His left eye was piercing blue, the right milky white, ruined but left bare for all the world to see. No patch, no glasses to hide behind. The old priest put it out there like he was proud of it, like it was an ugly badge of honor. A scar split the eyebrow above it.

Weiss introduced him. “Father Chernoff, this is Detective Landry, who is also working on this investigation.”

Landry let the remark slide. He didn’t need to whip his cock out and put it on the table in front of a holy man just to put Weiss in is place.

He held out his hand to the priest, who had quite a grip on him for a guy who had to be in his seventies. His fingers were gnarled and twisted like the branches of an ancient windblown tree.

“Father Chernoff. Thank you for coming in on such short notice. Unfortunately, that’s the only kind of notice we get at the start of a murder investigation.”

The old priest looked down his nose at him as they took their seats. Landry flashed back on Catholic school, where he had spent much time on his knees, saying Hail Marys for one sinful infraction of school rules or another while Father Arnaud glared at him.

“This is a Russian girl who died.” His accent was heavy, but his English was crisp.

“Yes, sir. Irina Markova. She worked on a horse farm outside Wellington. Do you know of any Markovas in the area? If she has family here, we’d like to contact them.”

The priest ignored the question.

“This one,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of Weiss, played for me the tape from the answering machine.“

“Yes. Are you able to translate for us?”

Again, the priest ignored the question, as if Landry’s agenda held absolutely no interest for him. “This girl, she was a criminal?”

“Not to my knowledge. Why? What does the man on the tape say?

“His name is Alexi, yes? This one told me.” Again he tipped his head at Weiss without bothering to even look at him.

“We believe so, yes. Why did you ask if the girl was a criminal?”

“Play the tape again, please.”

Weiss touched the button on the machine, and the Russian voice spewed forth in staccato bursts.

“He says, ”Why the hell have you not called me? Are you too fucking good for me now with your fancy, soft American men? Don’t forget who you are, Irina. Don’t forget who owns you. I have a job for you to do. It will pay well, greedy girl.“”

“Do you recognize the voice?” Landry asked.

“There are many Russian men called Alexi,” the priest said.

“Do you have any idea which one this guy might be?”

The priest looked around the room as if suspicious one or more of these men named Alexi might be hiding in a corner, listening in.

“Are you familiar with Russian organized crime, Detective Landry?”

“I know about it.”

“Then I don’t need to tell you these are very ruthless and violent men. They are a disgrace to our community. Not all Russians are criminals.”

“But you asked me if I thought Irina Markova might be.”

“There is a man, a very dangerous man. His name is Alexi Kulak. He is a vicious wolf. This perhaps is his voice.”

“Do you know him?” Weiss asked. “Do you know where we can find him?”

“I know of him. He is the kind of man who believes he ‘owns’ people and can do with them what he will.”

The bitterness in the old man’s voice seemed personal.

“Did he do that to your eye?” Landry asked.

The priest sniffed. “No. KGB did this to me when I was a young man. They burned my eye because I would not be a witness for them. I watched a man steal two loaves of bread to feed his family. It was just after the war. People were starving.

“In my Russia we feared only KGB. There were no criminals. Now there are many criminals and no KGB. It is not a better place.”

“Do you know someone who may be able to help us find Alexi Kulak?” Landry asked.

“I know someone,” the priest said. “But he will not speak with you.”

“If he’s afraid, we can speak over the phone,” Weiss said. “All we’re trying to do at this point is locate this Alexi person.”

The old priest got up from his chair. He stood ramrod straight, formidable figure in his black cassock and priest’s collar.

“He will not speak with you,” he said again, “because Alexi Kulak cut out his tongue.”

In my imagination I had always visualized that I would be prepared for this moment, that I would have the upper hand when this circumstance arose, that I would know exactly what to say. I pictured myself as being strong and in control, unaffected by the sight of him, and looking like a million damn dollars. And Bennett Walker would be the one taken by surprise, rattled and shaken, unable to speak. But that wasn’t what happened.

He came through the door with a sense of purpose, his attention on his friend and alibi, Juan Barbaro. Time and lifestyle had chiseled some lines into his face but in a way women would find attractive. He still had all his hair-dark, wavy, falling in his eyes. He still had the body of an athlete-tall, broad-shouldered, trim hips. He was impeccably dressed-white slacks, black jacket, black-striped shirt opened at the throat. The dashing social scion, disheveled just enough to be sexy.

He glanced at me with not one shred of recognition in his eyes.

I was a very different person from the girl he had known. Gone was the wild mane of black hair, the ready-for-trouble smile, the glint of excitement in my eyes. I had been vibrant then, flush with first love, innocent-if not in fact, in spirit.

Twenty years is a long time. A whole lot of life had gone on since I had last seen him. Still, a part of me was offended he didn’t know me on sight, that he hadn’t stopped dead in his tracks, gone pale, started to stammer. Had I been so unimportant to him that he had never imagined this moment? Out of sight, out of mind. A bad memory best left in the past.

“Juan, my man,” he said, grabbing Barbaro’s hand and pumping it like a politician. “Could I have a moment-”

“Where are your manners, friend?” Barbaro asked. “I have a lovely lady on my arm, if you haven’t noticed. Why would I leave her for an instant to be with the likes of you?”

“I’m sorry,” Walker said at me, not to me. “But I-”

Barbaro ignored him. “Elena, this is my very rude friend, Bennett Walker. Bennett, my lovely companion for the evening, Elena Estes.”

He saw me then. He looked at me for the first time and saw me. There was the stunned, guarded look I had been wishing for.

“I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words, Bennett,” I said, as if I were calm.

“Elena.”

He wanted the floor to open and swallow me. He wanted to turn and go back out the door. Do-over, without the woman who had tried to put him in prison.

“You know each other?” Barbaro said. “Why would I be surprised? Is there a beautiful woman within fifty kilometers you don’t know, my friend?”

“Oh, I knew Bennett back when,” I said, enjoying the apprehension in Bennett’s eyes. “Or so I thought.”

“Elena,” he said again. “It’s been a long time. How are you?”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“Yes, at the moment.”

“To think you used to be so quick on your feet.” I glanced at Barbaro from the corner of my eye. “Ben used to be able to talk his way out of anything. Isn’t that right, Ben?”

He said nothing.

“I’m upset, to answer your question,” I told him. “A friend of mine was found murdered this morning. Imagine my surprise to discover you were seen with her the night she went missing.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” he said. He was pissed now. I could tell by the way he tilted his head, set his jaw, avoided looking at me.

“Well, some things never change,” I remarked.

“If you could excuse us for a moment, Elena, I need to have a word with my friend.”