in front of her reflected … horror.
Smiling—trying to smile at them as darkness pierced the windows—signaled her otherness, her differentness from the rest of her pack. If they were animals, they’d have their heads thrown back, noses in the air, sniffing for clues about her, growling.
Suck it up, AnnaSophia. You’re scaring everybody. She shifted her weight to calm her brain’s spinning, and Satish leaped forward.
Stepping outside herself—something she did more and more, especially since removing Alexandra’s bed from the family room—she laid her hand on his arm. More from necessity than from courtesy since she felt disconnected from her body. Her fingers were numb as he led her to the nearest wing chair. She eased into the plush velvet and something clicked in her mind. An old memory jittered. Flashed. Faded.
Heart thumping, she stated, “I’m tired, but I’m okay. Honest.” Please go. Leave me alone. No more talking.
“Shall I make you tea?” Benazir moved next to her son and offered the eternal Indian solution to all sorrows.
“Thank you, no. I’m okay. Really.”
Soshanna, ever the astute shrink and best friend said, “Could you use a little breathing space? Time alone?”
Yes. For the rest of my life. AnnaSophia nodded.
“Fifteen minutes. That’s all I need.” A lie, but she had to think about Magnus and Anastaysa, their eyes too bright, their faces pale, their lips thin, white lines.
Soshanna bussed her cheek and ushered everyone into the family room at the back of the house. Everyone went—docile as lambs. Everyone except Satish. Surprise, surprise, God … dammit. She flexed her fingers and refused to meet his eyes.
He said, “I’m taking my mother home, but I’m coming back later. After the kids’ve gone to bed.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’m coming back. While I’m gone, Reid’s outside.”
“I’m going to bed soon.” Her tone was sullen, but too damned bad.
GET YOUR COPY TO KEEP READING.
About the Author
AB outgrew Nancy Drew by fourth grade. Agatha Christie and Conan Doyle never really grabbed her. Poe and Hawthorne led to a fascination with the dark side of the human psyche. An interest in the brain and its workings fueled a love of Ruth Rendell, P.D. James, Margaret Millar, and dozens of contemporary crime fiction authors.
Growing up in Southern Missouri on ghost stories and horror comics might explain a lot. So does E.L. Doctorow's quote: “Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.” And parenthetically, a socially acceptable way to commit murder.
AB's dark, psychological thrillers probe the impact of the family on wounded hearts.
For more information and a complete list of titles, visit her website: abplum.com
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 PlumBooks
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, redistributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, print, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Author.
Plum, AB, The Misfit 06-The Broken-Hearted Many
