Actually, Gabby’s expectations couldn’t get low enough. A glance out the bedroom window showed that Smirnov had made good on his threat. Mischa was parked in a gray sedan right at the end of her driveway. She had a great view of him recklessly sucking down a Big Gulp like he had access to a bathroom. He clearly hadn’t given birth twice. The remnants of last weekend’s sidewalk chalk art were right in front of his car. Lucas had spelled “POOPING!!” at the end of the driveway next to a picture of a guy pooping. Yesterday, she would have shaken her head in consternation. Today, she was ready to fiercely defend her child’s right to draw allthe crappy artwork without a fucking mobster watching over him. Mischa needed to get out of her sight.
Filled with righteous fury, Gabby slipped on her Crocs and marched down her driveway, ready to read that mobster the riot act. Fuck Smirnov for threatening her children, for putting her in this position. How was she supposed to focus on ransacking Kramer’s office today with a murderer parked at the end of her driveway?
On impulse, she dragged the sprinkler toward the street. The least she could do was make him uncomfortable. How dare he drink a blue raz slushie like threatening her family was no big deal? After some effort, because the hose was stuck on something, she made it to the car, panting. She threw the sprinkler down. “You need to move!” she shouted. “I have children—” The hose was twisted, and she couldn’t get the damn thing to point toward the car.
“Gabby, what are you yelling at Mischa for?”
“Granny?” Gabby blinked at the scene before her. Her grandmother was standing at the driver’s side, leaning casually into the window. She appeared to be chatting up the mob security.
“Have you met Mischa?” Granny asked, as if Mischa were some long-lost cousin. “He’s just here… What did you say you’re doing again, Mischa?” she asked.
“Um, the city hired me to… uh… review traffic.” Mischa’s accent was thick. A person might assume that his dumb job description was a misstatement.
Gabby raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck is a review of traffic? This is Avocado Avenue.”
“Mischa is from the old country.” Granny patted his forearm fondly and rattled off a few sentences in Russian.
Mischa threw back his head and laughed. Gabby was ninety-nine percent sure it was a joke about her. Whatever it was must have been hysterical, because it launched a rapid-fire conversation entirely in Russian, leaving her standing and staring at the two of them.
“This is not polite,” she insisted. For all she knew, Granny was giving out the code to the house, not that she hadn’t been a little loose with that herself this week.
“Mischa was just saying that he is not having much luck with American girls. What’s the problem with them?”
Mischa rattled off some Russian, and Granny laughed. “They talk too much, eh.” Granny nodded in sympathy, as if she had the same problem. “What’s your favorite food, Mischa?” Granny asked.
“Pelmeni,” he answered. “You can’t get a good dumpling in Los Angeles.”
This was unbelievable. Maybe it would help, though. It might be harder for him to kill them after Granny spent all day talking him up. Or easier.
“I have to head into the office in a few minutes,” Gabby said.
Granny looked at Mischa. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
Gabby fought the urge to shake her grandmother as they walked back to the house.
No matter what, she’d be done tomorrow. If she handed over the material to Smirnov and the EOD arrested Orlov, it would be over. No more Mischa. No more EOD. Failing—she tried not to think about that. Before she went in the house, she turned the water to the sprinkler on and was rewarded by a gratifying string of Russian profanity.
Twenty minutes later, as she was leaving the house, Gabby paused and looked her grandmother right in the eye. “Granny, you know the guy parked outside… he’s not really here for a traffic study.”
Granny raised an eyebrow. “Gabriella, I know that. I wasn’t born yesterday.” With a nod, she said, “He’s a nice boy, though.”
“What do you think he’s here for?”
Granny chuckled. “I don’t know, Gabby. You tell me.”
Gabby fought the impulse to confess everything to her grandma. It would be the right thing to do, to let her grandma understand the risks. But Smirnov told her to keep quiet. What if Granny called the police? Gabby had made this mess, and she would get them out of it. Granny could just take the kids to bingo and act sort of normal.
Granny, clearly not understanding the stakes, killed the moment of almost honesty with a stern look. She shook her head in disappointment. “I said to be salty with that young man, not scare him. You look like roadkill.”
After not sleeping all week and not bothering to Spanx in her muffin top, Gabby looked worse than roadkill. The roadkill in her closet went for $500.
As she pulled out of the driveway, Gabby locked eyes with Mischa. He gave a businesslike nod, and a grim understanding passed between them. He didn’t look eager to kill her, but if Smirnov ordered five hits, he’d deliver.
On the way to work, she popped into an overpriced hipster coffee shop, the kind that served coffee without sugar or syrup and fifteen-dollar avocado toast. On impulse, she bought a quad-shot latte and a couple of five-dollar scones, one for her and one for Fran. Doing something nice for someone else was always a goodidea. Now that she knew Fran was killing herself trying to become Kramer’s partner or whatever, Gabby couldn’t help but feel bad for the woman. “That Jan” couldn’t even get his coffee right—Kramer couldn’t care less about her.
As she thought of Kramer, he texted,Plz reschedule security team. Not going to be in today.
Finally, a break. At least she could look for the codes in peace.
