No Law (Law #3) (3 page)

Her voice was raspy as she held back the tears that threatened to escape. “I changed my name from Thomas back to Madigan for the opposite reason, Detective. I wanted to make my way in the world on my own merit, not someone else’s.”

And her work had been brilliant. She had been taught by the best, and since then had remained busy, travelling across the world, never staying in one place too long. Slowing down meant time to think and dwell.

A sharp pain jerked in her chest, surprising her that the old wound still hurt. She’d been called a murderer before, by people who hadn’t been privy to the true circumstances of Alan’s death. Had anyone been in the room with her in that final hour, they would never accuse her of such a thing. Those moments left a deep and painful scar inside her that she would never forget.

Alan had been her art history professor in college and she had immediately fallen for the well-travelled, well-schooled man. He had a spark that had intrigued and enticed her. Alan had seen her potential and had taken her under his wing. The first time they had made love was the night of her graduation and they had married a few months later, when Alan took a position overseas. She had been shocked and enraged to learn that he had so easily allowed the mafiya to intimidate him but had forgiven him knowing he had done it all for her. He loved her and had died protecting her.

“Yet you can’t deny you might never have succeeded if your husband was still alive.”

“My life would’ve certainly taken a different turn, but I cannot say in which way. I did what I could in the circumstances but I would rather my husband have lived.”

Detective Harrington continued to study her as if gauging her sincerity.

“It is also a matter of public record that the man who killed my husband was found,” she added, as a last nail in the coffin to disprove his theory.

The man had been found floating face down in the Moska river but he had been identified as one of the men who had tortured Alan to death. There had been no trial and no one would be brought to justice. It had been a fact hard to accept.

He leaned closer. “Tell me, how are you still alive? It wouldn’t be hard to track you down in your profession, the woman who told the authorities?”

She squirmed in her seat at his line of questioning. It had been a question she had often asked herself. She didn’t fool herself into believing it was because she was smarter. If they wanted her to be found she doubted there would be a force on earth that could stop them from locating her and taking her out. She often looked behind her, wondering if she would see them there. She’d changed her name back to Madigan straight after Alan’s funeral but that was more to distance herself from the event and not to trade on the Thomas name. She had also taken precautions, moving every few months so it would make her harder to track should the Bratva come looking. Not that they had.

She’d only recently in the past few years stopped moving after she had come to Hamilton’s, a place she felt at home, but could be gone again in a matter of hours. Something she didn’t mention to the detective, because it might make her look guiltier. If such a thing was possible.

“I guess I was worth more trouble dead than alive,” she replied with a shudder.

The detective pondered that but she could see doubt on his face.

“You know the Bratva doesn’t do favors,” she told him. She had the contacts, had the link to the Russian Mob. He had a dead curator at the hands of a Russian enforcer—at least by her own admission. She didn’t like how he was connecting the dots.

His gaze assessed her sharply, his expression revealing he had underestimated her and not in a good way. “Not unless they got something out of the deal.”

She’d had enough. “Any more questions, Detective, and you can ask my lawyer. I’m done cooperating.” She was not about to let him railroad her without a fight. “Now, unless you’re going to arrest me, I’d like to go home.”

And try to forget this night ever happened.

Standing, she grabbed her purse, and stared down at him, waiting for him to make a move. When he didn’t say anything, she started walking away.

“Just one more thing, Ms. Madigan,” Detective Harrington called out.

Carey stopped and glanced over her shoulder at him, her heart beating a rapid staccato in her chest. “Yes, Detective?” she asked with as much civility as she could muster.

“You don’t seem too broken up about your boss’s death,” he commented, clearly hoping to get some sort of response from her.

“I’ve cried plenty in my life, Detective. I don’t have any tears left.”

Chapter 4

Carey climbed in her black SUV, a ridiculous car to navigate and park in D.C., but she liked it anyway. It made her feel big and indestructible, something she rarely felt outside the four-wheeled contraption. Placing the key in the ignition, she started the beast before taking off down the driveway of the estate. It was late in the evening but the traffic was still heavy. She headed northwest down 16
th
Street towards her apartment in Fairmount Heights, using the drive to review what she knew and more importantly what she didn’t know.

Brian had been working for the Russians—an indisputable fact. She didn’t know why, and what each party got out of the association. The Russians were involved in every illegal activity from here to Moscow. A cold shiver ran down her spine as the only logical reason popped up into her mind. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. What had Brian done with certain artifacts in the museum? The only possible clout he had was his position as curator and she of all people knew just how much the Russians loved art and antiquities. She considered any piece that had landed on her boss’s desk. If she were to inspect them, would she find forgeries?

No, there was no way he could’ve swapped anything out. There was no way he could bring the substitution into the museum without raising flags. Brian rarely touched any artifact if he could find someone else to do the work. There were other possibilities, of course. The idea that he might’ve been selling museum secrets had her feeling sick. Occasionally, she or one of the other experts would come across a bit of information that could be considered the second coming to those in her field, such as a collector’s estate going to probate or a certain coveted piece about to go on the market, and it would be a major coup to the museum should they acquire a find, not to mention if they had kept the bidding low having little competition. Brian could’ve easily been offering insider information.

She knew of several pieces that had been expensively picked up by a mysterious private buyer, the museum having lost several major exhibits to the collector in the past few months. But that didn’t explain the Russian’s anger. Sure, she had known men who could fly off the handle without the least bit of provocation, but Mikhail had been somewhat excessive in his rage. His cold steel eyes had been unyielding from the start. There had only been one end to the meeting and she had witnessed it.

She found herself a parking space near her apartment building. Grabbing her purse, she soon unlocked the front door and stepped into her silent apartment. She was later than usual, her home feeling so much more menacing than it ever had before. The one light she left on all day so she wouldn’t come home to a dark apartment glared brightly at her from across the room.

What a day.

Her cell phone had been going off every two seconds during her drive home. Since she planned to take the day off tomorrow, she had set up her email to forward everything to her iPhone. Deciding the messages could wait until tomorrow, she slowly made her way to her kitchen. She assumed most of her emails would be from overseas contacts since not even the most avid of curators stayed in their office this late at night. She was exhausted but too wired to go to sleep anytime soon. Had she any inclination, she would’ve probably jogged about the neighborhood in an effort to make herself tired. Carey doubted she would get much sleep either way. The memory of Brian’s body floated in and out of her head without warning, his lifeless eyes staring right at her, condemning her for not acting quicker.

She let out a deep breath as she once more pushed the vision out of her mind. She busied herself sorting out her mail that lay stacked on her silver-black granite kitchen counter. She usually reserved her weekends for paying bills and doing the menial jobs that unfortunately everyone had to do, but she knew if she sat down now she would never get back up again. Her feet ached, her toes pinched together in the sharp pointed enclosure of her heels. Carey supposed she should eat, but hadn’t the energy or the hunger to do so. She closed her ivory blinds, feeling vulnerable. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms in an effort to warm herself and get her blood pumping. She was as cold as death, and the irony was not above her. She walked over to her thermostat and turned up the heat. For mid-June, the apartment was freezing, or maybe that was just her—her blood running cold in her veins from the vision in her head that refused to leave her.

She shivered, thinking about the evening’s events. She remembered the look in the Russian’s eyes. She had seen that look before, long ago in Moscow, the night Alan had died. It was the look on his face that she would never forget. She could see how much the man enjoyed his job, how ruthless and unforgiving he could be. Anger bubbled up inside her. Men like him didn’t deserve to live, to terrorize anyone who got in their way. She nibbled on her bottom lip, considering her dilemma.

She poured herself a glass of Cabernet, filling it almost to the top, knowing before the night was finished she would need every last drop. Her hands shook slightly and she spilled a few drops of the red liquid onto the counter before reaching over and grabbing a slice of paper towel hanging from her kitchen cabinet to soak up the crimson drops.

Taking a long sip, she tried to calm her nerves. She couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that was quickly swamping her. The men who killed Brian knew where she lived. Not only that but they knew what she looked like and where she worked. Her apartment building had security so she knew she was safer here than anywhere else but still, fear gnawed in her belly. She turned off all the overhead lights, leaving only a few dim lights to cast shadows around the room.

She was frightened and wasn’t stupid enough to lie to herself, having seen firsthand what men like that could do to a body. Her gaze travelled over her apartment, the kitchen a small nook in the corner, the counter the only thing closing it off from the living area on the west side, which housed a balcony. She had never gone out on the balcony, the door having been locked since she’d moved in. She had placed heavy curtains over the doorway, effectively blocking it off from view, her desk and computer taking up the area in front.

Her apartment wasn’t big. She had no dining area, which was fine by her since she didn’t require the room, always eating at the kitchen counter, sitting on one of the stools the rental agency had provided. Sometimes she sat on the white leather sofa to eat, the basic black coffee in front of her. Everything other than her clothes and linens were either rented or had come with the apartment.

When she had returned home from abroad, taking the job at Hamilton’s, she had still been somewhat disheartened. At the time, she hadn’t cared where she lived or how for that matter. Owning nothing more than the clothes in her suitcase and the money in her bank account. She had found the listing in the
Post
, a fully furnished one bedroom, and had taken it. Even now she had found no reason to change her décor or create a nest. In a way, she supposed she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, when she would have to pack up and move. Since Moscow, she had learned to travel light, fitting everything she owned into a suitcase she could easily handle.

In the year she had lived in St. Petersburg after the Moscow Incident, she had moved every couple of months, never bothering with a land line, carrying around an unlisted cell number instead. She had been unsure if the mafiya would return to put her down. The first time she had believed she was being followed was the first in a long line of sleepless nights and endless moves.

She had learned quite quickly to be afraid and had inevitably become somewhat paranoid. Her weight plummeted, putting her health in danger. She had been a nervous wreck and had no desire to become one again. While she tried to believe she wouldn’t allow it a second time, she doubted she had any choice in the matter. It hadn’t been until a few years ago when she had truly believed herself safe. She had let her guard down, finally decided to get on with her life.

Now, she was back on the mob’s radar. She hadn’t liked it when the boss had pinned her with a look and had flatly asked her if they’d previously met. She had never felt so relieved when after racking her brain had realized that no, she had never met him. But had he been one of the top members of the Bratva privy to the Kremlin Incident, it wouldn’t take much for him to remember.

Her name had been widely published in
The Moscow Times
and
The Moscow News
but thankfully it had been as Carey Thomas, not Madigan, although she admitted it wouldn’t be difficult for him to find out whatever he wanted to about her. She shuddered to think of the results she’d get just by typing her name into Google.

She turned on the television and bypassed all the news channels. She didn’t want another reminder of Brian’s death or to see any of the footage the cameraman had shot. After all, she saw Brian every time she closed her eyes. She located a comedy and stuck with it, moving into her bedroom with her glass of wine, kicking off the torture device known as her shoes. It would be a long time before she put on that particular pair again.

The laughter from the television filled the apartment, making her feel less alone. There was nothing worse than being able to hear the building settle at night, or hear the laughter or shouting coming from the neighboring apartments. Turning on her shower, she stripped down as she waited for the water to turn hot.

The water rained down on her, wetting her hair. She planted the palms of her hands on the cold tiles beside the faucet, allowing the wall to hold her up as she practically melted under the spray’s relaxing motion. Half an hour later, with her hair washed and her legs shaved, she stepped out and began her nightly ritual of moisturizing.

She dressed in a comfy pair of cotton shorts and oversized t-shirt that had once belonged to Alan. It was one of the only things she had left of him. She finished her wine and refilled her glass in the kitchen before sitting down at her desk, ignoring the fact that just beyond the thick fabric lay a balcony with a magnificent view.

She had hidden it, pretending it didn’t exist, since it was a constant reminder of the times she and Alan would sit on their balcony in Moscow. It was a bittersweet memory, just as all her memories of her husband were. She preferred not to dwell on them. Pulling out a notepad, she set to work listing all the things she could think of that Brian was privy to that might make him seem valuable to the Russians.

She doubted the detective would look into the matter, having set his sights on her, and Carey knew she didn’t want to be blindsided again or in a vulnerable position surrounded by Mikhail or his men. Of course if she going to avoid it, she needed to know why they had been interested in Brian in the first place. If he’d done something stupid and made off with the mob’s money, she needed to know. The more confrontations she could avoid, the better.

An hour and a half later, no more enlightened than she had been earlier in the evening and more than just a little frustrated, she collapsed on her bed. Her eyelids were too heavy to remain open any longer and sleep invaded her mind.