Chapter Fifteen
There was fear in May’s face, and Sam hated it. May should always wear the confident smirk that he was used to. The flame in her big brown eyes that said she was about to try and cut him down a notch. The combative feminine spark. That was the expression she should have on her witchy little face: defiance and fire and daring. Not fear.
Never fear.
Sam tightened his hands on the steering wheel, keeping his eyes on the road. It was slow going—the snow on the highway was compacted in places, but in others it had iced over, creating dangerously slick patches. God only knew how Old George had managed to get out of his drive.
When they caught up with him, Sam was going to have a talk with the old man. Let him know it wasn’t cool to put himself in danger when it bothered May. But before that, he was going to have to weasel out of her exactly what was going on.
“You didn’t know him? Ilya Kasyanov?” he asked to clarify.
She shook her head. Her brows were knit as she absently stroked Otter’s back. The terrier was snoring on her lap, and Sam just hoped he didn’t fart in his sleep. Otter packed powerful ammunition.
“Never seen him before?” he pressed. “Your uncle ever mention his name?”
“No, Sam.” She sounded almost irritated, but not quite and the difference worried the hell out of him.
“Talk to me, May,” he said, not letting any gentleness into his voice. Now was not the time to let his feelings for her get in the way of finding out the situation. “What’s going on?”
She shook her head, not saying anything, but her face was white.
The Welcome to Coot Lake sign flashed by on the right, adorned with the emblems of the Knights of Columbus, the Veterans of Foreign Wars, and the American Legion.
Sam slowed at the town speed limit and blew out a breath, thinking. “Kasyanov didn’t have any tattoos that I could see.”
He felt more than saw May’s quick look.
He waited a beat, then went on, “Of course I suppose not everyone is tattooed in that crowd.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said far too quickly. Poor May. She was better at offense than defense.
“No?” He turned the wheel to pull into one of the diagonal parking spots before the Laughing Loon Café. The stripes couldn’t be seen beneath the snow, but everyone knew where they were. There were only two cars parked in front: Haley Anne’s silver hatchback, and a bright red Jeep with out-of-state plates next to an older snowmobile. He put the Silverado into park and glanced at her. “The Russian mob? George has a Russian accent, Russian mafiya prison tattoos, and he showed up out of nowhere ten years ago. Either he’s working for the mob now—which seems kind of unlikely, since we’re not in a teeming crime center—or he’s in hiding, maybe witness protection. Which is it, May?”
Her soft pink lips parted, her face shocked. He flashed on her wearing that look last August, her head thrown back, her eyes closed, fine strands of hair stuck to her temples with sweat as he entered her.
He smiled at her. Hard. “Not much point in holding out on me, sweetheart.”
She inhaled, looking around. “I don’t… how do you know about mafiya tattoos?”
That was just insulting. “I am a cop, Maisa.”
“Okay.” She swallowed audibly, clutching at Otter’s fur like he was a teddy bear. “It’s… He’s not in witness protection.”
He turned off the truck and waited.
“You’re right—he was in the mafiya. First in Russia and then here.” She jerked her chin up, meeting his eyes defiantly. There. There was the May he knew. “He worked for a powerful pakhan—like a Russian godfather. The pakhan’s name was—is—Gigo Meskhi.”
Sam frowned. “Meskhi doesn’t sound like a Russian name.”
“It isn’t.” She shrugged. “My mother and Dyadya are from Georgia.”
Sam’s brows rose. He knew that Georgia had been within the former Soviet Union, but that was about it. “Different names?”
She half smiled. “Different language—though most speak Russian as well.”
“Speak Georgian?” She shook her head. “No. I don’t speak Russian, either, though I know a few phrases. That’s about it. I wish I’d learned as a child, but both Dyadya and Mama were adamant that I speak English at home. They grew up under the communists and they wanted to leave that world behind—especially Dyadya. He was in the gulags. He doesn’t talk about it, but they were terrible, I know.”
Sam nodded. He’d heard pretty bad things about the Russian judicial system. “What happened with Meskhi?”
May inhaled as if bracing herself. “Ten years ago Dyadya was forced to testify against Meskhi.”
“Forced?”
“Forced by my father.”
“What?”
Her mouth twisted. “My father is Jonathan Burnsey. He’s a prosecutor now, but at the time he was an ambitious assistant city attorney with information about crimes Dyadya had committed. My father gave my uncle no choice. Dyadya’s testimony put Meskhi away in prison for life.” Her fingers clenched hard on Otter’s fur. “I think… I think Dyadya did it for me.”
Sam watched as Otter turned his head and licked May’s fingers. “Why do you think that?”
She uncurled her fingers from Otter’s fur and began to stroke him. “Because there was no reason for him to do it otherwise. My father might’ve forced the issue, but Dyadya could’ve gone into hiding or fled the country. Meskhi may have threatened me and Mama, I don’t know.” She looked at him and she’d let down the shields that normally hid her eyes. She looked afraid, confused, maybe a little lost. “In any case, I think Dyadya saw it as the only way to keep us from Meskhi’s influence. He has no family other than us, you see. Dyadya never married, and the rest of his family is gone.”
Her family as well, he thought. She lived in a very small world, his May.
She took a breath and concentrated on her hands, as if she were talking to Otter. “Meskhi is a very dangerous man. Dyadya had to go into hiding even before the trial was over.”
“But you said he’s not in the witness protection program.”
May smiled cynically. “He doesn’t trust the government.”
Of course he didn’t. Sam frowned, thinking. Outside, the streets were deserted. Most people would stay home on a day like today—no point in going out and getting stuck in the snow. “Who knows he lives here?”
“Just me and Mama.”
He looked at her sharply. “But you’ve been coming up here for two years.”
She looked stubborn. “I’ve told no one. Our last name isn’t the same as his, and anyway he changed his name.”
“He should’ve left you and your mother and never made contact again.”
Her eyes widened, outraged, but Sam hadn’t the time for her sensibilities. George Whatever-His-Real-Name-Was was a fool. Simply staying in touch with May and her mother put them all at risk.
Letting May visit him here in Coot Lake was an act of suicide.
“So Kasyanov might be a Russian hit man,” he said.
Her head jerked up, her eyes widening. “He didn’t seem like—”
He looked at her. “A good hit man wouldn’t.”
All the color drained from her face. “Oh, God, Dyadya.”
“Was he at all nervous yesterday?”
She broke eye contact with him. “No. Well, maybe a little.”
His own eyes narrowed. “May, now isn’t the time to keep secrets from me.”
She pursed her lips and glared at him. “I’m telling the truth. He’d made borscht like he does for company…” Her voice trailed away.
“May?”
“He was expecting him,” she whispered. “I thought the borscht was for me, but he was surprised when he opened the door and saw me. He’d forgotten I was coming.”
Sam sighed, took off his hat, ran his hand through his hair and resettled the hat. “Okay. He must know Kasyanov, then, right?”
“I…” She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
He watched her a moment more, wishing he could trust her to tell him everything. That was the problem, though, wasn’t it? May didn’t trust him. She wouldn’t open herself fully to him, wouldn’t let him in to find out who she was. To let him help her.
And it might get her or her uncle killed.
Sam made up his mind. “Let’s go find your uncle.”
He pushed opened the truck door and got out.
He rounded the hood to find her hesitating at the passenger-side door. “What about Otter?”
He shrugged. “He’s fine in the truck.”
“Won’t he get cold?”
“He’s got fur.” He took her elbow, sharp and delicate even through the padding of her shiny black down jacket. “Come on. Let’s see if George just went to breakfast.”
It was beginning to look less and less like Old George’s disappearance was that simple, but they might as well start with the easiest explanation and work out from there. George’s battered blue Ford pickup wasn’t parked out front, but there was always the possibility he’d parked somewhere inconspicuous.
Sam glanced at May. Her head was down-bent as she watched her footing on the narrow, cleared path to the café’s front door. He could see only the black cap of her hair. She liked holding all her secrets close to her vest, but she was going to have to reveal them to him if George was in trouble. If she was in danger.
And he might not have the time for patience.
He opened the door for her, the little bell jingling overhead. Haley Anne was sweeping the floor while Jim Gustafson nursed a cup of coffee in the corner. Jim was the only customer. He sat with his year-round John Deere bill cap pulled low over thin hair in need of a cut. Jim was a bachelor farmer, mostly retired now, with the vaguely neglected air of a man without a woman at home to tell him when he needed grooming.
Sam nodded at the man as they walked to Haley Anne.
“Want a table, Sam?” the waitress asked, setting aside her broom. She eyed May.
“That’s all right, Haley Anne,” Sam said easily. “We were just wondering if you’d seen George this morning.”
“Sure.” Haley Anne looked back at her broom as if debating whether to work or talk. Gossip won out. “He was in with a round little guy, kind of squirrelly. They ate breakfast together.”
Ilya Kasyanov. It had to be. Sam glanced at May, but if she was surprised her uncle had had breakfast with the other Russian, she hid it.
He turned back to Haley Anne, now poking hopefully at the tip jar near the cash register. “When did George leave?”
Haley Anne gave up on the nearly empty tip jar and frowned. “Uh… like, half an hour ago? Maybe more?” She shook her head. “The café cleared out at about the same time. I didn’t really notice.”
“Twenty minutes,” came a voice made raspy from disuse.
Sam looked at Jim. “You sure, Jim?”
The farmer nodded at the big front window in front of him. “They left a bit before those black SUVs went through town, and that was fifteen minutes back. Says so on the First Bank clock right there.”
Sam swiveled. The old First Bank clock was kitty-corner across the street, directly in Jim’s line of sight.
Then a thought struck. He swung back at Jim. “What SUVs?”
Jim looked at him. “Three of ’em, ’zactly alike, one after the other. Going through town.”
“Kind of weird, huh?” Haley Anne piped up. “I mean, the roads are pretty bad. Haven’t had anyone but locals in this morning—’cept for the squirrelly guy. Oh, and a friend of Molly Jasper’s, but he left with Molly and Karl. Black SUVs sound like something out of a movie.”
“Government spies,” Jim said darkly.
Or Russian mafiya.
May was obviously way ahead of him. Her face was white and she was already heading to the door.
“And the weirdest thing?” Jim said behind them. “They were headed south.”
South was away from the interstate. Sam pivoted and strode after Maisa. Not much was south of town.
Except the Coot Lake Inn and Ilya Kasyanov.