28. Radimir

28

RADIMIR

I checked the door viewer and then swung the door wide. Two people, both in suits. Not uniformed officers but detectives. Alarm bells started ringing in my head.

“Detective Winwick,” said the woman. She gestured at the man standing next to her. “Detective Bickel. Can we come in?”

It’s always a tricky dance, when I’m dealing with the police. I didn’t have to let them in, but objecting would be suspicious. I keep the penthouse clean: there was nothing there that could incriminate me. A week ago, I wouldn’t have cared if they entered. But now, with Bronwyn there and her possessions everywhere, it didn’t feel like a sterile, throwaway place. It felt like a home. Our home. And I resented them invading it.

I stepped back and wordlessly held the door open. The two detectives trooped in. Bickel was big and powerfully built, with a slick, midnight-blue suit. Winwick was tall, blonde, and very pretty: I got a hint of her perfume as she passed, like sweet spice and exotic berries. But there was only one woman I cared about. Bronwyn had retreated into the main room and was standing behind an armchair, looking terrified.

“And who are you?” Detective Winwick asked. Her smile was sweet, but I could see her eyes assessing, measuring, trying to get a read on Bronwyn.

“My fiancée,” I said, scowling. I sat down on one of the couches and motioned the detectives to another. I was hoping Bronwyn would take the hint and escape to another room. She didn’t need to suffer this. “What’s this about?”

Winwick looked me right in the eye. “We’re investigating the murder of Borislav Nazarov.”

I didn’t so much as blink, despite the snakes twisting in my stomach. I’ve had a lot of practice being questioned. “I heard it was an accident.”

“New evidence has come to light,” said Winwick. “So, I’m curious, where were you, about 10pm on the sixth?”

Bronwyn hadn’t left. She was still standing there, shifting from foot to foot. She’d probably never had any contact with the police and that thought unleashed a fresh wave of protective need. She didn’t deserve to get in trouble. Get out of here, I silently willed her. “ I’m curious why you’d come to me,” I told Winwick. “I’m a well-respected businessman.”

“One with past ties to the Nazarov brothers,” said Winwick. “I’ve done my homework. And you haven’t answered my question. Where were you?”

I swallowed. I didn’t have an alibi. I hadn’t thought I’d need one because I’d staged the murder to look like an accident. But apparently I’d missed some detail, probably when I ran to go after Bronwyn. “This is ridiculous,” I told her, standing up.

“We can talk about this here, now,” said Winwick, her voice rising in excitement, “or we can talk about it downtown. One more time, Mr. Aristov: where were you?”

Bronwyn suddenly stepped forward. “He was with me.”