Litsky would pay anything and everything to keep Weimar von Bruegel—and his war crimes—dead and buried.
He raised the glass to his lips and tossed back a good half inch of Scotch, feeling it burn like desperation down his throat and conflagrate in his sour, turbulent gut. Mein Gott , why would the cursed telephone not ring?
Litsky lifted the glass to his mouth again and his prayer was answered, startling him so badly that he poured the rest of his drink down his cashmere sweater.
“Hello?” he managed.
On the other end of the line, he could have sworn he heard someone snapping chewing gum , of all things. Then a nasal voice said, “Ahtemis heah. Mr. Litsky? Please hold for Mr. Kelso.”
Thirteen
Natalie’s building was on West Nineteenth, and it seemed to McDougal that they got there far too soon. He put the SUV in park and shot her a smile that was equal parts regret and relief. “Well, I guess this is it.”
She smiled back at him and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear as she gathered her fabric together. “I really can’t thank you enough for driving all the way out there, for the moral support—”
Im moral support?
“—and for the ride home again.”
“You’re very welcome.”
She pulled the strap of her bag over her shoulder, then hesitated. “Would you like to come up for coffee?”
Hell, yes. No. Yes.
He almost banged his forehead on the steering wheel. “Thank you, but no. I’ve got some things I need to do.”
Disappointment skated over her expression, but she nodded. “Okay, then. Well, see you around. Or not, since Miami’s pretty far away. Call me when you’re in town again.”
“Will do. You take care of yourself, Natalie.” He leaned over and gave her a quick, hard kiss on those soft, delectable lips.
She got out of the car blushing and almost tripped over her scarf, which she’d unwound during the ride. She shut the door and lifted a hand to wave good-bye.
Take care of herself? She wore naïveté like a perfume. And it wasn’t going to keep her warm in Russia.
McDougal watched her until she’d disappeared into the building before he drove away.
As he turned down a side street, a flash of color on the floor of the passenger side caught his eye. When he stopped at a light he leaned down and picked up a small sketchbook. A cursory flip through the pages told him it was full of designs and something that Natalie probably needed back as soon as possible.
With mixed feelings he backtracked to her address and double-parked, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t be ticketed or towed before he got back. Yeah, right .
He sprinted toward the entrance, noticing that nobody sat behind the reception desk. How was he going to get in?
Then, lucky break, the elevator opened and a couple got out. They glanced at him briefly; he met their eyes as if he had every right to be there, then caught the edge of the door as they exited. No problem.
Now, which floor? A list of residents’ last names was posted helpfully next to the elevator, and he saw that Natalie was on six. Up he went.
There were six doors to choose from, but only one had a hand-woven, artistic-looking rag welcome mat outside. Natalie’s? As he approached he saw the last name woven into the fabric: Rosen. He didn’t need to knock—the door was open.
The apartment was trashed. Natalie stood looking around her in shock, seeming unable to comprehend what had happened to her home. It was a single room with a divided kitchenette. A narrow hallway probably led to the bathroom. In the living space, a small red sofa had been overturned, its upholstery and pillows slashed. The coffee table in front of it had been stomped into sticks and splinters. The TV screen was smashed, as were all the dishes in the kitchen. Food had been ripped out of the fridge and freezer, packages sliced open. Jars and canisters were overturned and emptied onto the old wooden floor.
A daybed against the far wall had once been partially
He raised the glass to his lips and tossed back a good half inch of Scotch, feeling it burn like desperation down his throat and conflagrate in his sour, turbulent gut. Mein Gott , why would the cursed telephone not ring?
Litsky lifted the glass to his mouth again and his prayer was answered, startling him so badly that he poured the rest of his drink down his cashmere sweater.
“Hello?” he managed.
On the other end of the line, he could have sworn he heard someone snapping chewing gum , of all things. Then a nasal voice said, “Ahtemis heah. Mr. Litsky? Please hold for Mr. Kelso.”
Thirteen
Natalie’s building was on West Nineteenth, and it seemed to McDougal that they got there far too soon. He put the SUV in park and shot her a smile that was equal parts regret and relief. “Well, I guess this is it.”
She smiled back at him and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear as she gathered her fabric together. “I really can’t thank you enough for driving all the way out there, for the moral support—”
Im moral support?
“—and for the ride home again.”
“You’re very welcome.”
She pulled the strap of her bag over her shoulder, then hesitated. “Would you like to come up for coffee?”
Hell, yes. No. Yes.
He almost banged his forehead on the steering wheel. “Thank you, but no. I’ve got some things I need to do.”
Disappointment skated over her expression, but she nodded. “Okay, then. Well, see you around. Or not, since Miami’s pretty far away. Call me when you’re in town again.”
“Will do. You take care of yourself, Natalie.” He leaned over and gave her a quick, hard kiss on those soft, delectable lips.
She got out of the car blushing and almost tripped over her scarf, which she’d unwound during the ride. She shut the door and lifted a hand to wave good-bye.
Take care of herself? She wore naïveté like a perfume. And it wasn’t going to keep her warm in Russia.
McDougal watched her until she’d disappeared into the building before he drove away.
As he turned down a side street, a flash of color on the floor of the passenger side caught his eye. When he stopped at a light he leaned down and picked up a small sketchbook. A cursory flip through the pages told him it was full of designs and something that Natalie probably needed back as soon as possible.
With mixed feelings he backtracked to her address and double-parked, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t be ticketed or towed before he got back. Yeah, right .
He sprinted toward the entrance, noticing that nobody sat behind the reception desk. How was he going to get in?
Then, lucky break, the elevator opened and a couple got out. They glanced at him briefly; he met their eyes as if he had every right to be there, then caught the edge of the door as they exited. No problem.
Now, which floor? A list of residents’ last names was posted helpfully next to the elevator, and he saw that Natalie was on six. Up he went.
There were six doors to choose from, but only one had a hand-woven, artistic-looking rag welcome mat outside. Natalie’s? As he approached he saw the last name woven into the fabric: Rosen. He didn’t need to knock—the door was open.
The apartment was trashed. Natalie stood looking around her in shock, seeming unable to comprehend what had happened to her home. It was a single room with a divided kitchenette. A narrow hallway probably led to the bathroom. In the living space, a small red sofa had been overturned, its upholstery and pillows slashed. The coffee table in front of it had been stomped into sticks and splinters. The TV screen was smashed, as were all the dishes in the kitchen. Food had been ripped out of the fridge and freezer, packages sliced open. Jars and canisters were overturned and emptied onto the old wooden floor.
A daybed against the far wall had once been partially
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