Page 13 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
“Mr. Pemberton, I presume,” Volkov said in accented English, his voice smooth but laced with quiet menace. “And this is Miss Worthington.” His pale eyes landed on me, sharp and assessing. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”
My mind flicked through possibilities. The back door was too far to reach unnoticed, and Volkov’s companion stood squarely between us and the front office. Flight was not an option. I’d have to keep up appearances.
“No,” I said evenly, meeting his gaze. “We haven’t.”
Volkov smiled. The expression was more terrifying than any scowl. “You are the lady detective who’s looking for Anya, my niece. She’s caused me considerable worry. Perhaps we might . . . collaborate in our search?"
The way he said the word 'collaborate' made my skin crawl. This was no offer of assistance. It was a threat wrapped in politeness.
"I'm sure we both want what's best for Anya," I said carefully, backing slightly toward Pemberton's desk.
"Oh, but of course." Volkov stepped further into the room, his companion moving to flank us. "Family must always comefirst, don't you agree? And family obligations . . . they must be honored."
I thought of the threatening letters, of Professor Levkin's warnings about blood debts and imperial secrets. Whatever hold Volkov had over Anya, he intended to enforce it—permanently.
"Mr. Pemberton," Volkov continued conversationally, "I believe you have something that belongs to my family. Something my niece left in your care?"
"I'm afraid I don't understand," Pemberton said.
Volkov's smile never wavered, but his eyes turned arctic. "I think you do. Just as I think Miss Worthington understands that some family matters are best resolved privately."
Whatever was in the envelope Anya had left with Pemberton, it was important enough for Volkov to risk exposing himself by coming here personally. Important enough to kill for.
And judging by the way his companion was moving closer, that's exactly what he intended to do.
CHAPTER 7
THE HUNTER AND THE HUNTED
The tension in Pemberton's office stretched like a wire about to snap. Volkov's companion had positioned himself between us and the door, while Volkov himself stood with the casual confidence of a man who had orchestrated this confrontation perfectly.
"Now then," Volkov said, his voice maintaining that terrifying politeness, "I believe we can resolve this matter quite amicably. Mr. Pemberton, if you would be so kind as to retrieve whatever documents my niece entrusted to your care."
"I told you, I don't know what you're talking about," Pemberton said, though his voice betrayed his fear.
Volkov’s smile thinned. “I’m afraid I must insist. Family papers, you see, can be . . . inflammatory when they fall into the wrong hands. Especially old photographs. Certain letters. The sort of thing that might interest the authorities.”
“Perhaps,” I said evenly, my fingers tightening around the strap of my handbag, “we should continue this conversation atScotland Yard. I imagine Inspector Crawford Sinclair would be quite interested in your family concerns.”
His pale eyes sharpened, fixing on me with new interest. “Ah. Inspector Crawford Sinclair. Yes, we are acquainted. A persistent man, your fiancé. He’s been asking all sorts of questions—about insurance fires, warehouse accidents.” His smile turned predatory. “I do hope nothing unfortunate happens to him.”
The threat landed like a blow, but I refused to flinch. My blood pounded, but I forced my expression to remain composed. Losing control now would only make things worse.
“Miss Worthington,” he went on, his gaze sliding to my handbag, “I believe you have a choice to make. You can return what belongs to my family . . . or you can learn just how dangerous it is to meddle in affairs that do not concern you.”
"Where is Anya?" I demanded. "What have you done with her?"
"My dear niece is exactly where she needs to be—with family, learning to honor her obligations." His voice hardened. "She has something that belongs to me, and she will return it. Just as you will return what you're holding."
The sharp blast of police whistles echoed from the street below. Volkov’s head snapped toward the window, his polished composure fracturing for the first time.
“Viktor,” he barked to his companion, who immediately moved toward the rear exit.
Pemberton’s secretary must have called the police. Their response had been impressively swift.
Volkov’s veneer of civility vanished. “Your secretary has made a very serious mistake, Mr. Pemberton.”
"The only mistake," I said, backing toward the window to see if the police had surrounded the building, "was yours in thinking you could intimidate innocent people to cover up your crimes."
