you to go back to your room, Daniel,” Mike said. “Ms. Cooper and I got work to do. Don’t talk to anyone. Not about Naomi or your job or knowing us. Stay put, and when the train gets to Providence, you come out on the platform and look for me. Understood?”
“Yeah. I get it.”
We continued back to the suite that had the Zukov name on the door. Mike opened it and entered without knocking.
In the living area, a man and a woman were sitting on opposite ends of a sofa. The woman cradled a sleeping child in her arms, while both were fixed on a flat-screen TV on the wall, watching a twenty-four-hour news broadcast.
The man rose immediately—I guessed him to be Giorgio, the Zukov brother-in-law—and called out for Yuri and Oksana. “The police are here,” he shouted to them.
The child was awakened by the commotion and started wailing.
Mike rushed back to the closest bedroom, heard the lock click shut from within, and kicked open the flimsy door with his foot.
Yuri and Oksana Zukov, the brother and sister of our probable perp, were being briefed on our intrusion by Kristin Sweeney, the stunt rider from Texas.
FORTY-FIVE
“WHERE’S Fyodor?” Mike asked.
Kristin Sweeney had cost us the element of surprise. Mike directed her back to her compartment, but there was no way for the two of us to secure people or possessions.
“We don’t know where he is,” Yuri said, turning to face us with his arms folded across his chest. That kept his sister positioned behind him while she dried her eyes and tried to compose herself.
“Let me have your phones,” Mike said.
“I don’t have one.”
“Bullshit. Both of you, give me your phones.”
Yuri held out his arms to the side. He was wearing the classic bodysuit of an acrobat or dancer—a leotard and tights, with a zippered sweater over them. “No pockets, Detective. I use the satellite phone only,” he said, pointing to the nightstand next to his bed.
“Coop—take her into the other bedroom,” Mike said, pointing to Oksana. There was no hope of getting information unless we separated them. He was giving me a shot at the weaker link.
“Why don’t you come with me?” I said, smiling at the terrified woman. “Is your room next to this one?”
She didn’t speak, but she nodded.
“You can just do this?” Yuri asked. “You know we’re Americans.”
“Oh, yeah, we can just do this. I don’t give a damn if you’re flying Martians. There are cops from here to Sarasota looking for your brother, and if you want to see him alive, you’d better put on your thinking caps.”
Oksana slipped between Mike and the door without protest and took me into the adjacent compartment she shared with her husband.
“You understand why we have to find your brother quickly?” I asked. I didn’t want to talk about the women who’d been murdered. “If we can save the woman who’s missing, maybe Fyodor has a chance.”
“It’s not his fault, Ms. Cooper,” she said. “None of this is his fault.”
The most tired lines in the perpetrator phrase book. I didn’t care to think about who Oksana would blame. “When is the last time you heard from your brother?”
“I’m not sure. Yuri probably knows.”
“Did you see him this week?”
“This week? What day is today? Maybe Yuri remembers.”
“Here’s the thing, Oksana. Yuri is talking to Detective Chapman, so whatever Yuri knows, he’ll eventually tell. When the train stops in Providence, all your friends will get off and stretch their legs, go out for a drink, get a good night’s sleep for tomorrow’s matinee. If you haven’t answered my questions—and Yuri plays the same game—you’ll both go to the police station and sit there, handcuffed to chairs, until your memories improve.”
She had the turned-out foot position of a ballet dancer, feet planted firmly on the floor. I held the back of the chair to keep myself balanced as we hurtled forward along the tracks. She dabbed at her eyes and bent her head toward the wall, trying to make out the conversation between Yuri and Mike.
“Did you see Fyodor this week?” I raised my voice a notch.
“I think so.”
“Yes—or no?”
Oksana pouted.
“Sit down.”
“I’m perfectly comfortable, Ms. Cooper.”
She was so much better balanced than I that she was probably counting on me lurching over at the next bump on the tracks.
“I asked you to sit.”
Her fear was morphing into defiance now, like it was the Zukovs against the world. Slowly and with the graceful movements of her art, she pivoted and sat on the edge