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“He was making a deal with them,” I say. There’s no point in lying to Zacharov about this. Philip’s dead. There’s no real harm in his knowing. I feel a pang of guilt nonetheless. “They say he was an informant. And then someone murdered him.”
“I see,” Zacharov says.
“They want me to help them find the killer.” I hesitate. “At least that’s what they say they want.”
“But you don’t think so,” he says.
“I don’t know,” I say, and take a long swig of the coffee. “All I know is that they’re assholes.”
He laughs at that. “What are their names?”
“Jones and Hunt.” The combination of coffee and grease is soothing my stomach. I feel pretty good, leaning back against the leather seat. I’d feel better if I knew where we were going, but for the moment I am willing to wait.
“Huh,” he says. “Luck workers, both of them.”
I look over at him, surprised. “I thought they hated workers.”
He smiles. “Maybe they do. I just know they are workers. Most of the agents in the division that deals with us folks are workers themselves.” By “us folks,” I’m guessing he means organized crime families on the East Coast. Families like his.
“Oh,” I say.
“Didn’t know that, eh?” He seems pleased.
I shake my head.
“They have been worrying you about your mother, too, yes? I know how these men operate.” He nods his head, clearly indicating that I can answer if I want to, but it’s not required. “I could get them off your back.”
I shrug my shoulders.
“Yes, you’re not sure. Maybe I pushed you too hard at Philip’s funeral. Lila thinks so, anyway.”
“Lila?” I say.
His smile smoothes out with something like pride. “Someday she will lead the Zacharov family. Men will die for her. Men will kill for her.”
I nod my head, because, of course, that’s what it means to be Zacharov’s daughter. It’s just that his saying it makes it uncomfortably real. Makes the future seem to come too soon.
“But some men might not like to follow a woman,” Zacharov says as the car takes a sharp turn. We pull into the covered garage of a building, and park. “Especially a woman he knows too well.”
“I really hope you’re not talking about me,” I say.
The locks pop up on the doors.
“Yes,” he says. “As do I.”
The garage is unfinished. Just rough concrete without signs or even lines painted to delineate one space from another. Someone must have run out of money partway through the build.
I’m guessing that means screaming for help is off the table.
We get out of the car. I follow Zacharov and Stanley into the building. The tattooed goon follows me, his gloved hand giving me a little push at the base of my spine when I look around too much.
If the parking lot is new and unfinished, the building it connects to is ancient, with a plaque that reads TALLINGTON STRING-MAKERS GUILD AND NEEDLE FACTORY. It has clearly been abandoned a long time, the windows covered with nailed-up boards, and the wooden planks covered in a thick layer of sticky black dirt. I’m guessing someone wanted to convert where I’m standing into lofts before the last recession hit.
The thought rises unbidden that I’ve been brought here to die. Grandad told me that’s how they do it. Take a guy for a ride, real friendly. Then, pow. Back of the head.
I stick my right hand into the pocket of my jacket and start worming off that glove. My heart’s racing.
We come to stairs, and Stanley hangs back. Zacharov holds out his hand, indicating I should go first.
