In Sheep's Clothing by Susan May Warren Page B

brings you to the ‘Last Stop,’ Vicktor Nickolaiovich?” He extended his hand, his brown eyes friendly.
    “Following up on a couple of your projects.” Vicktor glanced at the two assistants and jerked his head toward the hall.
    The click of the door echoed like a gunshot down the long sterile corridor. Fluorescent lights scattered shadows into oblivion and the dank smell of whitewashed cement accented the gruesome aura of Utuzh’s stomping grounds.
    Vicktor braced a shoulder on the wall. “I’m the primary on a case involving a couple foreigners by the name of Young—”
    “Did ’em early this morning.”
    “So, was it the Wolf?”
    Utuzh combed his beard with two fat fingers. “The wound pattern seems to indicate a similarity to the Wolf, but there are a number of peculiarities.”
    “For example?”
    “Bruises on the man, in the back, near the kidneys…in the shape of a boot. Not typical Wolf M.O. He doesn’t beat his victims.”
    The conversation was starting to turn Vicktor’s breakfast sour.
    “And the woman had skin under her fingernails, like maybe she got in a few good swipes.”
    Vicktor winced.
    “Or—and your pal Arkady was especially fond of this one—how about paper wadded in the nostrils?”
    “Both of them?”
    “ Da. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
    Vicktor crossed his arms and leaned his head back. The cement felt cool on his scalp. “Too familiar.”
    “I think the paper rules out a Wolf hit. Arkady said mafia.”
    “Korean. It’s a signature.” Vicktor sighed, frustration rolling through him. “What do you think? Three murders, within two days, all with the mark of the North Korean mafia.”
    Utuzh smoothed his bushy mustache as his brow edged skyward in thought. “ Neznaiyo. If it wasn’t for Evgeny’s murder, and the wadded-paper signature, I could sign off the Americans as smugglers involved in a mafia land war and ship them off in crates to America. But something doesn’t feel right. It’s too easy. Visa stamps, the mafia signature. There’s no effort to hide any of it. I don’t think it’s the mafia.”
    Vicktor looked at the floor, squinting at his shoes and running Utuzh’s words through his mind.
    “My instinct tells me your vet was in cahoots with these missionaries and it got them all killed.”
    “Or perhaps one was really a mafia hit and the other a ruse? To throw us off the scent?”
    “Maybe they all knew a few too many secrets.” Utuzh cracked open his lab door. The smell of death leaked through the opening. “All I want to know is if this is the end of the body trail…or the beginning.”

Chapter Nine
    V icktor nearly tripped over the door frame, seeing his elusive office-mate, Maxim, slouched in his desk chair sifting through messages. His scruffy brown hair scraped at his shirt collar, and the guy had forgotten to shave, again. Vicktor glimpsed a Snickers bar clenched in his left paw.
    Maxim glanced up. “Privyet.”
    “Hello,” Vicktor replied. He shrugged out of his coat as he took in Maxim’s sagging face and drooping shoulders. His rumpled brown polyester suit coat hung over his chair. “You okay, Max?”
    “Da,” the younger man confirmed, his gaze glued on his sea of paperwork. Vicktor saw him drop the candy wrapper on the floor and kick it into the pile under his desk.
    “You got a message, by the way. The Consulate is sending a representative. Said they’d call when they got here.”
    Oy, oy, oy. That would be fun. Vicktor hung up his coat and grabbed his mug. The samovar glistened through the steam. Vicktor poured hot water into his mug and stirred his coffee and cream to a sandy brown.
    “And Chief Inspector Sturnin called,” Maxim said without looking up. “About an hour ago. Said to have you call him back.”
    Vicktor speed-dialed the number.
    The secretary answered. “Chief’s out.” Her syrupy tone hinted that she was currently between beaus. “Any messages, Vicktor?”
    Vicktor could see her gliding one sleek