Eye of the Storm Page 8

  Jimmy rubbed his cheek along her head, mussing her sleek, blond hair. Then he stood straight and stepped away. “Come on, partner.”

  “Wait!” Tessa’s voice commanded them from the top of the stairs. “I need to talk to you, Drake.”

  Drake sighed. The old woman was a dear friend but he had no time for her rambling stories and homilies. Not while a madman held his mother and Hart. “I’ll be back,” he assured her.

  She frowned as if listening to an unheard inner voice. “All right then. But don’t wait too long.” They started through the door and she called out. “And bring Cassandra with you!”

  Drake paused, his shoulders hunching against Tessa’s tone of certainty. It was too painful to hope he’d get either Muriel or Hart back at all, much less in a condition to go on social calls. Almost easier to imagine them already dead—to start accepting, preparing against the harsh reality.

  He was a cop, had seen it all. There was no way they were alive, he told himself as he stumbled out the door. Each word struck like a bullet, bouncing off the newly forged steel in his belly. He repeated them, tempering, hardening himself. Each word was also a promise—a vow that Kasanov would pay dearly.

  “Don’t give up on Hart, kid.” Andy’s voice startled him. The ex-cop stood up from where he waited on Tessa’s porch swing. “She’d tell you never to give up—Lord knows she never gave up on you.”

  Drake stared at his friend, his father’s old partner, the man who had first trained him to be a cop. Where had this sudden optimism come from? What happened to the cop whose first words of advice to his rookie partner had been, “You can’t take everything to heart. Learn to let it bounce off like you’re wearing Kevlar on the inside. You take it home and you won’t be long for this job or this world, kid.”

  Pretty much the way Drake’s father had handled the trauma of the job. Probably why he died of a heart attack at such a young age.

  Words failing, Drake shook his head at Andy and continued on to his car. He didn’t have time for philosophy right now, couldn’t spare the energy for hope.

  Then a woman’s voice came to him. Life is hope, love is faith.

  He almost dropped the keys as he whirled. Hart’s voice, whispering something her gypsy grandmother had once told her. He looked around, ready to cry for real this time. Christ, she’d sounded so close, so real—was he losing it?

  Or was she already dead? Haunting him? Hart believed in things like that, thought Rosa’s ghost lived with her.

  “You want me to drive?” Jimmy asked from the opposite side of the car. Drake merely shook his head, still stunned. She was dead. No, she couldn’t be dead, not Hart. She was dead. No. Never. The debate roared in his mind.

  Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. That was Muriel—how many times had he heard that from her? Before every algebra test that he’d spend all night cramming for, every time the phone rang in the middle of the night when his dad was on the streets, that awful sun-filled spring day when the doorbell had rung for real, giving her the news of Drake Senior’s death.

  That’s when he realized they were together. Which meant Hart would protect Muriel, with her life if need be. Together, they had a chance of making it out of this alive.

  Drake opened the car door just as a uniformed officer he didn’t recognize came running up. “I’ve got a witness,” he panted, pointing down the street to the house on the corner. “Two black Town Cars. The older woman was taken in one that headed east and the lady in the wedding dress was in the second. They headed north.”

  Jimmy moved to intercept the officer as Drake slumped against the car. So much for hope.

  He fell into the driver’s seat. The Mustang rocked as Jimmy added his weight to the passenger side. He felt Jimmy’s gaze on him but kept his own eyes locked forward, not acknowledging his partner’s look of concern. Jimmy said nothing; what was there to say? They both knew the statistics, both knew how these things usually ended.

  Drake prayed they were alive, but in the meantime, he was insulating his heart in Kevlar. Getting ready to sell his soul to the devil. Because what did being a cop, what did anything matter if Kasanov killed the women he loved?

  <<<>>>

  AFTER WHAT SEEMED like hours, the car came to a stop. But no one moved to release Cassie. She heard muffled sounds beyond her prison inside the trunk but could make out no words. Then there was silence and she feared they’d left her to die.

  She fought to hold the panic at bay, retreating to her favorite childhood memories, and when those didn’t work, she relived, minute by minute, second by second, every moment she could remember with Drake.

  Finally, the trunk lid flew open and a blinding light stabbed her eyes. Rough hands reached inside and hauled her out.

  Her legs were frozen, asleep from their cramped position. Two men, neither older than twenty, placed her on her feet then removed their hands, laughing as she tumbled onto a concrete floor, unable to catch herself with her hands bound behind her back. She ignored their laughter, blinking hard, trying to focus her mind and her body.

  Cassie took inventory. Her mouth was parched, her bladder full, left arm numb from the elbow down, right hand with a painful tingling in it, both legs spasming beneath her.

  Equipment and hydraulic lifts surrounded her. She was lying on a grease-stained floor of an industrial garage. What time was it? How long had she been trapped in the car?

  She jerked her head up. Where was Muriel?

  “Muriel,” the name scraped out her throat, her voice rough as gravel.

  “Mrs. Drake will not be joining us at this time.”

  Cassie twisted her body to face the direction the voice had come from. Twenty feet away, Kasanov sat on a leather club chair, his tailored suit draping his body in silk, a cigar in one hand and a sapphire-colored bottle of water in the other. Cassie’s eyes riveted on the water, following it as he nonchalantly set it on the small table beside him.

  They were inside a large service bay designed for several vehicles, including pits beneath hydraulic hoists; chains dangling from pulleys overhead, ending in heavy, metal hooks; and racks of tools. The only vehicle was the Ford she’d arrived in. There were four garage doors, all closed, one exit door at the far end of the bay, and a door behind Kasanov’s chair that appeared to lead to an office and customer reception area from what she could see through the window beside the door.

  “I would expect you’re quite thirsty by this time, Dr. Hart. Would you like some water? I have it imported from Switzerland. It’s quite refreshing.” He dangled a second bottle like a dog biscuit.

  Cassie pushed herself up into kneeling position. Her left arm was now pins and needles, shooting darts of pain, but her legs were still useless, quivering masses of over-strained muscles. She bit her lip against the painful cramping in her thighs and tried to find enough saliva to swallow.

  “Where’s Muriel?” She managed to not clamp down on the words as a spasm shot through her right leg.

  “I assure you she’s perfectly safe. If you’re not thirsty, I’ll just pour the water out.”

  If she’d been able to make any tears, Cassie would have cried as he twisted the cap off one of the bottles and tilted it. The life-giving essence dripped out slowly at first then in a stream, forming an oil-slicked puddle on the cement floor. The bottle empty, Kasanov let it drop to the floor, breaking it into thousands of shards of blue glass glistening in the harsh fluorescent lights.

  “I ask you once again, Dr. Hart.” He uncapped the second precious bottle. “Would you like some water?”

  Don’t be a fool. Rosa’s voice broke through her resolve. You need to keep your strength up. Get the water, fight later.

  “Yes,” Cassie cried as the first precious drops spilled from the bottle.

  Kasanov smiled and righted the bottle. “Very well. Come and have a drink.”

  Should have seen that one coming, Cassie chided herself. It was impossible, but to salvage some of her pride, she attempted to climb to
her feet. She used the bumper of the car for leverage, pressing her bound hands against it. She made it almost to a standing position before her legs gave out, dumping her back onto the floor. Kasanov’s men chuckled from their positions behind her.

  Keeping her eyes focused on the sapphire bottle of hope, Cassie dragged her body across the grease-stained floor.

  Chapter 16

  JIMMY DIDN’T COMPLAIN as Drake drove over the curb and down the sidewalk before bouncing around a patrol car and back onto the street. He dug the red light out of the glove box and set it, revolving, on the dashboard. They made the drive to the FBI’s offices across the river in record time.

  Drake never said a word the entire trip, which gave Jimmy the time to pave their way with a few phone calls. He’d figured on browbeating some junior agent stuck with duty on the Friday before Christmas, but mention Kasanov’s name and next thing he knew, it was the head of the Organized Crime task force, a supervisory special agent named Prescott, on the line.

  By the time they arrived, security badges and a fresh-scrubbed junior G-man named Taylor were waiting in the lobby, ready to escort Drake and Jimmy upstairs to the inner sanctum.

  “What I don’t understand,” a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair was saying as they were led into a high-tech situation room, “is why Kasanov didn’t just kill them all?” He looked up when Drake and Jimmy appeared but didn’t soften his tone. You want in, you’d better be wearing body armor, his expression said.

  This must be Prescott. Guy dressed like a movie mafia don and looked like he was leading a hostile takeover of a rival corporation rather than a hastily convened emergency briefing.

  “Why leave any witnesses?” Prescott continued. The other two agents in the room with him, neither of who looked old enough to vote, both nodded eagerly.

  “He wants something,” Jimmy said, ignoring the federal agents and helping himself to a cup of their coffee. Drake moved to a corner where he could see all the players and have a good view of the computer screen projected onto the far wall. This placed him behind Prescott, but the fed didn’t seem bothered by having a non-feebie at his back.

  “Obvious,” came the clipped tones of a peaches-and-cream female agent, her accent hailing from Texas or Oklahoma. She looked like she should be leading a pep rally instead of discussing a violent crime lord. “But what?”

  Prescott answered. “Depends on who was the target. Cassandra Hart or Detective Drake.”

  “Hart’s a doctor at a community clinic. What could she have of value to Kasanov?”

  “Maybe something he thinks Hart has seen or knows, but,” Jimmy took a sip of coffee and thought for a moment, “he’s not entirely certain. And that’s why he didn’t kill anyone at the party. Maybe he was worried he’d be killing the one person who could force Hart to do whatever it is he wants.”

  “Then he’d have done better to take one of the juveniles as his second hostage,” the other agent, one who obviously wasn’t aware Jimmy was father of two of those “juveniles,” put in in a bland tone. He had Hispanic coloring and a shaven head that made Jimmy look twice for gang tattoos, even though he knew visible body art was against FBI policy.

  Prescott cleared his throat as Jimmy crushed the paper cup and hurled it at a garbage can just past the agent’s head. The junior agent jerked up at that, shooting Jimmy a narrow-eyed glare.

  “Maybe I should introduce our guests before we continue,” Prescott said. “This is Detective Jimmy Dolan of Pittsburgh’s Major Case Squad.” Shaven-head lowered his gaze and pretended to be engrossed in his notes. “Father of two of our witnesses and husband to Denise Dolan, also a witness. And, for those of you who haven’t recognized him, Detective Mickey Drake.”

  “It was my mother and fiancée Kasanov took,” Drake put in, his voice as expressionless as his face. In Jimmy’s experience, that blank void of a stare always meant trouble. Kid shut down like that, meant the powder keg’s fuse was lit and burning fast.

  “Makes more sense if Drake is the real target,” Texas said in a chipper voice as if this tidbit of enlightenment would solve all their problems. “His paintings burned, his family taken. Maybe Kasanov is tied to a former case? From the Interpol report, Kasanov has been known to carry a grudge against prosecutors and judges who target him.”

  “Do you people have anything?” Drake asked, turning to the small task force. “Besides vague theories?”

  “The only thing we know for certain about Kasanov is to expect the unexpected,” Taylor, the agent who’d acted as their escort, put in. Despite his youth, he must have some seniority because Prescott shifted the computer over to him.

  Kasanov’s photo, one that appeared several years old, flashed onto the monitor. “Nickolai Bernard Kasanov—at least that’s his current incarnation,” he began. “Real name unknown. There’s a list of his aliases in your briefing packets. Date of birth, unknown, suspected to be approximately 1940 or 1941. Place of birth unknown, but phonetic analysis of vocal patterns place his origins in the Austria-Hungarian area. Parents—”

  “Unknown,” Jimmy interrupted, saving Drake the effort. “Cut the crap. What do you know?”

  Taylor’s eyes sparked but he continued without pause. “Known to have been involved in fifty-three homicides. Suspected in another thirty-one.”

  “Jeezit—what’s this actor doing out on the streets?” Jimmy asked with indignation. “Seventy-four people he’s killed and you’re letting him get away with it?”

  “Those all occurred outside of the USA,” Texas said.

  Prescott placed both his hands flat on the table, drawing the attention of all of the agents. “That’s one of the things that worries me. While he has criminal enterprises running here, Kasanov has never stepped foot on US soil before. And we can’t find any trace that he has now. If he’s here, he’s a ghost.”

  “Are we sure it’s him?” Shaven-head said, risking a glance in Jimmy’s direction.

  In answer, Jimmy tossed Jacob’s phone to him. “See for yourself.” As the junior agents gathered around the video, Jimmy turned to Prescott. “Seems like Kasanov knows how to stay off the radar. Any ideas why he’s coming out in the open now?”

  “He’s fighting a war,” Taylor, the computer guy, said. “And losing.”

  “These Eastern European mobs are always fighting over something,” Jimmy scoffed. “Remember the bootleg vodka war two years ago?”

  “This one is more serious,” Prescott answered. “Kasanov is strictly old-school. Strong-arm tactics, kidnapping, blackmail, murder for hire. Forget the twenty-first century, his business model dates back to Attila the Hun.”

  Taylor took over, flashing several screens of financial data onto the monitor. “Kasanov has always been fiercely independent. His organization is small, family-based, but used to being feared and respected and brought in plenty of money. Until now.”

  He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head as if proud of himself. “Welcome to the age of the Internet. Blackmail occurs online. You want to kidnap someone? You hold their hard drive hostage. No need to kill when you can hijack a person’s—hell, a company’s—bank accounts and siphon off all their money with a click of a button.”

  “So Kasanov isn’t doing well. What’s that got to do with Drake?” Jimmy asked. “And why is he here in Pittsburgh?”

  No one had an answer to that.

  “Tell me about the homicides,” Drake said in a low voice, staring at Kasanov’s photo as if he and the murderer were the only two people in the room.

  “First we can verify was a storekeeper in Prague, 1954. During an attempted armed robbery. He actually did time for that but escaped from custody. Then he moved onto hiring himself out as a leg breaker, worked for various Mafia factions: Sicilians, Corsicans, Greeks, Turks, even Basques at one point. Always staying in Europe and Central Asia, dropping bodies wherever he went.”

  Drake shook his head. “No, those are all just business. You said he was unpredictable. Tell me about the
murders that don’t fit the pattern.”

  Jimmy moved to join his partner, nodding in approval. Two great minds think alike. Even when one was clouded with worry.

  No, more than worry; worry was what Jimmy felt. Stark terror was more like what Drake was experiencing, Jimmy thought as he saw the muscles at the corner of Drake’s jaw spasm. He swore he could hear Drake’s teeth grind in frustration as they waited for the FBI’s best and brightest to give them the answers they needed. That break in Drake’s facade made Jimmy worry even more.

  Taylor fiddled with his computer for moment, then a screen with a dozen thumbnail photos appeared. He clicked on each one in turn, blowing it up to the full view.

  “These all seem unmotivated,” he told them. “The first documented was a prostitute in Budapest. Found dead after spending a night with a man identified as Kasanov.” A mug shot photo appeared, the woman was in her mid-thirties, old for a prostitute—especially to attract a man like Kasanov, Jimmy thought.

  “He was what, twenty, then?”

  “Try seventeen,” Texas answered. “I’m sure the BAU would label these homicides as the pleasure kills of a sadist who enjoys ritual torture.”

  Taylor flashed another image. Another tortured woman. And another. Until finally, he projected a map of the killings. A bloody trail leading across Europe, the former Soviet Union, and Central Asia.

  The footsteps of a psychopathic serial killer who hated women. Jimmy took a drink of his coffee, mainly to cover his emotions, but it turned to acid in his mouth. This was the man who had Drake’s mother and Hart.

  And they had no idea why he’d targeted them or what he wanted.

  Chapter 17

  ONCE CASSIE REACHED his feet, Kasanov jerked his head in a nod and one of his minions leapt forward, knife in hand, and cut her wrists free. She stretched for the bottle of water Kasanov held out to her. Finally, she grasped it with both hands, fearful that she might drop it, her fingers were so numb.