Page 31 of Last Violent Call
Roma gave her a wry look. After a forty-five-minute drive, they had arrived at their destination, close to Suzhou. A train rumbled nearby, loudly enough that it vibrated the paved roads. He put the car in park, the two of them peering out the windshield at the town streets.
“How do we want to do thisbeforethe guns come out?”
Juliette hummed in thought. She slid her hand along his arm, squeezing once. “I will do the shooting if you want, my love.”
Before Roma could protest, she set her flowers down gently, then hopped out of the car, smoothing her hair back. Roma followed suit quickly, closing his car door.
“Here is another idea,” he said. “We pretend to be solicitors. He invites us in; we confirm if it is Mr. Pyotr.”
“What are we soliciting?” Juliette asked. They started to walk. The house—the apartment, really, on closer inspection—was located at the end of the street, tucked between what looked to be two drugstores. It was all one building, the middle spliced out for a single-level segment with a green front door.
“Funds for medical research.” Roma reached his hand out. “That will get his attention.”
“All right. I like that.” She took his offered hand, fingers interlacing. “Andthenthe guns start blazing?”
Roma sighed with affection and exasperation in equal measure. “You,” he muttered, “are such a pain in the ass.”
Juliette sidled closer. “I couldreallybe a pain in your ass—”
“That was absolutely not an invitation to begin wheedling me about your infernal agenda again.”
“Roma. Do consider it. Other men have said—”
“Shhh… I’m knocking.”
They released each other, then straightened their postures and smoothed their expressions out. Roma’s knuckles thudded against the painted green surface.
When the man on the other side opened the door, it was certainly someone who matched Mr. Pyotr’s description. He eyed them curiously, hand gripping the frame.
“Do you have a moment?” Juliette started in Russian. She smiled brightly when the possible Mr. Pyotr blinked in surprise. “Sources have sent us your way to canvass for help.”
“We have come from a rural hospital for immigrants,” Roma continued. “There’s a proposal underway, and we would love for you to be a sponsor. Might we come in?”
Before they could be denied, Roma stepped over the threshold, firmly inviting himself into the apartment. Juliette pressed down on her urge to smirk, biting her tongue as she hurried to follow. There was only one window inside, on the far wall. Understandably, the afternoon sunlight was having a difficult time seeping through, the corners of the living room lurking dark and gloomy.
Juliette paused by a framed diploma hanging on the wall.PYOTR GAVRILOVICH SPIKOV.
They had found the right man. She inclined her head toward the certificate, directing Roma’s attention over.
“What is this about?” Pyotr Gavrilovich said. He hurried to close thedoor, his brows knitting together. Patches of silver threaded through his hair at the sides, which Juliette had to guess put his age in his late thirties. He had a calendar propped next to an empty vase on the table. The month was prematurely turned to November.
“Let me tell you about some of the hospital’s history,” Roma started. Taking a seat on one of the armrests on the couch, Roma launched into complete make-believe, which was something he had gotten better at over the years after realizing that if he left the make-believe to Juliette, she would often go too far and get caught too early. She was rather prone to exaggeration. Juliette could admit that about herself.
Meanwhile, she stayed standing, making a slow perusal of what she could discern about the apartment. One pair of shoes by the door. Bare walls save for the diploma. In the kitchen, which was separated by a divider, a single dirty bowl stained the table. In the bedroom, only an unmade bed occupied the space.
The most interesting matter, however, was the bookshelf next to the bedroom door. A miniature safe sat on the top shelf, its small door swung open.
There were two vials inside, containing a clear liquid. Both were half filled and plugged with a stopper.
Juliette must have made a noise or started toward the discovery, because Pyotr quickly shuffled in the bookshelf’s direction. Though Roma was still talking, his words started to slow as Pyotr’s attention grew distracted, coming to a complete stop when the man reached for the safe and slammed its door shut, the echo reverberating loudly into the apartment.
Abrupt silence.
Juliette tilted her head. “Is there a problem?”
“Problem?” Pyotr echoed. “Of course not.”
“That’s a shame.” Juliette reached inside her qipao skirt. “BecauseIhave a problem. And I thought you offered your help.”
