Chapter 3 - FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS AND A PASSPORT
Nikolai returned to The Argent shortly after eleven.
Elena was standing beside the fireplace when he entered.
She held out her phone.
"Did you know my father?"
He didn't pretend not to understand.
"Yes."
Her chest tightened.
"Was he your friend?"
"No."
"Your employee?"
"Not directly."
"Then what was he?"
Nikolai looked at the photograph.
"A structural engineer."
"I know what he did for a living."
"He was hired to inspect a property one of my companies intended to purchase."
"The property where he died?"
"Yes."
Elena stepped backward.
"Did you know the building was unsafe?"
"No."
"Did you know he was going to die?"
Nikolai's expression hardened.
"Absolutely not."
She wanted to believe him.
That frightened her.
She had spent three years believing Julian whenever he lowered his voice and sounded reasonable.
"Why didn't you tell me who you were?"
"I didn't know your name until tonight."
"You're lying."
"I knew your father's name. I didn't know his daughter."
Elena studied him.
"Then why does Julian have that photograph?"
"I intend to find out."
"No."
Her voice surprised both of them.
"You don't get to make this another secret men discuss without me."
Nikolai became silent.
Then nodded.
"You're right."
Elena hadn't expected that.
"Am I?"
"Yes."
He gestured toward the sofa.
"Sit down if you want. I'll tell you what I know."
She remained standing.
He didn't object.
Eleven years earlier, Arthur Ashford had been hired to inspect a condemned apartment building in Queens.
The property was part of a redevelopment project involving several contractors.
One belonged to Nikolai.
Arthur discovered irregularities in the structural reports.
He claimed somebody had falsified inspection documents.
Three days later, he fell from an unfinished stairwell.
The death was ruled accidental.
"Did you investigate?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"The police found no evidence of criminal conduct."
"That wasn't my question."
Nikolai looked at her.
"No. It wasn't."
He hesitated.
"My investigator found a missing safety report. We never recovered it."
Elena's hands went cold.
"Why didn't you tell my mother?"
"Because my lawyers advised me not to interfere with an active investigation."
"And you listened."
"Yes."
"Convenient."
His face changed.
"Yes," he said quietly. "It was."
***
At midnight, Elena left The Argent with a victim-services advocate.
Nikolai offered a car.
She declined.
He accepted it.
Before she left, he handed her a business card.
Not his personal number.
The contact information for an independent attorney who specialized in workplace deaths and financial fraud.
"You don't owe me anything," he said.
Elena looked at him.
"People keep saying that tonight."
"Maybe you haven't heard it enough."
She put the card away.
The temporary accommodation was modest.
One bedroom.
Clean sheets.
A bathroom with a lock.
Elena stood in the doorway for several minutes.
Nobody was waiting to inspect her expression.
Nobody asked why she was late.
Nobody demanded her phone.
She cried in the shower.
Then slept for four hours.
At six the next morning, she called the Connecticut realtor.
"Has anyone entered my mother's house?"
The woman hesitated.
"Ms. Ashford, your boyfriend called yesterday."
Elena closed her eyes.
"What did he want?"
"He said you authorized him to collect some documents."
"I didn't."
Silence.
"Did you let him in?"
"He had the lockbox code."
Elena gripped the telephone.
"What documents?"
"He didn't say."
After hanging up, she called the local police.
Then she called the attorney Nikolai had recommended.
Not because she trusted Nikolai.
Because she was beginning to understand that the safest way to investigate a dangerous man was to create a record he couldn't control.
By noon, Elena had reported Julian's threat, requested help documenting her injuries, and arranged to change the locks on her mother's house.
At two, the realtor called again.
"Elena, there's something you should know."
"What?"
"Julian didn't take anything."
Elena frowned.
"How do you know?"
"Because he left something."
"What?"
"A photograph."
Elena's stomach tightened.
"Of my father?"
"No."
The realtor's voice trembled.
May you like
"Of you. Sleeping."
---
