Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“She’s dead,” I reply blandly. “Fortuitously found out she had a little drug habit. Watched her score some heroin in a bar one night. Decided to make it look like an overdose as I figured that would draw the least amount of heat from the cops. No one cares if an addict dies, right?”
Anatoly’s eyes gleam with excitement, and I want to fucking pluck them out of his head. I pull my phone out, tap the screen, and hand it over to him. His gaze drops to the two photos I’d selected of Bebe, who looks deader than a doornail on my couch with that fake needle hanging out of her arm.
He stares hard at the picture, but not with doubt or horror. There is pure delight on his face.
God, I hate this fucker.
Finally, he meets my eyes and demands, “Tell me the details.”
I expected this, so I recount a grisly story I’d come up with. It was overly dramatic and full of sadistic details, including how I watched her take her last breath, and Bogachev eats it up like a rich, creamy dessert.
“And you’re sure there’s no blowback on you?” he asks, cutting his gaze down to my phone one last time to take a long look.
“Totally clean,” I assure him.
He hands my phone back, ordering, “Destroy those photos.”
“Understood.”
“You can return to regular duties tomorrow,” he says with a magnanimous wave of his hand. “Take the rest of the day off.”
“Appreciate it,” I say dryly. “But there’s another potential problem.”
Bogachev’s eyes narrow. “What’s that?”
“I searched her house. She lived there alone but was clearly still in close contact with her mom and son. There were pictures of them all over, drawings from her kid on the fridge. I found some cards he’d sent with a California address, but it’s a P.O. box.”
He sits up straighter, eyes darkening as he listens.
“You’ve eliminated this woman,” I explain in a neutral manner. “I don’t know what your beef was with her, but you’d asked me about a kid before. I’m assuming he might be a worry to you. If you suspect she might have divulged anything to the kid or mother, you could have a problem.”
The lines in Bogachev’s forehead furrow deeply as he ponders this. He sits back in his chair, clasps his hands behind his head, and stares at the ceiling.
Finally, he levels his gaze on me. “Go take care of it for me.”
And just like that, he’s ordered me to go murder a kid and his grandmother. While I know the feds want details on the cybercrimes I’m investigating, I’m sure hoping there are some conspiracy-to-commit-murder charges lumped in when this is all said and done.
I rise from the chair, then turn toward the door.
“Stoltz,” he calls. I glance back with my hand on the doorknob. “You take care of this, and you’ll have a nice bonus coming your way next paycheck.”
I give him a curt nod in silent gratitude. He expects nothing more.
After exiting his office, I wait until Karl walks back in and shuts the door. I scan the hall to the living room, considering my next move. There are no electronics in there that I could plug Bebe’s USB device into. The kitchen has a TV, but his personal chef will be making use of the space to prepare his lunch as well as his evening meal. Anatoly is obsessive about food, and he keeps a pricey full-time chef on staff at all times. Of course, he’s obsessive about his physique too, and because of all that good food, he keeps a personal trainer on full-time retainer as well.
Glancing back to his office, I consider the habits of the man I’ve come to know well over the last two years. He eats precisely at one. He’ll do so in the kitchen, unless he has plans out of the apartment, which is not rare, but it’s not common either. While he eats, he’ll lock his office. Whoever is on duty with him today—which would be Karl—is expected to eat in the kitchen as well, and they are always provided a plate by the chef.
I glance at my watch. It’s twenty minutes past twelve, which means I should theoretically have time to plant this device somewhere else in this apartment. There’s no guarantee Anatoly will stay in his office. He could have another meeting scheduled or even decide to go out for lunch.
On top of that, he has internal cameras everywhere, but he does not have someone actively watch the feeds. They are there—like any typical security system—to identify intruders after the fact. There’s no need to watch what goes on inside his apartment during the day because Anatoly would never expect one of his faithful lackeys to be disloyal in any way.
Fuck it.
It’s now or never. I need to give Bebe the best chance possible to dig into his computers.