Page 92 of Bitter Lies

“I don’t know. They never said—or if they did, they said it in Russian, which I don’t speak, so…” He trails off, and I hear voices in the background. “All I know is that he was upset. Kept mouthing off. One of the Russians punched him and told him to remember who he was working for—and why.

“They wanted in the gallery. He kept saying that if they’d listened to him, the art wouldn’t be locked inside. That didn’t go over well. Pretty sure one of them pulled a gun on him, because he snapped that killing him would only make things worse. Said they needed to work together if they wanted to get out of this mess alive… and a hell of a lot richer.” He pauses. “Whatever it was they were looking for, they didn’t find it. They left a few hours later.”

The detective is holding something back. I can feel it deep in my gut. “What else? And don’t lie. Tell me.”

There’s a long hesitation. I’d have thought he’d hung up if it weren’t for the noise in the background.

“They made plans.”

“Fucking hell, man. Spit it out.”

“That’s all I know. I couldn’t understand. The two Russians were talking among themselves. The other guy must’ve, because he wasn’t happy about it. Told them both that was too risky. A quick way to end up in the Thames after Mr. Doyle fucks them up.”

It feels good to know my threat about the Thames hit hard, but I don’t get to enjoy it long. His next words cut that off.

“One of the Russians pushed back. Doyle was the least of his worries. He was more concerned about fucking over Pakhan again. What Doyle would do to him would be child’s play compared to what Pakhan would do if they didn’t find it first.”

There’s a loud thud as if he’s dropped something on his desk. “That’s all I know.”

Which Mr. Doyle? And who is Pakhan? Why do I know that Russian word?

All he’s told me only adds to this shitshow. It’s like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle blindfolded—impossible to know where any piece fits.

“Did you see the man leave?”

“Maybe. I can’t be certain.” The clicking of his keyboard tells me he’s typing. “The first two ugly fuckers left first. About fifteen minutes later, another man left. It could’ve been a resident. He blended in well with the other residents. Nice suit. Shiny black shoes. Drove a Porsche.”

Lots of men drive Porsches, so it might not be him. But my gut says it is, and I always listen to my gut.

Fucking hell.

Cort Theiss lied to us last night. As soon as Silas learns about this, he’s going to castrate him with a dull butter knife and shove his bollocks down his throat.

I briefly look at Lane. He’s listening intently as he updates Pauly on what he needs to know for his upcoming meeting with D.C. Sanders. A firm nod and the calm assurance in his eyes tells me we’re set.

Time to instruct this copper what to do next.

“My man will be outside in five. Put the recordings inside an envelope. Go outside for a smoke. Place it on the bonnet of your car and walk away. Don’t fuck this up. If you’re late⁠—”

“I know. I’ll go for a swim in the Thames and understand what it feels like this time of year.” Sanders mumbles before he hangs up.

My grip on my phone is firm as I drop it to my side. “Motherfucker. This shit just keeps getting deeper.”

Lane nods and snaps his fingers. “You aren’t going to believe this, then.”

I shove my mobile into my pocket and fold my arms. “At this point, I’m not sure much else could surprise me.”

That puts a smirk on his face. “Well, let me see if I can try.”

He walks over to the wall where the portraits hang and turns to look at me. “It was messing with my head why these didn’t seem to have any smoke residue on them. How the hell is that possible if smoke was spilling into this room?”

I nod once to let him know I’m following and agree.

“It got me thinking.” He walks over to a statue.

This one’s not as erotic as the other. I think it might be a mother holding a baby, but I’m not sure. It could be something else, and I don’t plan to examine it that closely in case it is.

“What if there was a way to protect them, just in case?”