Free Words With Fiends by Ali Brandon Page A

for a half hour. I just hope I’m not paying overtime here. Now, what about your document?”.
    Jake handed over the thumb drive. “It’s the one tagged Putin101. Give me five . . . no, ten copies, and that should be enough.”
    Nodding, Darla booted up her computer and turned on the printer; then, casually, she said, “I guess this has something to do with your case for our gangster friend?”
    â€œIf you mean
Alex
, then yes.” The older woman hesitated, and then added, “I guess it doesn’t hurt to tell you, since I’m going to be showing her photo around town. His mother has gone missing, and I’m trying to track her down.”
    â€œOh, no, how awful.”
    Regretting her previous flip attitude, Darla tried not to feel guilty now as she pictured some tiny old lady in a babushka wandering the streets of Brooklyn. Gangster or not, surely the man was frantic with worry.
    â€œShouldn’t he call the police, too?” Darla asked as she plugged the tiny drive in a free USB slot. “I mean, it’s a good thing he has you on the case, but if poor old Mrs. Putin is suffering from Alzheimer’s or something, then maybe the authorities should be notified.”
    â€œBelieve me, this isn’t a case for the cops.”
    Something in Jake’s dry tone made Darla glance up from the computer. The PI was shaking her head, while a smile played about her generous mouth. “Go ahead, look at her picture, and you’ll see what I mean.”
    Puzzled, Darla quickly opened the file. An image popped up on screen, and she blinked. After a moment of stunned silence, she said, “Wow. Seriously?”
    â€œSeriously,” Jake replied “Yeah, kid, that’s poor old Mrs. Putin . . . aka the Russian Bombshell, as I like to call her.”
    Russian Bombshell.
    That pretty well nailed it, Darla thought as she stared at the exotic beauty whose image filled her screen. The woman looked Jake’s age, maybe a couple of years older. Her hair had been cropped into a fashionably short do and hennaed to the blazing shade of red favored by Eastern European women of a certain age. Her gray eyes had an exotic Slavic tilt to them that was exaggerated by the heavy black liner she wore. Her full lips had no need of any artificial plumper and appeared even larger with the application of red lipstick a shade darker than her spiky tresses. Staring at the screen, Darla was seized by a momentary urge to rush to the salon down the street and demand that her own auburn hair be chopped off into something that chic.
    â€œBut I was expecting . . . I mean, she’s so—”
    â€œYoung? Hot?” Jake supplied, the smile broadening into a grin.
    While Darla began printing the photos, her friend continued, “I have to admit, I was pretty shocked myself when Alex showed me the picture. Seems she married his father back in Russia when she was sixteen, so that only puts her in her mid-fifties now. Old Mr. Putin—and he really
was
old, almost thirty years older than his wife—died last year. Apparently Mrs. Putin is making up for lost time and lost youth. Alex thinks she’s run off with a younger man.”
    â€œWell, good for her,” Darla replied with an approving nod, handing over the finished prints and unplugging the thumb drive. “Can you imagine being sixteen and married to someone middle-aged like that?”
    Jake snorted. “Even worse, can you imagine being forty and stuck with some guy who probably is too old to—”
    She broke off as Darla gave a frantic wave and gestured in the direction of Brody, who was well within earshot.
    â€œWell, you know what I mean,” she finished with a wink. “Anyway, Mama Putin took off one day last week while Alex was at work. Packed up all her clothes, all the tchotchkes. All she left behind was a note that pretty well translated to
See you later,