Red Ink by Greg Dinallo Read Free Book Online Page A

way through the group that encircles us. “What the hell’s going on here?”
    “Good question!”
    “Ask him,” the kid counters, jabbing a finger at my chest. “He’s the one who’s going bonkers!”
    “You little shit!” I lunge for him, but Sergei steps between us and burns me with a look. “Let’s do this in my office.”
    I’m seething, the veins in my neck throbbing like fire hoses. I take a moment to settle, then nod grudgingly and follow after him.
    Sergei closes the door and gathers his thoughts. Then likea teacher forced to reprimand a prize student, he says, “I’m disappointed in you, Nikolai. You’re better than this.”
    “The feeling’s mutual. You should have called me.”
    “I just did.”
    “Bullshit!”
    “I spoke to Vera. You can ask her. It’s barely eight-thirty. You expect me to wake you in the middle of the night? ‘Hi, Nikolai, I have some bad news.’”
    “What news?! Vorontsov was murdered to keep the lid on a privatization scandal. Where’d this nonsense about a robbery come from?!”
    “Look, Niko, you’re going to have to accept that this story isn’t what you thought.”
    “You didn’t answer my question.”
    “The kid has initiative. Yesterday afternoon, he—”
    “That’s a polite word for it!”
    “Yesterday afternoon,” Sergei resumes evenly, “before starting his rewrite, he called Vorontsov’s daughter to check some facts, but—”
    “He wasn’t supposed to check facts! He was going to ‘Westernize’ my syntax! Remember?!”
    “Yes, Nikolai, of course I do,” he says, measuring his words as if dealing with a surly toddler. “Now, hear me out, will you?”
    I splay my hands and drop into the chair opposite his desk with a sullen nod.
    “Thank you. When Drevnya called Mrs. Churkin, she was leaving for Militia Headquarters and couldn’t talk. But the kid has some connections there or something so he arranged to meet her. Needless to say, identifying her father’s body was upsetting. Drevnya comforted her and, shrewd journalist that he is, just happened to be at her side when she claimed Vorontsov’s personal effects and discovered something was missing.”
    “Come on. I was at the crime scene. Nothing was missing. His billfold, his watch, his—”
    “I know—I know,” Sergei interrupts.
    “Then why does the fucking obit say a thief stole his valuables?!”
    He stares at the ceiling for a moment, deciding. “That was a cover.”

    “A cover?!” I exclaim, jumping to my feet. “A cover for what?”
    “For what was actually stolen.”
    “What is this, some sort of guessing game? Come on, goddammit, what was stolen?”
    “I don’t know,” he replies, averting his eyes.
    “You’re insulting my intelligence, Sergei, not to mention your own. If the kid was with her, he knows what was missing.”
    His head bobs sheepishly, then with a sigh, he concedes, “You’re right. Shevchenko asked us to withhold it. You know, to weed out the nuts who always confess to these things.”
    “You can tell me, for Chrissakes.”
    “Right now, I wouldn’t trust you with the time of day. Besides, I told you, I’ve no interest in street crime. I ran the obit, and I’m done with it. You’ll have to talk to Shevchenko.”
    “Oh, I plan to, but I’m talking to you now. We had an agreement, Sergei. It’s my story, and—”
    “No. No, Nikolai. We didn’t run your story. The kid dug out the facts, it fell apart, and I spiked it.”
    “You should’ve consulted me.”
    “I didn’t think you’d want your by-line on an obit.”
    “Depends on whose it is.”
    “That a threat?”
    “Take it any way you want.”
    He stares at me, hands on hips, then shakes his head in dismay. “You don’t know when someone’s trying to do you a favor.”
    “I know when I’m being screwed.”
    “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
    “You should be.”
    I charge out of the office loaded for bear—a bear named Shevchenko. Militia Headquarters is less than a