Free Murder on Marble Row by Victoria Thompson Page B

old training in manners. “And what on earth are you doing here?”
    He reached out, and she took his hands, squeezing hard. “I’m looking for you,” she said.
    Beside them, the girl made a small sound of distress, and when Sarah looked at her, she saw both fear and hatred burning the girl’s black eyes.
    â€œIt’s all right, Kat,” he said. “Sarah is an old friend.”
    â€œIs he old friend, too?” Katya challenged with a slight Russian accent, using her chin to point past Sarah to where Malloy stood in the shadows of the hallway.
    â€œCreighton, this is my friend, Frank Malloy,” Sarah said quickly. “He was kind enough to escort me down her to find you.”
    â€œDo not trust them, Petya,” the girl said. “He is police.”
    Creighton stiffened instantly and dropped Sarah’s hands. He was staring warily at Malloy, who stared back with that look he used to intimidate people. She wanted to smack him for frightening Creighton. “Mr. Malloy is a detective sergeant with the police,” she admitted. “He accompanied me down here because we have some bad news for you.”
    The two other men who had been eating with Creighton had come to stand behind him, ready to offer whatever help he might need. Unlike Creighton, they looked as if they were no strangers to work and even violence. Their eyes were hard and their expressions threatening. Sarah held her breath while she waited for Creighton to decide whether to trust her or to turn his friends loose on them.
    â€œWhat kind of bad news?” he asked, still keeping his gaze fixed on Malloy.
    â€œAbout your father,” Sarah said.
    His gaze shifted instantly to her. “Did he send you here? I can’t believe it! Well, you can tell him he’s wasting his time and yours. I’m not going back there. I could never live like that again.”
    â€œHe didn’t send me, Creighton. He can’t. He’s dead.” She hated breaking it to him like that, but she was afraid to be subtle any longer.
    He stared at her for a long moment, uncomprehending. “Dead?” he echoed, as if he’d never heard the word before.
    â€œYes,” Sarah confirmed. “Someone planted a bomb in his office.”
    Then, to her surprise, he turned accusingly to the girl. “A bomb ?” he demanded of her.
    â€œPetya, no,” she pleaded, shaking her head frantically.
    He whirled to face the other two men and said something to them in Russian. They replied angrily, and Creighton started slapping at them. Malloy shoved Sarah roughly aside and grabbed Creighton’s arm, twisting it up behind his back until he cried out in pain. The girl screamed and started beating on Malloy while the two men dashed into the front room of the flat. They could hear the sounds of a window opening and the men scrambling out onto the fire escape.
    Sarah caught the girl’s wrists and struggled with her a moment while Malloy shoved Creighton into the nearest chair. The girl stopped fighting and wrenched free, throwing herself down to her knees beside Creighton’s chair. She was babbling in Russian, trying to get hold of his arm, but he jerked it away and turned toward the table, resting his elbows on it among the plates of food and burying his face in his hands.
    â€œKatya!” Malloy said sharply, making the girl jump. She looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. “Get him something to drink. Do you have any whiskey?”
    â€œVodka,” Creighton muttered.
    The girl pushed herself up, using the edge of the table for support. She wasn’t more than about six months along, but the baby was already a burden. She stumbled to where several crates had been nailed to the wall to provide cabinet space, and she pulled down a bottle of clear liquid. The bottle was scratched and stained from much use, the mouth stuffed with a scrap of rag. Obviously, the contents were home-brewed.