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I peer through the window. A hand is on the floor in my eye line.
I make my move. One firm kick is enough, and the flimsy door splinters around the lock. You'd think Serra would be more security conscious.
Serra's body is waxy-looking. Purplish patches have formed where his limbs touch the ground, a necktie is pulled under his chin, and the capillaries in his eyes have burst. I squat and prod the man's flabby neck, watching the color recede under pressure. He hasn't been dead long.
This is inconvenient.
Some fucker got here first. What should have been a fact-finding exercise is becoming a pain in the ass.
What do I actuallyknow? Who might have had an issue with Hektor that warranted killing him?
I sit back on my heels and think. Whoever killed Hektor and his goons disposed of them quickly, so if the same person is responsible for Serra's death, I should wait and see who comes by.
It doesn't take long to clean the few surfaces I've touched; I don't expect the cops to take an interest, but I'd prefer not to tangle with them.
My car is comfortable enough, and I lie back and wait. After an hour, a van pulls up, waking me from a light sleep. I stay low so I can watch without being seen.
Six men get out and unload cleaning supplies. They are inside the house for twenty minutes, and two men carry a body bag when they emerge. They fling it into the van's rear, loading their gear and snapping off their latex gloves before driving away. Whoever they were, they were clearly under orders.
I thought I would find Hektor's killer and make an example of him. I can do without Trusov deciding I'm not up to the job.
Back to the drawing board.
21
Vlad
I’m barely through the door before Arman appears from the downstairs lounge, beckoning me.
“A minute, Vladi.”
Morgana is already halfway up the stairs, desperate to escape me. She and I tried to continue the day, but it was awkward. The conversation was stilted, and in the end, I just stayed in my car while she placed orders in different stores. Her shopping will be delivered later, so at least she has everything she needs, but damn. I wanted to enjoy spoiling her, but it’s all becoming too real, and it’s getting to her.
“Morgana. Where are you—”
“Go deal with business, Vlad,” she says without turning around. “I don’t feel well. Too much champagne.”
Yeah, right.
I shouldn’t have done what I did at the restaurant. We’re getting married tomorrow, and Morgana looks like she’d be happier walking to the gallows than down the aisle.
I join Arman in the lounge. I don’t have the right to be mad at him for doing the job I asked him to do, but his timing is fucking atrocious.
“You’re not the only one asking about this Hektor guy,” Arman says as he sits. “The bar owner had a visit from a man he’d never seen before, asking who might want Hektor dead. He didn’t know shit, but it didn’t stop the stranger from breaking three of his ribs.”
“Oh, fucking great,” a voice says. David is standing in the doorway, glaring at us. “We have a big problem here, don’t we?”
Arman nods. “We don’t know who you pissed off, Vladi. They haven’t established who killed Hektor, but my inquiries willleadthem to you. It only takes one scumbag to mention I’ve been asking, and he’ll put two and two together.”
I raise an eyebrow. “We’re the most powerful bratva in this city, Arman. Once this asshole realizes his mistake, he’ll return to his boss with his tail between his legs.”
“You’d better hope you’re right,” David says.
I ignore him and address Arman. “I don’t care if this guydoescome to me. Saves me doing all the running around. We’ll pay him off, pay off his boss, whatever.” I fix my gaze on David. “Hektor was just a pimp. He wasn’t valuable enough to fight over. I’m sure of that.”
David and Arman leave without another word.
* * *
