Lost

Emerging from the prison, I get a sudden, stultifying sense of déjà vu. A black BMW pulls up suddenly, the door opens and Aleksei Kuznet steps onto the pavement. His hair is dark and wet, clinging to his scalp as though glued there.

How did he know I was here?

A bodyguard appears behind him, the sort of paid thug who bulks up in prison weight rooms and settles arguments with a tire iron. He has Slavic features and walks with his left arm swinging less freely than his right because of the gun beneath his armpit.

“DI Ruiz, are you visiting a friend?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

Ali is out of the car and running toward me. The Russian reaches inside his coat and for a moment I have visions of all hell breaking loose. Aleksei flashes a look and the situation defuses. Hands are withdrawn and coats are buttoned.

Ali's aggressive demeanor amuses Aleksei and he spends a moment examining her face and figure. Then he tells her to run along because he doesn't need cookies today.

Ali glances at me, waiting for a signal. “Stretch your legs. I won't be long.”

She doesn't go far, just to the other side of the square, where she turns and watches.

“Forgive me,” Aleksei says, “I didn't mean to insult your young friend.”

“She's a police officer.”

“Really! They take all colors nowadays. Has your memory returned?”

“No.”

“How unfortunate.”

His eyes rove over mine with an aloof curiosity. He doesn't believe me. He glances around the square.

“Do you know that nowadays there is a digital shotgun microphone that can pick up a conversation in a park or a restaurant from more than a thousand feet away?”

“The Met isn't that sophisticated.”

“Maybe not.”

“I'm not trying to trap you, Aleksei. Nobody is listening. I honestly can't remember what happened.”

“It is very simple—I gave you 965 one-carat or above, superior-quality diamonds. You promised to pick up my daughter. I made myself perfectly clear—I don't pay for things twice.”

His phone is ringing. Reaching into his jacket, he pulls out a sleek cell phone, smaller than a cigarette box, and reads the text message.

“I am a gadget geek, Inspector,” he explains. “Someone stole my phone recently. Of course, I reported it to the police. I also called the thief and told him what I would do to him.”

“Did he return your property?”

“It makes no difference. He was very apologetic when I saw him last. He couldn't actually tell me this in his own words. His vocal cords had burned off. People should mark acid bottles more carefully.”

Aleksei's eyes ghost across the cobblestones. “You took my diamonds. You were going to keep my investment safe.”

I think of my overcoat on the seat of Ali's car. If only he knew!

“Is Mickey still alive?”

“You tell me!”

“If there was a ransom demand, there must have been proof of life.”

“They sent strands of hair. You organized the DNA tests. The hair belonged to Mickey.”

“That doesn't prove she's alive. The hair could have come from a hairbrush or a pillow; it could have been collected three years ago. It could have been a hoax.”

“Yes, Inspector, but you were sure. You staked your life on it.”

I don't like the way he says “life.” He makes it sound like a worthless wager. Panic spikes in my chest.

“Why did you believe me?”

He blinks at me coldly. “Tell me what choice I had.”

Suddenly, I recognize his dilemma. Whether Mickey was alive or dead made no difference—Aleksei had to provide the ransom. It was about saving face and grasping at straws. Imagine a one-in-a-thousand chance of getting her back. He couldn't ignore it. How would it look? What would people say? A father is supposed to cling to impossible dreams. He must keep his children safe and bring them home.

Maybe it's this knowledge but I feel a sudden rush of tenderness toward Aleksei. Almost as quickly I remember the attack at the hospital.

“Somebody tried to kill me yesterday.”

“Well, well.” He makes a little church with his fingers. “Perhaps you took something from them.”

It's not an admission.

“We can discuss this.”

“Like gentlemen?” He's teasing me now. “You have an accent.”

“No, I was born here.”

“Maybe so, but you still have an accent.”

He takes a long thin paper tube of sugar from his pocket and tears it open.

“My mother is German.”

He nods and pours the sugar on his tongue. “Zigeuner?” It's the German word for Gypsy. “My father used to say Gypsies were the eighth plague of Egypt.”

The insult is delivered without any sense of malice.

“Do you have children, Detective?”

“Twins.”

“How old are they?”

“Twenty-six.”

“You see much of them?”

“Not anymore.”

“Maybe you forget how it feels. I am thirty-six now. I have done things I am not particularly proud of but I can live with that. I sleep like a baby. But let me tell you—I don't care how much someone has in the bank, until they have a child they have nothing of value. Nothing!”

He scratches at the scar on his cheek. “My wife turned against me a long time ago but Michaela was always going to be half mine . . . half of me. She was going to grow up and make up her own mind. She was going to forgive me.”