Free Genie for Hire by Neil Plakcy Page A

Perla, her
accessories from Chanel, Louis Vuitton and Hermes. A few gold rings, necklaces
and bracelets were kept in a jewelry box on the vanity in the dressing area.
    The single item out of the ordinary was a frayed polyester
housecoat in a garish floral print, folded and stowed on a high shelf. The
label was in Cyrillic, and from the fabric he could tell it was older than he
knew Douschka herself to be. A souvenir of Russia? A memento of a dead
relative? Surely if Douschka had left for good she would have taken something
with so much meaning with her.
    Kiril’s scent was much stronger than his wife’s, and after
prowling the rest of the apartment it was clear to Biff that she had not been
there for a few days.
    So where was she? Had Kiril sent her away? On vacation, or
back to Russia? Wherever she had gone, she hadn’t taken much with her; a
complete set of Louis Vuitton luggage was in the master bedroom closet, and
there were no gaps in her wardrobe to indicate clothing taken away.
    Biff stood in the middle of the bedroom, opened his third
eye, and tried once again to focus on the emotional frequencies in the room.
Had Douschka and Kiril had argued in the bedroom? Had she left in haste?
    There was anger there, certainly. Yet it appeared to be all
one-sided. From the wavelengths, which were mostly masculine, Biff assumed that
Kiril had been the one with the anger. The only emotions Biff could sense from
Douschka had been happy, so if there had been a confrontation with Kiril, it
had happened elsewhere.
    Frustrated, Biff left the condo. The elevator responded to
his summons, and he rode it down to the lobby, nodding to the concierge as he
strolled across the marble lobby. Outside, the weather mirrored his mood—it had
turned gray and ugly, and as he drove north on A1A the rain swept in, nearly
horizontal showers that blasted against the car windows. Within minutes the
water began pooling in shallow places along the curbs and where hotel driveways
met the street.
    Gale-force winds attacked his tiny car, threatening to push
it across to the next lane. Biff held tight to the steering wheel and plowed
ahead, his focus on driving. The flooding reminded him once again of Farishta.
He had seen her run out into thunderstorms with her arms spread wide open, her
face up to the sky, her hair streaming out behind her, soaking in the rain.
    By the time he reached the Aventura Beach Shopping Center,
the wind had eased, but the rain was still heavy. He opened his glove
compartment and pulled out a square of heavy-duty rubber, about two inches on
each side. He balanced it on the top of his head, closed his eyes, and focused
his energy on it.
    The rubber grew and stretched, draping itself over him until
it took on the shape of a raincoat, complete with hat, face mask, gloves and
galoshes. He looked something like a beekeeper or an undersea explorer, he
thought, as he clambered out of the Mini Cooper and lumbered across the parking
lot, into the dry safety of his office.
    Once inside, he closed his eyes and refocused. While the
square of rubber resumed its original shape he also spelled the tile floor dry
where he had dripped on it. Then with a sigh he sat back down at his computer
with one hand on the lamp for power, and the other on his computer mouse, for information.
    Biff had dealt with enough criminals over the centuries to
understand how they thought. He could tell from his few interactions with
Ovetschkin that the man looked at people as either strong or weak; that was a
classic part of the career criminal mentality. Right now, he must see Sveta as
weak. So it was up to Biff to shift the balance of power and make Ovetschkin
fear harming her.
    But what was Ovetschkin afraid of? Losing his money? His citizenship?
Being arrested for arms trafficking? Physical attack?
    He remembered Ovetschkin’s deference to the man called The
Professor, and how Hector Hernandez had described The Professor as much bigger
than Ovetschkin. How could he