was in good repair, if littered with fallen leaves, and a quick glance at the cars parked nearby confirmed his initial impression that this was a solidly middle-class area.
After taking a few steps into her apartment, Claire stopped and stared at the living room, shaking her head back and forth as if trying to figure out how and why she was there. Recognizing the signs of an imminent collapse, Thomas stepped forward, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit? We can talk once you’ve had some time to process everything.”
She nodded but made no move to head for a bedroom. He gave her a gentle push to get her started, and she walked mechanically down the hall until they reached her bedroom. The room was cool and dark and smelled faintly of lavender. He wasn’t surprised to find the bed neatly made, the pale yellow comforter spread smooth across the expanse of mattress. The quick glance he’d seen of her apartment had left the impression of a woman who liked organization, wanted everything kept in its place. Now that her life had been flipped upside down, the lack of control must be killing her.
He helped her pull the covers down, then knelt to tug off her shoes as she sat on the edge of the bed. The gesture was surprisingly intimate, and he felt a sudden flare of heat as he pulled off the sensible brown pump to reveal the graceful arch of her foot, the pretty pink of her toenails. He’d never considered himself a foot man before, but he couldn’t deny the good doctor was lovely. What else was she hiding beneath her professional armor? The thought drew him up short and he reared back, almost falling onto his ass in the process. Get it together, Kincannon. One look at her toes and you’re drooling? Pathetic.
He stood abruptly, hoping she didn’t notice the blush he felt creeping across his cheeks. He glanced down at her and realized he could have paraded a brass band through her apartment without disturbing her—she was beginning to shut down, withdrawing further into her shell in a bid to block out the world. He recognized the impulse, having done the same thing after Roger’s death.
Moving woodenly, as if every gesture required more effort than she could bear, Claire stretched out on the bed and turned to her side, giving him her back. Interpreting the gesture as a dismissal, he stepped toward her bedroom door but paused when he realized he still held her shoes. She probably wouldn’t want them just dropped on the floor, so he arranged them carefully next to the hunter-green chair that sat in front of a mirrored dressing table.
“Thank you.” The words were soft but distinct in the silence of the room. He stopped in the doorway, turned back to the bed. She was so still, a pale statue that blended in with the light sheets.
“I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.” He pulled the door closed after him, leaving it slightly ajar, then made his way back down the hall. He stopped in the kitchen, noting the window above the sink before moving on to the main room. The large room was lined with windows along the far end, giving the apartment a bright, friendly air. He walked over and drew the blinds down, effectively shrouding the room in a muted gray light. He was probably being paranoid, but there was no sense in making it easy for someone to see in.
The front door was the only entrance, which wasn’t ideal. He walked back into the kitchen and leaned forward to see out that window, nodding in satisfaction as he caught sight of the fire escape railing. He unlocked the window and gave an experimental shove, wincing when it shuddered up with a creaking protest. He briefly debated oiling the tracks. On the one hand, it would be tough to make a quiet escape this way, but it would also provide an excellent warning if someone was trying to get in. Deciding the advanced notice of an intruder outweighed the need for a stealthy exit, he pushed the window back down, locked it and drew the shade.
Opening the cabinet next to the sink, he was rewarded with the sight of rows of glasses lined up with military precision. He pulled one down and filled it with water, shaking his head. While his collection of glasses was a mixed bag of free cups and hand-me-downs from his mom or sister-in-law, Dr. Fleming’s were clearly of a set, uniform in appearance and size and all spotlessly clean. Her underwear drawer was probably the same way—white cotton panties all neatly folded and stacked...
Whoa. Where the hell had that come from? He had no business thinking about Dr. Fleming’s underwear, or her underwear drawer for that matter. Pushing the unsettling thought firmly out of his mind, he walked back into the main room, pausing before the bookshelves. There were a few photos on display, mostly of landscapes or landmarks from past trips. His eyes caught on a picture of Claire, smiling and happy as she sat beside Ivan Novikoff on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The older man had his head turned and was pressing a kiss to her hair as she grinned up at the camera. Interesting. Had they been an item? He was old enough to be her father, but maybe she preferred older men. It would certainly explain her shock at his death.
If Ivan Novikoff had gotten entangled in something dangerous or illegal, would he have told his lover? Not likely, Thomas mused as he moved to scan the other set of bookshelves. He’d probably wanted to keep her safe, and had thought that keeping her out of the loop would protect her. But protect her from what?
His position gave him access to lots of nuclear material, both spent fuel from aging reactors and potent radioactive fuel. There was quite a demand for radioactive supplies on the black market, and Ivan was the ideal supplier. As one of the people who kept track of nuclear material, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to fudge the records, divert a little bit of fuel at a time in exchange for money or power. And if he’d been in the business of selling radioactive materials, the kind of unsavory characters who were buying wouldn’t think twice about coming after his lover if he’d betrayed them.
If that was the case, the Russians wouldn’t work too hard to find his killer. If Ivan was part of an underground, black market arms trade, it would be hugely embarrassing for the Russians to admit that the man they had entrusted with the safe disposal of nuclear fuel had been selling it to terrorists and rogue states.
No, better for them to characterize his death as a random, horrible act, brush it under the rug and move on. Which meant it would be that much harder to figure out who had targeted Dr. Fleming.
Running a hand through his hair, Thomas set his glass on the coffee table and reached for his phone. Just as he flipped it open to dial Harper, Claire’s terrified scream rent the air.
* * *
Claire sat across from Ivan, enjoying his company as they drank coffee and talked. His daughter was a musician with the Moscow orchestra, and he was telling her about Anya’s latest performance, his eyes glowing with fatherly pride as he bragged about her violin solo.
“She was so beautiful,” he gushed, patting his pockets in search of something. “My phone—you must see the pictures.”
Claire nodded, sipping her coffee as Ivan pulled out his cell phone. His head bent in absorption, he carefully pressed buttons on the keypad, his bushy eyebrows drawing together as he searched for the images. While he fought with his phone, she let her gaze drift past the table, frowning when she noticed a dark, amorphous mass creeping forward. What was that?
She shivered as the smoky cloud drifted closer. There was something about it that seemed...malicious. As it drew nearer, she could see sparkles in the black fog as it glided across the ground, glints of light winking off something solid and metallic inside. It moved with such purpose that she knew it was heading for their table, and her heart began to pound, alarm sending spikes of adrenaline shooting through her limbs.
Ivan remained oblivious to the threat, still searching for the pictures of his daughter. She tried to speak, to warn him, but her throat closed up and she couldn’t get the words out. Ignoring her frantic gestures, Ivan merely sat while the shadowy mass enveloped him, hiding him from view. Suddenly, his pained shrieks pierced the fog. She strained forward, reaching
