Page 8 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
"I understand. Thank you, Professor. You've been invaluable."
As I left his flat and walked back toward the street, my head spun with the implications of what I'd learned. Anya wasn't just a frightened dancer fleeing an overbearing relative. She was a young woman caught in a web of imperial secrets, revolutionary violence, and criminal conspiracy that stretched from the ruins of St. Petersburg to the drawing rooms of London.
And if she had evidence that could expose this network, every day she remained missing made it more likely that Dmitri Volkov would find her first.
I was no longer investigating a simple disappearance. I was walking into a world where imperial secrets and revolutionary grudges played out in the shadows of London's émigré community, where men trained in the brutal arts of the Tsar's secret police settled old scores with ruthless efficiency.
I spotted one of the new red telephone boxes on the corner of Russell Square. Stepping inside, I fished for coins in my handbag and asked the operator to connect me to Scotland Yard. Within moments, I heard Robert's familiar voice.
"Crawford Sinclair."
"Robert, it's Catherine. I need to see you immediately.”
He must have heard the urgency in my voice because he immediately asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m investigating the disappearance of Anya Petrova, the principal dancer at the King’s Theatre. Are you familiar with the Volkov insurance fraud case?”
“Very much so. I’m involved with the investigation.”
“I’ve discovered something about it that Scotland Yard needs to know."
"How serious is it?”
“Volkov was a member of the Russian Okhrana, a criminal network involved with torture and assassinations.” I kept my voice low, conscious that even telephone conversations weren't entirely private.
There was a pause. "I'll clear my schedule. How soon can you be here?"
"Twenty minutes."
"I'll be waiting."
It took no time to hail a cab and travel across London to Scotland Yard. But as the cab pulled up to the imposing brick building on Victoria Embankment, I caught sight of a familiar black motorcar parked across the street.
The same make and model the florist had described—the one that brought Dmitri Volkov to order his threatening bouquets. As I paid the cab fare, the eyes of the motorcar’s uniformed driver followed my every movement.
I was definitely being watched. Which begged the question. How had Volkov learned about my investigation?
CHAPTER 5
THE DANCER'S DILEMMA
The desk sergeant at Scotland Yard recognized me immediately and waved me through without the usual formalities. "Inspector Crawford Sinclair is expecting you, Miss Worthington."
I found Robert poring over a stack of files in his office, his dark hair slightly disheveled in the way that meant he'd been working for hours without a break. As I entered, his face broke into that smile that never failed to make my heart skip a beat.
"Catherine. Perfect timing. I’ve just been reviewing the Volkov file." He rose and kissed my cheek before pulling out a chair for me. “What have you discovered?”
"More than I bargained for," I said, settling into the seat. “What can you tell me about Volkov?"
His expression grew serious as he settled into his desk chair. "Officially? He's suspected of insurance fraud related to a warehouse fire in March. Unofficially . . .” He lowered his voice. “You’re right about his criminal activities. We believehe's connected to a network of Russian criminals operating throughout London. Men who've used their refugee status to establish what amounts to an organized crime syndicate."
"What sort of crimes?"
"Blackmail, primarily. They target fellow Russian émigrés—people who fled the revolution with secrets they'd rather keep buried. But there have been more serious incidents. Three suspicious deaths in the past year, all men who might have had information about stolen imperial treasures or war crimes."
A shiver slid down my back. "Professor Levkin mentioned political assassinations."
"Levkin's been helpful to us before. What did he tell you?"
