matching hassock. She just dropped down into its depths, as if her legs had given out from under her. Tears were gushing out big–time now, streaming down both pale cheeks, but she made no sounds of grief or horror or despair, as if she had learned long ago how to weep in complete and total silence. Creeeepy, you betcha.
Still, Claire could see that the absolute grief overwhelming the other woman was quite real, which made her slightly unsure on how to proceed with the interview. She also sensed something very peculiar was going on inside that spacious and frigid-cold-looking mansion atop the hill. “Again, let me say that I’m so sorry about your husband, Mrs. Parker.”
Claire gave the poor lady a few moments to compose herself. Claire needed a few more moments herself. She took a deep breath, thrown for quite a loop, which was not something that happened every day, or ever. She considered Blythe, who had become calm now and had turned her head to stare out the windows at the sky, which was now dark with snow-threatening gunmetal clouds lining the horizon like layers of gray agate. Blythe had not asked her what happened, as if she already knew. But what did she think? What the hell was going on? She hated to be intrusive, but the woman did not speak again, but sat silently, looking all heartbroken and collapsed in upon herself, like a whipped puppy or a flopped soufflé. It was hard to watch. Claire and Bud exchanged a significant glance. Said glance told her that Bud was not going to say a word, not on a bet. So neither did Claire.
Complete quiet reigned for almost five minutes, which seemed more like five hours. Then Blythe Parker spoke up, her eyes never leaving the windows. “I knew they’d kill him. Sooner or later.”
Okay, a remark like that was always interesting, especially to two hard-nosed homicide detectives who had found a dead body beaten to a pulp with lots of bones protruding through the skin. “I guess we’re gonna have to know exactly who you’re talking about, Mrs. Parker.”
“My ex-husband’s people. I guess he finally got to him.”
Bud and Claire stared at her. A very bad feeling began to take shape inside Claire’s gut, sorta like the first twinge of nausea that heralded a horrendous three-day stomach flu. Things were sliding downhill very fast and very hard. She had to ask a lot more questions of this very white lady, all of which were going to complicate their case, but she had to do it.
“Forgive me, but are you accusing someone of murder, Mrs. Parker?”
Somehow that was the question that brought the woman out of her funk, and she turned back to them, dried her wet cheeks with the backs of both hands, and became all business, and real quickly, too, as if her five minutes of grief were enough, already. Weird lady, no doubt about it.
“Yes, I am. That’s exactly what I’m doing. They did it. I know they did. They have threatened to do it, over and over and over, ever since I left him and came out here.”
“And he is?”
“Ivan Petrov. I suspect you’ve heard of him.”
Oh, terrific, and damn it to hell, too. Claire had heard of Ivan Petrov, all right. He was the purported godfather of the East St. Louis mob, and the defendant in many a deadly criminal case, which happened more often than not. Whatever followed now was going to be sticky and complicated and dangerous, all right. “Are you sure you want to accuse him of murder, ma’am?”
“It wasn’t just murder. It was an execution. Ivan ordered it done. You can bet on that. He wouldn’t dirty his own hands, but he was behind it. He just wants to drag me back there into that filthy hellhole he calls a compound.”
Holy crap. Doubled. Maybe even tripled. Claire tried to remember everything she had heard about Petrov. She had heard the name lots of times before but not much else about the man. Just that he was known for slitting throats from ear to ear on anybody who crossed him. Word was he did it himself to
Still, Claire could see that the absolute grief overwhelming the other woman was quite real, which made her slightly unsure on how to proceed with the interview. She also sensed something very peculiar was going on inside that spacious and frigid-cold-looking mansion atop the hill. “Again, let me say that I’m so sorry about your husband, Mrs. Parker.”
Claire gave the poor lady a few moments to compose herself. Claire needed a few more moments herself. She took a deep breath, thrown for quite a loop, which was not something that happened every day, or ever. She considered Blythe, who had become calm now and had turned her head to stare out the windows at the sky, which was now dark with snow-threatening gunmetal clouds lining the horizon like layers of gray agate. Blythe had not asked her what happened, as if she already knew. But what did she think? What the hell was going on? She hated to be intrusive, but the woman did not speak again, but sat silently, looking all heartbroken and collapsed in upon herself, like a whipped puppy or a flopped soufflé. It was hard to watch. Claire and Bud exchanged a significant glance. Said glance told her that Bud was not going to say a word, not on a bet. So neither did Claire.
Complete quiet reigned for almost five minutes, which seemed more like five hours. Then Blythe Parker spoke up, her eyes never leaving the windows. “I knew they’d kill him. Sooner or later.”
Okay, a remark like that was always interesting, especially to two hard-nosed homicide detectives who had found a dead body beaten to a pulp with lots of bones protruding through the skin. “I guess we’re gonna have to know exactly who you’re talking about, Mrs. Parker.”
“My ex-husband’s people. I guess he finally got to him.”
Bud and Claire stared at her. A very bad feeling began to take shape inside Claire’s gut, sorta like the first twinge of nausea that heralded a horrendous three-day stomach flu. Things were sliding downhill very fast and very hard. She had to ask a lot more questions of this very white lady, all of which were going to complicate their case, but she had to do it.
“Forgive me, but are you accusing someone of murder, Mrs. Parker?”
Somehow that was the question that brought the woman out of her funk, and she turned back to them, dried her wet cheeks with the backs of both hands, and became all business, and real quickly, too, as if her five minutes of grief were enough, already. Weird lady, no doubt about it.
“Yes, I am. That’s exactly what I’m doing. They did it. I know they did. They have threatened to do it, over and over and over, ever since I left him and came out here.”
“And he is?”
“Ivan Petrov. I suspect you’ve heard of him.”
Oh, terrific, and damn it to hell, too. Claire had heard of Ivan Petrov, all right. He was the purported godfather of the East St. Louis mob, and the defendant in many a deadly criminal case, which happened more often than not. Whatever followed now was going to be sticky and complicated and dangerous, all right. “Are you sure you want to accuse him of murder, ma’am?”
“It wasn’t just murder. It was an execution. Ivan ordered it done. You can bet on that. He wouldn’t dirty his own hands, but he was behind it. He just wants to drag me back there into that filthy hellhole he calls a compound.”
Holy crap. Doubled. Maybe even tripled. Claire tried to remember everything she had heard about Petrov. She had heard the name lots of times before but not much else about the man. Just that he was known for slitting throats from ear to ear on anybody who crossed him. Word was he did it himself to
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