As I watched both police officers struggle with her, it occurred to me that maybe she was the one who had killed Alex. Maybe she was a jealous lover who’d seen him going out on a date, followed them back to Robin’s place, where she killed him in a rage, and trashed the apartment. Now she was stalking Robin. She might’ve even trashed Alex’s apartment.
Of course, if Galina had killed Alex in a jealous rage, surely she would have killed Robin, too. She didn’t seem like the type to rein in her emotions at a time like that.
So she probably wasn’t Alex’s killer, but she might’ve been the one to ransack Alex’s apartment. Now she was stalking Robin because… she thought Robin killed Alex? Or she thought Robin knew something? Or she thought Robin had something of hers? Or Alex’s? Why?
The jealous-lover scenario worked for me. I just wished I knew what she was yelling in Russian or Ukrainian or whatever language she’d been spewing.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized the jealousy angle worked only until I got to the part where Alex had drugged Robin. Why? I played it out a few more times but couldn’t get Galina to fit into the bigger picture, and I wound up back at the beginning of the puzzle.
Really, nothing made sense when combined with the fact that Robin had been drugged by Alex. Maybe I was trying too hard or overlooking something obvious. I couldn’t figure it out, and I found myself rubbing my temple to rid myself of the headache that was cropping up. It was a minor ache compared to Robin’s, though, and as I watched her struggle to find relief in sleep, I vowed to track down the bastard who’d killed Alex and ruined Robin’s life. And I would make him pay.
Chapter 8
That night, after I’d made sure Robin was asleep, I walked into my bedroom and stumbled into Derek’s arms. I didn’t know I was so close to the breaking point until my eyes blurred with tears and I felt myself shaking.
“God. She could’ve been killed,” I said. “The first strike was such a shock, and then she was hitting Robin in the head, punching her hard. There was blood.”
Derek shushed me, rocked me, whispered nonsensical endearments in my ear as if I were a child who needed consoling. And in that moment, that was exactly how I felt. Still shaken from the murder in Robin’s home, now I was worried about her safety. Derek walked me over to the small love seat under the window, sat down, and pulled me onto his lap. And held me.
I couldn’t remember any man ever holding me in his lap, not since I was five years old, and the man was my dad. It was a strange moment for me. Sweet, but strange.
When I was finally able to speak without whimpering, I said, “It took a while, but between us, we managed to kick her ass.”
Derek chuckled. “I always said you two were tough. Did the woman give you any idea why she came after Robin? Did she say anything?”
“Just what I told you earlier,” I said, and sighed. “She kept shouting at Robin in a foreign language. The only English she used was when she called her a ‘keeller,’ accused her of killing Alexei.”
“She had an accent, obviously,” Derek said.
“Yes. A thick one. Russian, Eastern European, something like that. It was classic Boris and Natasha.”
“Boris and Natasha?”
I blinked at him. “Come on. Rocky and Bullwinkle? That had to make it to England at some point.”
He frowned. “Rocky the flying squirrel and Bullwinkle the moose?”
I laughed softly. “Exactly. So there were these two silly spies, Boris and Natasha. Anyway, never mind. But Galina sounded like Natasha. Right out of a spy movie, like From Russia with Love. You know?”
“Ah, yes, of course.” He smiled. “Darling, can you remember any of the words or sounds she spoke in her language?”
At that moment I realized his mood had shifted subtly from consoling lover to interrogator. And I was okay with it. Interesting.
“Yes, she kept repeating this one phrase, and now I can’t get it out of my head. It went something like, ‘date-eh it-eh om you.’ I’m probably saying it wrong.”
“ ‘Date-eh it-eh om-you’?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“ ‘Give it to me.’ ”
I glanced around. “What?”
“That’s what she was saying. It’s Ukrainian. ‘Give it to me.’ ”
“ ‘Give it to me’?” I said, puzzled. “Give what to me? What does she want?”
“I have no idea.”
“Me neither.” I stretched my muscles, felt the ache in my back from grappling with Galina. “God, she was insane.”
“You’re in pain.”
“I’m in better shape than Robin.”
“Did you take something to help you sleep?”
“I took a Xanax a few hours ago, but that wore off. Just a few minutes ago I took some over-the-counter pain stuff. I didn’t want anything too strong.”
He frowned, kissed my cheek and my temple, then brushed his lips over mine. “I’ll make sure you sleep.”
“Will you?” I smiled.
“Yes.” He stood, lifting me as he rose, and carried me to the bed. It delighted me, flustered me. I buried my face in the smooth skin of his shoulder.
I’d never been much of a girlie girl, never gone in for sugary sweet bedroom accessories like my sisters had. There were no frills in here, no lace, no froufrou brass bed with ornate curlicues. Instead, my room was furnished in pale woods, crisp whites, a light green love seat with green and white pillows. The effect was cool, clean, appealing. To me, anyway. But now I felt outrageously feminine as I lay next to Derek on cool white sheets. He was so big, so masculine, so intense.
“You’ll sleep now,” he said.
“I’ll try.”
He shifted to hold me, fitting me against him, my back to his front, until we were aligned perfectly together.
“You’ll sleep,” he murmured in my ear, and I no longer doubted whether he was right.
But before I drifted off, I remembered something I’d forgotten to ask him. “Do you mind that Robin is staying here with us?”
“Of course not.” One of his hands rested on my stomach and the other smoothed a path down my side until it rested lightly on my hip. “I offered to move back to my hotel because I thought she might be more comfortable if I weren’t here.”
“No, it makes her feel safe to have you near.” I rested my hand over his. “I like your being here, too.”
“It’s settled then,” he said, his breath ruffling my hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Early the next morning, Robin emerged from her bedroom and walked slowly to the couch just as Derek was about to leave for a run around the neighborhood. I winced when I saw her face.
“I know I look like hell,” she muttered. “And oh, joy, I feel like it, too.” It took her a few seconds of careful maneuvering to sit comfortably on the couch.
“I think the swelling has gone down,” I said, studying her.
“Maybe a little. But my face still looks like a punching bag.”
“Let me see it.” Derek sat on the coffee table in front of Robin and gently touched her cheek and temple around her swollen eye. Yesterday, that whole area was dark pink, but today it was mottled black and blue and purple.
While Derek examined the bruising, I filled a small Ziploc bag with ice and wrapped it in a clean dish cloth.
“The swelling is better today,” he said. “And the blood has clotted where the capillaries broke, so it’s already healing quite well.”
“And yet it’s hideous,” Robin murmured, and took the ice bag from me. “Go ahead. You can say it out loud.”
“Never,” he said, smiling as he ran his knuckles along her undamaged jaw. “You’ve been heroic through it all. Yes, you’re a bit battle scarred now, but within a week you’ll be healed and back to your beautiful self.”