Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (4 page)

Nancy Keltto looked out the back door of the small house. Edward. Sweet Eddy. He’d probably shoveled snow and ice for half the neighborhood. He was obsessed with being the nicest person in the world. It drove her crazy sometimes. Okay, it drove her crazy all the time. Is it possible for a person to be too nice? And not just for public
consumption. He treated her like a queen. He deserves better than me, she thought.

She ground the coffee beans and poured them in the triangular brown filter she had ready. The water was already added to the Mr. Coffee machine. She hit the button and listened to the first gurgle of water working its way through the system.

She put the sliced bagel halves in the toaster. Should I start Eddy’s?

She had on a bathrobe and slippers but was still cold. Ed lowered the house temperature to the low sixties when they went to bed. Mr. Green. He was going to save the whole world.

She took another sip of coffee and walked back to look through one of the windowpanes on the back door. It was still dark. What had Ed left by the garage? And why did he leave the side door open? He never leaves anything out or open.

She felt a twist of nerves in her stomach. Today was the day. The papers were prepared. The Cook County Sherriff’s office was to deliver them to him after school let out.

How many times in our marriage have I put this moment off? But now is different. I’ve found someone who makes me feel alive. Is it wrong to want to be madly in love—something Eddy and I never had?

He says he can’t live another day without me.

But how can I do this to Eddy?

I’m a horrible person.

5

“CAN YOU GIVE me a hand?” the silvery white-haired man croaked out, he hoped to a savior.

No answer came.

“Who’s there? I need some help.” Frank Nelson knew he was speaking words, but was not sure whether they were making any sound. If they were, why wouldn’t someone answer? Am I hallucinating? Don’t people hallucinate just before they freeze to death?

Hail Mary, full of grace . . . when was the last time he had prayed that? Too long. As soon as he got out of the hospital he would go to mass and thank God for not punching his ticket yet. And make his confession. That was going to take some time. He had fast-talked his way out of jams his entire life. Was it possible to fast-talk God?

He heard slow, heavy, crunching footsteps circle around him. He heard a low guttural voice say something, but couldn’t make out the words.

“Can you help me?” he tried again.

“
Nyet
,” was the answer, which he heard clearly this time. Russian? He felt a hand on his shoulder. And then a push that toppled him on his back. Every fiber of his being screamed in agony.

He opened his eyes and tried to focus but it was dark and his vision was blurred from the fall. I probably have a concussion. He squinted and made out a shape with two eyes peering at him. His head cleared a little. He was looking in the curious eyes of a big man. A mountain of a man. Maybe the man would lift him and carry him to warmth and help. But why did he just flip me on my back?

“You are not doing well, my friend,” the man said to him.

He called me friend. That’s good. He’ll help me. Nelson fought hard in his mind to keep tethered to reality in face of the pain and
bitter cold. He kept feeling like he was slipping away. You grew up in Brooklyn—even if it was in Cleveland, Ohio. You are tough. Keep fighting.

But the man just stood there pondering him.

“Can you help me?” he asked again, desperation rising in his voice and mind.

“Don’t talk. You only make things harder. I am having a think. I can’t think when you talk.”

What was there to think about? Couldn’t the idiot see he needed help? He hoped he didn’t say that out loud.

The shaggy man’s eyes narrowed and he nodded as if he had come to a decision.

Thank God, Sasquatch is going to save me. Nelson tried to smile in gratitude.

The man knelt down to him and began to push him halfway to one side, sending new waves of pain up and down his mangled leg. The man slowly patted down his pockets on that side. What is he doing? Is this what it feels like to be tortured? Nelson was beyond trying to scream. I’m slipping.

He was pushed roughly the other way. Oh, Mary, Mother of Jesus. That brought him back to a full awareness of his misery.

The man mountain grunted when he felt the lump of a wallet that was in Nelson’s left jacket pocket. He pulled up hard on the left side of the outer jacket and three buttons popped. He reached inside and lifted out the black calfskin billfold.

“Take the money,” Nelson gurgled. “Just save me. I’ll give you more. Anything you want.”

There must be a couple thousand dollars cash in there. Enough to satisfy a petty thief. And credit cards. He could have them too. But there was a long set of numbers written down that he desperately needed—and that no one else could see. He and Justine’s future depended on it. I have to stay alive.

“You should not have come out it in the cold. You should not have set eyes on me. You make it impossible for me to follow my orders.”

Orders? Why was the man saying that? I didn’t see you, Nelson wanted to say, but the effort was too great and he had just enough awareness to know he was fading into shock. Too cold; too much pain. He could feel whatever fight he had left in him evaporating into the frigid New York City air. Who is idiotic enough to enter Central Park when it’s zero Fahrenheit outside?

He relaxed. Not good. That’s what happens before you die. You get comfortable. Don’t let Jack London be right. Keep fighting. But Nelson wasn’t sure he meant it.

If he could have raised his head he would have seen the man make a lightning quick violent movement of his arm in a sideward trajectory, a finely honed blade of metal comfortably held in his hand. The sight would have struck terror in Frank Nelson’s heart. He was too delirious to see or hear anything. The sixty-three-year-old CEO of PathoGen, a biotech company he had founded in Redwood Shores, California, had his throat slashed at 4:10 a.m.

The huge man wiped the sides of the blade of his
pika
against the man’s outer coat. He pushed the button on the switchblade and folded the blade into the ivory handle and put it back in his pocket.

I’ve got to be getting close to the Columbus Circle entrance. At least my legs have warmed up some and my body is still comfortable. Don’t think about your fingers and toes. Definitely don’t think about your face. I can barely feel my extremities. It’s going to hurt so bad all over again when I thaw out. I think Klarissa and the bellman were right. Only an idiot goes running in Central Park in zero degree weather.

I’m whining. Stop it!

Medved stuffed the dying man’s wallet into the side pocket of his parka. He looked down. The man’s face contorted in a desperate effort to get air. His body began to spasm. What the . . . how was he still alive? Medved thought he should put him out of his misery. But it was too much effort to pull out the
pika
again. His fingers were freezing. And the white-haired man would be dead in a minute or less anyway. He pushed him into a small cropping of bushes, looking around to make sure there were no witnesses.

No one was going to discover the body for another hour or two even if he left it in the middle of the path, he thought. But better to be driving, or better yet, asleep, in his hell-hole of an apartment in Coney Island—with Ilsa, purring like a kitty cat next to him—when the investigation started.

Then he realized again, a police investigation was the least of his worries. I have to think this through carefully. Why did I drink two bottles of vodka? All my problems start with vodka. I already have problems with thinking and the vodka makes it worse.

Pasha wanted Medved to bring the man to a small warehouse he owned in Queens. No one was to know what he was doing. He himself was to forget what he had done and about the existence of the warehouse once he made the delivery. Pasha didn’t care how rough he had to get to put the man in the cab and keep him there, but he was to make sure he was alive and able to answer questions. At the end of the call Pasha asked if he had been drinking. Medved told him no, he had been driving all evening. Not a total lie. He left out the drinking but it was true, he had been driving.

This was no good. Pasha would not be happy with what had just happened. He would know he had been drinking.

I guess I could have just carried him to the cab, but then I would have had to explain why I wasn’t waiting for him outside the Dexter Arms and Pasha would fly into one of his rages. With the way he fell, the man might have died anyway.

Think. Think. All I have to do is tell Pasha the man ran and he had a weapon, so I had to kill him. Would Pasha be satisfied with that answer? Probably not. Pasha doesn’t like excuses, but he hates weakness even more. It would sound like I was afraid of an old man half my size. And this man doesn’t look like the kind of guy who carries a weapon.

I shouldn’t have killed him. I could have told Pasha that the man ran and got hurt when I chased him. But who is to say the man would have backed my story if he didn’t end up dying? Calling Medved a liar might not have helped the man save his own skin, but if he let Pasha know I wasn’t in place when I was supposed to be, I would have still been screwed.

I used to know what to do. I could have moved up and become a
boyevik
with my own gang. Life in the
bratva
has passed me by. Driving a cab makes me happier.

Medved looked down at the broken body. Red bubbles continued to form at the man’s mouth. He stifled a smile. How is he still alive?

Medved’s plan after he picked up the man in his cab in front of the Dexter was to jam on the brakes hard at an intersection on 57th past the Plaza Hotel. The man’s head would slam into the metal and acrylic divider between front and back seats. He had thought enough ahead to stuff the seatbelts in between cushions so the man wouldn’t be braced. Then, quick as a cat, before the man’s mind cleared, Medved would put him face down on the back seat, cuff him with plastic ties, and put a bag over his head. This should have been very simple.

Maybe I’m not quick as a cat, but I surprise people with my speed. Like a bear. And bears are a lot faster than people know. Medved’s real name was Nazar. Medved was his
klichka
, his nickname, the Russian word for bear, after all. Most just called him Med. He went by Nazar at home because it was what his mother had called him. But once you are given a
klichka
and it seemed to fit, it usually stuck. Med. The Bear.

But he lost his nerve when the man looked him in the face. That was not supposed to happen. If he hadn’t had to urinate so badly—and
if he hadn’t sipped too much vodka—the man would have opened the back door, hopped in the back seat, and Med would have driven off. He had removed the license with his picture on it, even though it didn’t look much like him anymore. All the man could have done was describe the back of his head. But back in the park they had looked in each other’s eyes. The man had seen his size. It would not be hard to describe Med—the Bear—to police. That changed everything.

Med had been to prison back in Russia—Butryka in Moscow— and for a short time in the relative comfort of Riker’s Island in New York before getting cut loose on a technicality—namely the only witness in his murder charges had gone missing. He was still given parole based on an earlier plea where he promised to avoid all appearances of evil. Parole was fine. Incarceration wasn’t. A bear wasn’t meant to be kept in a cage. He didn’t plan to go back. No more
sidet
for him.

Maybe Pasha was going to kill the man after he was finished questioning him and it didn’t matter that he saw his face. But what if he wasn’t planning to kill him?

Nobody tells me anything. They take one look at my size and assume I’m stupid. That’s a prejudice nobody talks about. But maybe they are right. The vodka doesn’t help.

Pasha is cunning. Who was to say he wasn’t planning to set me up the whole time? It is easy to let the Bear take the fall. Or maybe the plan was for me to be dead no matter what. This is too confusing.

Med thought of the empty bottle underneath his front seat. He wished there was just a sip left to clear his thoughts.

Medved looked down at the dying man one last time. He felt no compassion or remorse. Maybe a twinge of admiration that the guy was still fighting to breathe. He did note with amusement that the blood below his knife stroke was freezing into the shape of a smile on his throat. Life’s too short not to smile. He smiled at his own cleverness.

The Bear started up the path, chuckling at the thought of the man’s theatrical fall. He had looked like the circus clown who slips on
a banana peel. No one thinks how bad a fall like that must really hurt, he thought. The whole family squeals in delight.