"Oh. Oh my God."
"I'll, um, I'll get it for you. If that's okay?"
"Of course. I...” Emily was crying again, hard, wracking sobs that collapsed her to the couch.
"Please let me call someone for you,” Cynthia said miserably.
"Helloooo!” Cynthia jumped as a voice called from outside the half-opened door. “Emily, you home?"
Cyn pulled open the door all the way to admit an older woman, stylishly but affordably dressed, old enough to be Judkins’ mother or aunt. Please let it be her mother or aunt!
"Emily, dearest, whatever...” The new arrival gave Cyn a suspicious look, then hurried over to comfort the grieving widow. Cynthia used the interruption to rush out to her truck and retrieve the brown box from the back seat. She'd thought about putting it all the way in the back, in the cargo compartment like she would have any other box, but it seemed too impersonal for someone's ashes. On other hand, the front seat was way too creepy, so Scott had settled for the back seat. Still a people place, but not quite participatory.
Emily and her consoler had disappeared into the depths of the house by the time Cynthia returned, so she deposited the carton on the dining room table—again debating, floor or table, finally settling on the table since it probably didn't get used that much anyway. She thought about calling out to say good-bye, but then figured Mrs. Judkins had probably heard pretty much everything she wanted to about, from or to Cynthia Leighton, so she closed the door quietly behind her, climbed into the Land Rover, and headed for the one man she thought could provide some answers. Who was Kolinsky and what did he have to do with a long-dead Russian poet?
Chapter Twenty-five
It was shift change at the station; blue uniforms crowded the hallways, coming and going amidst the usual flotsam of a big city police station. She saw a few people she knew and waved; saw some others she knew and looked the other way. There was more than one reason Cyn had decided to become a private investigator. Low whistles of appreciation for her snug skirt followed her passage through the warren of desks in the squad room. So much for sensitivity training, she thought. Dean Eckhoff was waiting for her when she rounded the corner to his office, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling like he'd been waiting a long time.
"Cut the dramatics, Eckhoff, you've got nowhere else to be and you know it."
He let his chair drop to the ground with a scowl in her direction. “I'll have you know, Ms. Leighton, that I've got a lady friend who's very anxious for my company this evening."
"Yeah, but she only wants you to scratch her belly while you watch Wheel of Fortune, and that doesn't come on for a couple of hours yet."
Eckhoff shook his head in disgust. “You wound my ego, Cyn. How's a man supposed to make it in the world when a beautiful woman says things like that to him."
"As if,” she said, chuckling. She gave a deep sigh and flopped down on the chair in front of his desk, painfully aware of her short skirt and bare legs.
"Rough day?” he mocked.
"You have no idea.” She eyed her old friend. “You look good, Dean. Maybe you really do have a lady waiting for you.” Eckhoff was a tall, skinny guy who dressed like an Oxford don and could talk like one too, when he got the urge. Which urge usually involved an inordinate amount of alcohol. His eyes were a washed out blue and what was left of his hair still showed some red through the gray. He'd worn a comb-over for years after he started going bald, until Cynthia had given him her unvarnished opinion on comb-overs. Turns out he had a perfectly nice skull.
"So what brings you way over here today, grasshopper?"
She smiled. “I'm working a job for a client. It looks like a kidnapping, probably extortion to get something out of my guy. Some information surfaced that makes us think there might be a connection to the Russians."
Eckhoff frowned. “Isn't that a little out of your league, Cyn? Did you tell him to call his friendly police force?"
"You know me better than that, Dean. Of course I did. But this guy's not gonna make that call. He's got reasons. Pretty good ones, actually."
Eckhoff regarded her somberly. “This one of your special clients?"
"Maybe,” she acknowledged, which was the same as admitting it.
"Yeah. Well, that does make a difference, I guess. Can't blame the guy for wanting to keep a low profile. So who's working it with you?"
"Just me, all by my lonesome. You know I work alone."
"Which is why you're no longer wearing a blue uniform,” he replied sourly.
Cyn shrugged. “Partly. So, what do you know about the local Russians? I've got a couple—"
"Not my territory, sweetie."
"Not directly, no. But you must have caught a few cases, heard a few things?"
"Not lately. Listen, Cyn, I really do have to get out of here. You want to walk out with me?"