The Pretender's Gambit. Alex Archer

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СКАЧАТЬ nodded. “And that.” He regarded her for a moment. “The guys who arrested you told me you took down Calapez and his friend. That was pretty gutsy.”

      “I didn’t have a choice.”

      “I know you can defend yourself.” Bart sometimes sparred with Annja in the dojo she frequented when she could. She’d taught him a lot, adding to the basic defenses he’d been trained on in the academy. “When Calapez forced you out of the diner, I was afraid something was going to happen to you.”

      “It didn’t. We both got lucky.”

      “Yeah, well, Calapez ended up with a broken hand.”

      “I saw an opportunity and took it. I wasn’t getting into the car with him.”

      “Why was Calapez so intent on taking you?”

      “As a hostage, I suppose.”

      “Maybe.” Bart took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m glad everything turned out okay.”

      Annja stepped in and gave him a hug, patting his back, thinking about how close she’d come to losing him. Bart was a friend, a really good one, and she didn’t want to ever lose him. “Me, too.”

      * * *

      OUTSIDE THE POLICE STATION, Annja turned and walked down the street, her hands in her pockets and her collar turned up against the cold wind. Bart had offered to have an officer drive her home, but she’d refused, knowing that they were busy and she wanted to be on her own.

      She thought about returning to her loft, to the work she had waiting for her there, but she knew she couldn’t focus on that or rest right now. Her mind was too busy, seeking out answers to the riddle of the elephant. Frustration chafed at her because she didn’t know enough to ask the right questions.

      Before she knew it, she’d gone down a few blocks aimlessly. Spotting a cab, she hailed it, met it at the curb and told the driver to take her to Maurice Benyovszky’s building.

      * * *

      “ARE YOU POLICE?” The woman who asked Annja that question stood in front of a dryer in a local Laundromat two blocks down from Benyovszky’s address. Annja had noted the address of the business on some receipts on Benyovszky’s desk when she’d looked over his things.

      Plump and in her late twenties, the woman looked Slavic and spoke with a Russian accent. Her dark hair was pulled back and frizzy from the heat inside the Laundromat. She held a three year old girl on her hip as she worked one-handed to put the wet clothes into the machine.

      “No. I’m not the police.” Annja helped the woman put the load of clothing into the dryer.

      “I saw you with them this morning on the television.” The woman pushed quarters into the machine and started it cycling. The clothing thumped as the big barrel turned, and the little girl on the woman’s hip watched the contents spin.

      Several other women and a few men of all ages occupied the Laundromat, all of them dealing with their clothing. A television blared from the mount in the corner, displaying a ghost-hunting program. The whir and vibration of the machines created a soft blanket of noise that filled the building. The strong smell of detergent and bleach burned Annja’s nose.

      “I work for them sometimes,” Annja replied. “As a consultant when they need me.”

      The woman was suspicious and distrustful. That was a typical reaction to anyone outside a culture. Annja wasn’t of Russian heritage, wasn’t from the neighborhood and her clothing separated her from everyone else in the Laundromat. The woman placed her child on the folding table in front of the dryer and fussed with her hair, combing it neatly.

      “Your daughter is beautiful,” Annja said.

      The little girl smiled shyly and ducked her head into her mother’s bosom.

      “Thank you.” The woman smiled, but she didn’t open up anymore to Annja.

      “Did you know Mr. Benyovszky?” Annja asked.

      Shrugging, the woman picked up her daughter again. “I see him in the hallway sometimes. He was a good man. Very kind. His two great-nephews, though, they are a waste.”

      “I got that impression myself.” Annja hesitated, wondering if she was pushing too hard or too sudden, and knowing there was no other route to handling the situation. “I’d like to talk to someone who knew Mr. Benyovszky.”

      “Why?”

      “I don’t want his murderer to get away.”

      “No one does. If anyone knew, they would tell the police.” Suspicion darkened the woman’s face. “They say whoever killed Mr. Benyovszky stole a fortune.”

      “I don’t know. In fact, I don’t know that anything was taken for sure. That’s what I’m trying to help the police find out, but in order to know that, I need more information about Mr. Benyovszky and his business.”

      Another woman walked up to the first. This one was older and more plump. Her hair had turned gray and her face was weathered by years. She spoke rapidly in Russian, too fast and too low for Annja to understand.

      When the first woman looked back up, she said, “My friend tells me that she sees you on television and that I should trust you because she thinks you are a nice person.”

      Annja smiled at the other woman. “Spasiba.”

      The older woman nodded. “You are welcome.” The words came hesitantly, but they were sincere.

      “If you want to find out more about Mr. Benyovszky’s business you should seek out Yelena Kustodiev,” the first woman said.

      “Where can I find her?” Annja asked.

      “She lives in the next building.” The woman hesitated, shifted her child on her hip, and looked pensive. “She is a…a very strange woman. It is best to be careful around her if you have to speak to her. I will write you the address.” She accepted the pen and paper Annja handed her from her backpack. “When you go there, please do me the favor of not telling Yelena Kustodiev who told you about her.” She shook her head as she wrote down the address. “She is a most intimidating woman. You will see.”

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