“Can we come in, Miss Tramell?” Graves asked in a tone that made the question a demand. She’d tied her curly brown hair back and wore a jacket to cover her holstered gun. There was a satchel in her hand.
“Sure.” I pulled the door open wider. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”
“Water would be great,” Michna said.
I led them to the kitchen and pulled bottled water out of the fridge. The detectives waited at the breakfast bar—Graves with her eyes pinned to me while Michna scoped out his surroundings.
“You just get home from work?” he asked.
I figured they knew the answer, but replied anyway. “A few minutes ago. Would you like to sit in the living room?”
“Here’s good,” Graves said in her no-nonsense way, putting the worn leather satchel on the counter. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind. And show you some photos.”
I stilled. Could I bear to see any of the photos Nathan had taken of me? For a wild moment, I thought they might be pictures taken at the death scene or even autopsy shots. But I knew that was highly unlikely. “What’s this about?”
“Some new information has come to light that could be related to Nathan Barker’s death,” Michna said. “We’re pursuing all leads, and you may be able to help.”
I took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m happy to try, of course. But I don’t see how I can.”
“Are you familiar with Andrei Yedemsky?” Graves asked.
I frowned at her. “No. Who’s that?”
She dug in her bag and pulled out a sheaf of eight-by-ten photos, setting them down in front of me. “This man. Have you seen him before?”
Reaching out with shaking fingers, I pulled the top photo toward me. It was of a man in a trench coat, talking to another man about to climb into the back of a waiting town car. He was attractive, with extremely blond hair and tanned skin. “No. He’s not someone you’d forget meeting, either.” I looked up at her. “Should I know him?”
“He had pictures of you in his home. Candid shots of you on the street, coming and going. Barker had the same photos.”
“I don’t understand. How did he get them?”
“Presumably from Barker,” Michna said.
“Is that what this Yedemsky guy said? Why would Nathan give him pictures of me?”
“Yedemsky didn’t say anything,” Graves said. “He’s dead. Murdered.”
I felt a headache coming on. “I don’t understand. I don’t know anything about this man, and I have no idea why he’d know anything about me.”
“Andrei Yedemsky is a known member of the Russian mob,” Michna explained. “In addition to smuggling alcohol and assault weapons, they’ve also been suspected of trafficking women. It’s possible Barker was making arrangements to sell or trade you for that purpose.”
I backed away from the counter, shaking my head, unable to process what they were saying. Nathan stalking me was something I could believe. He’d hated me on sight, hated that his father had remarried instead of mourning his mother forever. He’d hated me for getting him locked up in psychiatric treatment, and my being awarded the five-million-dollar settlement he thought of as his inheritance. But the Russian mob? Sex trafficking? I couldn’t comprehend that at all.
Graves flipped through the photos until she came to one of a platinum sapphire bracelet. An L-square ruler framed it—unmistakably a forensics shot. “Do you recognize this?”
“Yes. That belonged to Nathan’s mother. He had it altered to fit him. He never went anywhere without it.”
“Yedemsky was wearing it when he died,” she said without inflection. “Possibly as a souvenir.”
“Of what?”
“Of Barker’s murder.”
I stared at Graves, who knew better. “You’re suggesting Yedemsky could be responsible for Nathan’s death? Then who killed Yedemsky?”
She held my gaze, understanding the motivation behind my question. “He was taken out by his own people.”
“You’re sure about that?” I needed to know that they knew Gideon wasn’t involved. Yes, he’d killed for me—to protect me—but he’d never kill just to avoid going to jail.
Michna frowned at my query. It was Graves who replied. “There’s no doubt. We have the hit on surveillance footage. One of his associates didn’t take too kindly to Yedemsky sleeping with his underage daughter.”
Hope surged, followed by chilling fear. “So what happens now? What does this mean?”
“Do you know anyone who has connections to the Russian mob?” Michna asked.
“God, no,” I said vehemently. “That’s … another world. I’m having trouble believing Nathan had any connections. But then it’s been years since I knew him …”
I rubbed at the tightness in my chest and looked at Graves. “I want to put this behind me. I want him to stop ruining my life. Is that ever going to happen? Is he going to haunt me even after he’s dead?”
She quickly and efficiently collected the photos, her face impassive. “We’ve done all we can. Where you go from here is up to you.”
I showed up at CrossTrainer at quarter after six. I went because I’d told Megumi I would and I’d already flaked on her once. I also felt a tremendous restlessness, an urge to move that I had to exhaust before it drove me insane. I’d sent a text to Gideon as soon as the detectives left, telling him I needed to see him later, but I hadn’t heard back by the time I’d put my purse in a locker.
Like all things Gideon, CrossTrainer was impressive in both size and amenities. The three-story club—one of hundreds around the country—had everything a fitness enthusiast could want, as well as spa services and a smoothie bar.
Megumi was slightly overwhelmed and needed help with some of the high-tech machinery, so she was taking advantage of the trainer-supervised workout for new members and guests. I got on a treadmill. I started out at a brisk walk, warming up, and then eventually progressed to a run. Once I hit my stride, I let my thoughts run, too.
Was it possible that Gideon and I were free to pick up the pieces of our lives and move on? How? Why? My mind raced with questions that I needed to ask Gideon—with the hope that he was as clueless as I was. He couldn’t be involved in Yedemsky’s death. I wouldn’t believe he was.
I ran until my thighs and calves burned, until sweat ran down my body in steady streams and my lungs ached with the effort of breathing.
It was Megumi who finally got me to stop, waving her hand in my line of sight as she moved in front of my treadmill. “I am so totally impressed right now. You’re a machine.”
I slowed my pace to a jog, then a walk, before stopping altogether. Grabbing my towel and water bottle, I stepped off, feeling the effects of pushing myself too long and hard.
“I hate running,” I confessed, still panting. “How’d your workout go?”
Megumi looked chic even in gym clothes. Her chartreuse racerback tank had bright blue threading that matched her spandex leggings. The ensemble was summer-bright and stylish.
She bumped shoulders with me. “You make me feel like an underachiever. I just did a circuit and checked out the hot guys. The trainer I worked with was good, but I wish I’d gotten that guy instead.”