The Chemistry of Death

Chapter 5

Vivian waited to talk to Mr. Kazakov. She had to check out with him personally every time she went home for the day. A pain in her ass since he was always busy, but it meant he knew exactly who was supposed to be protecting him and his family at any given time. Not a sloppy man, Mr. Kazakov. She respected that.

She’d been told to wait in the library and make herself comfortable, so she stood next to a massive white fireplace that looked like it was cleaned daily with a toothbrush. She certainly wouldn’t sit down without being invited. Even if she didn’t have eyes on Katrinka, she was on duty.

A carved chess set rested on a small table. A game was in progress, but Vivian didn’t know enough about chess to know if black or white was winning.

Tall bookshelves reached up to twelve-foot ceilings. Leather-bound books filled each shelf. Some people bought books by the foot to color coordinate them with their furniture. Was Mr. Kazakov one of those?

She walked over to check out the titles. All in Russian. Her respect for her employer kicked up a notch. Maybe he hadn’t read these books, but he’d bought them in Russian and probably shipped them here at great expense so he might read them. They weren’t just furniture.

Katrinka wandered in and flopped into a white leather chair. She kicked her sock-clad feet against the dark wooden floor. “Why are you still here?”

“I’m waiting to check out with your father. You know the procedure.”

Katrinka snorted and looked at the flames. “Are you going to tell him about the purse?”

“He’s my employer.” In truth, Vivian wasn’t sure what she’d do. Katrinka hadn’t broken the law, and maybe she hadn’t even intended to. She might have returned the purse herself. And monkeys might fly.

Vivian’s phone buzzed. Joe Tesla. Hopefully, he had some work that was more interesting than babysitting.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Katrinka grinned.

“Another employer.” Vivian took the call, ready to disconnect if Mr. Kazakov arrived.

“Tesla here,” he said. “Do you have a minute?”

“I might have to hang up on short notice.”

“Fine.” He’d called her using Facetime, and he looked off camera at something else.

“Are you in immediate danger?” she asked.

He gave a forced laugh. “No, nothing like that.”

Katrinka came and stood behind her. “He looks cute. Like a vampire.”

“Who’s that?” Tesla asked.

“Katrinka,” the teen said. “Vivian works for me.”

“I work for her father,” Vivian corrected. “And you were saying, Mr. Tesla?”

“Edison dug up some interesting artifacts in the tunnels. It’s been bothering me all day.” Clearly Tesla didn’t want to get involved in her arguments with Katrinka. “Let me show you.”

The camera dipped and came to rest on a black tube resting on a green surface. He must be in his billiards room. The camera moved across three identical tubes and settled on a gray clutch.

“Lipsticks and a purse?” Had Tesla lost it? “I see them, sir.”

“Can you get closer to the clutch?” Katrinka leaned against Vivian, her head practically obscuring Vivian’s view.

“The what?” Tesla sounded puzzled.

“The bag,” Katrinka said. “Pan across it slowly.”

Tesla did as he was told.

“That’s Prada!” Katrinka said. “Can I have it if you don’t want it?”

“Why are you showing me these items?” Vivian took control of the conversation.

“Edison found them buried in a locked room a couple of miles south of the house.”

“Probably rats,” Vivian said. “Rats bury all kinds of things.”

“It’s a pretty big purse—”

“Clutch,” Katrinka corrected.

“Clutch,” Tesla said. “It’s a pretty big object for a rat to drag all the way down there and bury.”

“You have pretty big rats,” Vivian answered.

“Can you find out who this stuff might have belonged to?” Tesla asked. “Maybe get some fingerprints off them?”

After they were buried by a rat, dug out by a drooling dog, then handled by Tesla. “I can try.”

“You can look up the serial numbers on the bag,” Katrinka said. “And then, if you don’t want it, you can give it to me.”

“You want a bag that was dragged through filthy tunnels by a rat?” Vivian asked.

“It’s a fifty thousand dollar clutch.” Katrinka tossed her hair behind her shoulder. “I’ll get it cleaned.”

The camera dropped a bit as if Tesla, too, thought this an unfathomable amount of money to spend on a bag. Vivian’s sister could go to college for the price of a scrap of leather that had dangled from a rich girl’s wrist.

“Tell me more about the serial numbers,” Tesla said.

Katrinka tapped the image on the phone. “Prada puts them in their most expensive bags. And that one looks like a custom bag. Did you see the diamonds along the top?”

Vivian ran her finger across the image of a row of dirt-covered stones. “Those are diamonds?”

“Diamonds and white gold,” Katrinka said. “It’s a specialty bag. They probably didn’t make many of them.”

“I’ll be by to pick it up as soon as I’m done here, sir,” Vivian said.

“Thank you,” Tesla answered. “Before I go, when are you going to stop by Lucid to get scanned?”

Vivian stifled a groan. Tesla had been nagging her to get some kind of weird brain scan at his new company. He wanted to use her reactions to provide a control group for soldiers with PTSD. It was a worthy cause, and she’d agreed, but she kept putting it off. “Soon, sir.”

“We have an opening on Friday afternoon at four.”

“I’ll see if I can fit that in.” She ended the call.

“Scanned for what?” Katrinka asked.

“Brain scan to see how I react to certain situations. It’s a virtual reality simulation thing.”

“Is it fun? Can I get scanned, too?”

“Maybe. First, tell me about this bag and why you think it has a serial number.”

Katrinka launched into an enthusiastic explanation of how the designer printed its bags with special serial numbers because theft and counterfeiting were common. “If you know what you’re looking for, you can break into the right apartment and come out with a hundred grand in bags that’ll fit in a backpack.”

“And you know this how?” Vivian asked.

“It’s happened to my friend’s mom,” she said. “That’s why I’m so careful with my stuff. A bag like that is an investment.”

“How do I find out who bought this particular bag?”

“If it was reported stolen, the police probably have the numbers in the police report. Or the owner might have written the numbers down for her insurance company.”

“People insure purses?”

“Wouldn’t you? Look how much they’re worth. Anyway, even if you can’t find it like that, Prada has a record. That’s a special bag, not one you could buy off the shelf. I bet that cute cop friend of yours can call up Prada and get an answer for you. What’s his name?”

“Mr. Norbye?” Dirk worked for Mr. Kazakov in his off hours. A former Army buddy, he’d gotten Vivian this job. Some days she didn’t want to thank him for it.

Katrinka laughed. “Dirk Norbye! That’s right. The blond god.”

Vivian had to smile. “Don’t tell him that. He’s already got too fine an opinion of himself.”

“Are you two together?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

No point in lying. “I was engaged to his brother, Nils.”

“Was?” Katrinka arched her eyebrows. “That’s not the same as is, so that doesn’t make this particular blond god off limits.”

“His brother died.” In her arms. Screaming.

Katrinka must have read something in her face because she looked away and went quiet.

A figure appeared in the doorway, and Vivian instinctively stepped in front of the girl.

“It is only I.” Mr. Kazakov came into the room and took the seat next to his daughter. “Katrinka. Go.”

The teen stood quickly, kissed her father on both cheeks, and headed toward the door. She brushed past Vivian on her way out, tossing her a pleading glance. She didn’t want Vivian to mention the attempted shoplifting.

“Katrinka likes you,” Mr. Kazakov said. “You were having a spirited discussion when I arrived.”

“She’s a smart girl.”

“Too smart for her own good sometimes.”

“Probably an inherited trait, sir.” It slipped out before Vivian had a chance to think better of it.

He laughed. “I hope you can keep her in check.”

Nobody could keep that girl in check. She needed something to do besides hang around with her shallow, rich friends and talk about purses. A stint in the military would straighten her right out. Vivian knew better than to say any of that. “I do my best to keep her safe, sir.”

“And that, as you point out so cleverly, is your job. You may go.”

Vivian scooted out of there before he started asking about what Katrinka had got up to that day.

Katrinka waited in the hall by the elevator. “Thank you.”

“You used your get out of jail free card,” Vivian said. “No more chances.”

Katrinka nodded. “Will you tell me what happens with the clutch?”

“Probably somebody mugged the woman who carried it, took out the money, and threw the purse down a tunnel where a rat found it. Most muggers don’t have your encyclopedic knowledge of purse pricing.”

“It might be more interesting than that,” Katrinka said. “But either way, will you tell me if you find out more?”

“So long as it isn’t confidential.”

Katrinka smiled. Not the manufactured smile Vivian had seen in the store, a genuine one that made her look like a little kid again. “Thanks.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Vivian warned. But she was starting to think Katrinka might be right.

The bag might prove very interesting indeed.