In Sheep's Clothing

Vicktor shot a look at him. The chief leaned against the counter, watching the American’s body language like a psychiatrist. After a moment, he turned his gaze to Vicktor, a hard edge to his brown eyes.

“Zdrastvootya,” he said with a biting tone, “you can still speak English, right?”

Vicktor glared at him. “Miss Benson, could you please tell us what happened here?”

She breathed a sigh of palpable sorrow, but she tucked a stray blond hair behind her ear and lifted her chin.

“I came this morning to check e-mail. When I arrived, the doors were open.”

“Both of them?”

“Da. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. “It was creepy. Evelyn is very careful about keeping her doors locked, so I knew something was wrong. I never guessed…” Her voice plunged to a whisper and Vicktor fought the urge to take a step toward her. His face must have revealed pity, however, for Arkady shot him a scowl.

Vicktor fisted his hands in his pockets. “Where did you find her?”

“The bedroom. I checked the house and decided to do e-mail before I left.”

“Do you often check your e-mail here?”

Her eyes sparked. “I don’t have my own computer.”

He couldn’t imagine life without his laptop. Odd for an American.

“What did you do when you found her?”

Gracie’s shoulders shook, but her voice emerged steady. “I untied her hands. Then I called my friend Larissa. She told me she would call the police.”

Vicktor translated her answer for Arkady, who lit a cigarette. “Ask her why she took off.”

“Why did you leave, Miss Benson?” He wanted to cringe at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes.

“I was afraid. I thought the murderer might still be in the flat.”

“Smart,” he said, and was instantly glad when he saw one side of her mouth tug up.

Arkady scowled at him. “Did you ask her what these Americans were doing here? What organization were they with? Did they have any enemies?”

Vicktor waved him quiet. “This doctor and his wife—what did they do here?”

Her eyes aged before him, and he found himself wondering how old she was.

“They were missionaries. Dr. Willie worked mostly with the leaders of the church, but sometimes he would help out a few doctors he knew.” She shook her head as if anticipating his next question. “No, I don’t know any names. It seemed like Dr. Willie knew just about everybody, but I can’t tell you whom.”

“Did they have any enemies?”

Her eyes locked on his. “No.”

He turned to Arkady. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“Tell her to stick around.”

“She’s headed for the border, Chief. I pulled her off the Okean to Vladivostok.”

“Take her into custody.” Arkady let the ash from his cigarette fall to the ground.

“Right. And have the U.S Consulate hound me for the next decade? No thanks. She doesn’t know anything.” Vicktor glanced at her. “Let her go home.”

“She’s hiding something.” Smoke puffed out of Arkady’s mouth with each word. “Did she see anyone? Ask her again.”

Vicktor shot Arkady a crippling look. “Is there anyone else that could have come here today?” he asked in English.

She frowned, as if the possibility hadn’t occurred to her. Then she closed her eyes and rubbed her index finger between her pinched brows. The gesture seemed so forlorn, it made him want to take her home, lock the doors and dare the Wolf to come hunting.

The Wolf. He’d nearly forgotten that these weren’t just any murders—these were Wolf attacks.

“Please, anything,” he said, flinching at the earnestness in his voice.

“Well, maybe,” Gracie replied.

He raised his eyebrows, fighting hope.

“My driver, Leonid, didn’t show up today, and I thought maybe he would come here.” She scowled and shook her head. “But probably not. His car wasn’t here, and he hasn’t been very dependable lately.”

“This Leonid…what’s his full name?”

She gave him a pitiful look. “I don’t know. We call him Leonid the Red.”

Vicktor frowned.

“His hair. It’s red.”

Gracie’s wretched answer sounded hollow even to herself. She was useless. She turned back to the window before the captain could see her crumple.

It didn’t help that the other cop studied her as if she were evidence. She crossed her arms and glowered at him over her shoulder. Let him try to push her into a corner. She might be a foreigner, but she was still an American citizen. She knew her rights. She watched him wrap his fat lips around his foul-smelling cigarette, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. The cop glared back at her as if she had the answers and was hiding them.

If it hadn’t been for Captain Shubnikov’s presence, she would have been afraid. The captain’s voice bolstered her courage. She had the oddest feeling she was safe with him in the room.

Behind her the two cops argued in Russian, probably about her. Then, strangely, they left her alone in the kitchen with only a cloud of smoke as a reminder of her showdown with the KGB. That and the quiver she’d somehow managed to hide. But she hadn’t collapsed. That counted.

Where were Andrei and Larissa? Four hours had passed since her phone call. A horrifying thought struck her—what if the murderer had already pounced? How much danger were they in? She shuddered, remembering the eerie phone call unanswered in her flat. Five days left on her visa suddenly seemed like an eternity.

Gracie rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger and scanned her memory for anything that might help Captain Shubnikov find the Youngs’ killer. It was doubtful that anything she learned in Russia would be valuable to anyone with an appetite for murder. Her memories were of sweet children singing praise songs, the weird advice of well-meaning babushkas and friends laughing over tea. Nothing in that batch seemed suspect.

She heard a knock at the door. More cops, then a Russian voice calling her name. She turned, and in strode Andrei. Worry knotted his face.

“Gracie?”