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“I like watching you work,” the Centipede said.
Lacey glanced over at Sokolov, a little concerned that he might break out of his restraints. She knew she had nothing to worry about, with Vic, Turtledove and Kepelov all on guard, but still. Sokolov wore an enigmatic smile. He caught her eyes with his.
“Enjoy the view, Sokolov,” she told him, returning to her laptop. “It’s the last time you’ll ever see me at work.”
“Never say never,” he said.
“Why have you not quoted me?” Gregor Kepelov had also come to stand behind her, peering over her other shoulder.
“You guys are worse than my editor. Back up. Do not watch me write. And Gregor, I am happy to quote you, but can I use your name?”
“Of course not,” he said. “You may attribute my statements to a formerly highly placed operative of Russian intelligence services who defected to the United States.”
“I’ll have to finesse that.”
“Not a problem. The people who need to know will know who your anonymous source is. Remember who first said to Lacey Smithsonian the word Centipede.” Lacey added his comments to her story. Nice to have experts on hand.
Heavy steps pounding up the stairs interrupted the flow of her fingers. Everyone stopped and looked expectantly at the lobby door. Kepelov put his hand on his concealed pistol.
Like a Russian storm cloud, Yuri Volkov burst in, glaring around the room. He stopped short at the sight of his cousin trussed up on the floor. He stared at Lacey and her comrades, then back to Sokolov. He grabbed his head with both hands and opened and shut his mouth several times before speaking.
“What is going on here?!” he finally burst out. “You are making a mess in my theatre! My party begins in a few hours! Important people will be here.”
“Your cousin Nikolai killed Saige Russell and Amy Keaton,” Lacey said without looking up from her laptop.
“You must have suspected, Yuri,” Sokolov said placidly.
“Get him out of here! Now!” Volkov’s face was turning bright red.
“Did I mention, Lacey, we are not a particularly close family?” Sokolov said.
“You!” Volkov spat at him. “You have traded on our family connection ever since you came here. Don’t think I will cry at your funeral. I will piss vodka on your grave!”
“As I said.” Sokolov didn’t bother looking at anyone but Lacey. “I anticipate your story in the newspaper with great pleasure.”
“Get him out of here, please. I don’t care where you take him,” Volkov begged. “I will do anything you want.”
Before anyone could answer, another thunderous commotion headed their way. It sounded like a rampaging bull roaring up the stairs.
It wasn’t a bull. It was Detective Broadway Lamont, followed by a herd of uniformed police. Lamont was dressed casually in blue jeans and a blue polo shirt, except of course for his bulletproof vest and holstered pistol, and the badge hooked onto his belt.
“Smithsonian, what the ever-loving hell are you up to now?”
DeeDee Adler had crept up the stairs behind the mob of D.C. cops and peeked into the lobby. She stage-whispered to Volkov, “Yuri, I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” She backed up right into a D.C. uniformed officer, who shook his head at her.
Volkov stepped into Lamont’s face and glared up at the big man. “I don’t know what’s going on here, officer. We have a show tonight and our donors are coming. Opening night. Big party. I need this cleaned up.”
“You mean this isn’t the main event?” Lamont pointed at Nikolai Sokolov. “This white guy here on the floor, a prop in your show? Anybody want to tell me why this guy is a little extra white?”
“Not a prop, officer. I am the master fashion criminal himself. Ask Lacey Smithsonian.” If he wasn’t enjoying himself, Sokolov was giving a good impression of it, and he clearly liked being the star of the show. Actors, Lacey thought, typing away.
“Nice of y’all to wrap him up for me.” The big detective turned to Lacey. “Speak to me, Smithsonian. This is part of the latest fashion crime? I am talking about that damn red dress.”
“Yes, it’s about the red dress.” And the scarlet mask.
“How many people did you tell about us, Lacey?” Sokolov for the first time seemed pained. “What did you tell this man?”
“She told me nothing.” Lamont turned his glare on Sokolov. “I know the woman who bought the damn dress and had her apartment tossed. And let me tell you, Mister Matador, it’s caused me grief. A lot of grief.”
“And yet Ms. LaToya Crawford is alive to complain about it.” Sokolov returned his gaze to Lacey. “My feelings for you made me unforgivably human. I know you are brilliant, but still I underestimated you. You will tell my story, won’t you?”
“I’m just a fashion reporter, Nikolai. But I’ll try to do it justice.”
“That’s all I ask. The Centipede will not be anonymous anymore. He will not be a myth. I will exist, because of you.”
Lamont side-eyed both of them. “Oh no, you don’t. You got the hots for Smithsonian? That’s a fast train to nowhere.”
Sokolov gazed at Lacey longingly. “Lacey, my dear Lacey, I am tired of being a monster. I adore you. I could love you forever. But in practical terms, you know, I should have killed you.”
Lacey stopped typing and looked up. She took a deep breath. “You say the weirdest things, Sokolov.”
“You are not so easily rid of me. I have much more information.”
The kind the government would be interested in, she thought. Probably several governments.
“You’re not in the position to bargain for anything, Sokolov,” Vic said.
“You think not? Who knows how many dresses are out there? Perhaps with additional records of my—job history?” Sokolov said. “There is a lot to learn. A lot to write.”
“You’re bluffing. You’re no Scheherazade,” Lacey said.
“But I am. Can I tell a story a day to keep myself alive? And living in comfortable circumstances here in the USA? I like my odds. And yours, Lacey. Especially if I only agree to talk to you.”
“I knew it,” Kepelov said. “I told you so. Our Centipede does not want to go back to Mother Russia.”
Broadway Lamont raised his voice.
“Enough! Everybody chill! Okay, Nikolai Sokolov, I got enough to bring you in for questioning right there. I suppose I’ll get to arm wrestle with the State Department, Homeland Security, CIA, FBI, NSA, every other damn alphabet agencies. In the meantime, everybody shut up until I get your statements.”
Lamont motioned to his troops. Two officers took command of Sokolov and got him to his feet. Two more pulled out tablets to start taking statements. A female forensics tech pulled out a big DSLR.
“Detective, I don’t care what you do with this man or where you put him.” Volkov ran his fingers through his hair and tapped on his Rolex. “But please hurry! The Kinetic Theatre would be most grateful if this man’s removal could be arranged with the utmost speed.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” Lamont said, unflustered.
“You have never liked me much, cousin,” Sokolov remarked. “Understandable. Sorry to be such a problem.”
“You are a tool of an evil state!” Volkov shouted at him. “I lose actors when you are around. I lose a perfectly good stage manager because of you.”
Sokolov was impassive as the D.C. cops locked him in a prisoner transport body chain. Lacey’s eyes went wide at this precaution.
“My suggestion,” Vic said modestly.
“Good idea too,” Lamont added. “Now, tell me, Smithsonian, are we expecting any more party guests at this shindig?”
Lacey didn’t have to say yes. Her publisher Claudia Darnell arrived in the second-floor lobby, followed by staff photographer Todd Hansen, draped with cameras and his usual jaunty attitude.
“Hey, Lacey! I wasn’t supposed to work this weekend, but my buddy got the flu and I got lucky.” He flashed two thumbs-up and a smile.
“Claudia, this story is going to be big trouble,” Lacey told her. Under her breath she added, “We have a confession. Sokolov admits killing Saige Russell, Amy Keaton, and others. He’s the Centipede.”
“Well then! A hell of a story.” Claudia’s eyes glittered like aquamarines. She wore a white linen sheath, Lacey thought, because the good guys always wear white. And it went so well with her tan. She gazed over Lacey’s shoulder at her laptop screen. “So far, so good. If we’re going down, Lacey, we’re going down in a blaze of glory.” She winked. “And we’ll take ’em all down with us.”
Claudia turned her devastating smile on Broadway Lamont. She asked for a photograph and Lamont personally dragged Sokolov front and center, the big detective scowling in his fierce-yet-handsome way for Hansen’s camera. Claudia pointed out other subjects for Hansen’s lens, her cell phone glued to her ear.
Another loud voice was heard on the stairs, demanding access to the theatre’s second floor lobby.
“Eye Street Observer! Let me in up there!” The officers at the door parted and Mac Jones burst on the scene in his jeans and sneakers and some kind of sports team shirt. Lacey didn’t recognize the team. His press credentials dangled from his neck and he wore a red Washington Nationals baseball cap on his head.
“Welcome to the party. Where are the girls?” Lacey asked, still typing.
“They’re waiting in the car with Kim.”
She heard a high voice from the stairway. “We’re here! We have to help Miss Lacey.”
“I don’t think they’re in the car, Mac,” Lacey said.
The voice belonged to Jasmine, one of Mac’s soon-to-be-adopted daughters. Jasmine was thirteen and Lily Rose, now eleven, was right behind her big sister. Lacey saw a female officer trying to hold the girls back.
“Are you all right?” Jasmine shouted at Lacey. She struggled to see into the room around the cops.
“I’m fine,” Lacey said.
“You don’t look so good.”
“Out of the mouths of babes, huh, Mac? Girls, this is how I look when I’m hard at work, writing a story for your dad.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, Miss Lacey?” Lily Rose asked with a frown.
“I’m so sure. I’ve got my whole village right here. Broadway, they’re Mac’s girls. Can’t they sit right here with me?”
Lamont gestured to the cops at the door to let them in. The two girls slipped away from the officers and ran to Lacey’s side. She grabbed them both in a group hug. The big detective warned them to be quiet and not to move a muscle, and they nodded their heads vigorously. Their heads spun in unison from Lacey to Mac to Broadway and Sokolov and back again.
Mac’s wife Kim was right behind the girls. Her trim figure and immaculate outfit made Lacey feel like a mess. Lamont waved her in too, and Kim gathered her girls to her.
“Come on, girls. Now you have proof that Lacey is fine.” Kim explained to everyone, “They had to see for themselves.”
“You know Miss Lacey gets herself into trouble,” Jasmine said to her mom.
“You know she does!” Lily Rose piped up, not to be outdone. “We have to watch her. We have to protect her.” Lacey raised an eyebrow at Mac. Was she a topic of conversation in their home? “Now that she’s okay, can we get pizza?” Lily Rose added.
“If you all don’t mind,” Broadway Lamont said. “I got work to do here. And Smithsonian, you’ve got one hell of a statement to write for me.”
Wonderful. Something else to write.
