“The Kozlov family has always been valued clients,” he babbles as he leads us through the main exhibition space. “I can’t imagine what irregularities you’re referring to. Our records are impeccable.”
“Then you won’t mind if we review them,” I respond.
Deny’s smile becomes strained. “Of course. Whatever you need.”
The financial records tell a different story than his confident assurances. Three hours of reviewing transaction logs reveal a pattern of money movement that’s systematic and sophisticated. Art pieces purchased at inflated prices. Funds routed through shell companies. Commission structures that don’t make sense.
“Someone’s been laundering money through this gallery,” I tell Tony quietly while Deny hovers nervously near the door.
“You’re sure?”
“The transaction codes don’t match any Kozlov operations I’m aware of. And these shell companies?” I point to a series of names in the ledger. “I’ve never seen them. Someone’s been using our family’s reputation to legitimize their illegal activities.”
“Piggybacking on the Kozlov name to avoid scrutiny.”
“Exactly.” I close the ledger. “Whoever’s doing this knows enough about our operations to make it look convincing, butthey made mistakes. Small ones that only someone intimately familiar with how we do business would catch.”
The muscle in Tony’s jaw ticks. “So, we’re looking for someone with inside knowledge but not complete access.”
“Or someone who got their information secondhand. Through a contact, or a mole.”
The word settles between us. We’ve been dancing around this possibility since the apartment shooting, but saying it out loud makes it real.
“We should take copies of everything,” Tony suggests. “Let Dmitri’s people analyze it more.”
I nod and photograph the relevant pages while Deny watches with poorly concealed panic. By the time we finish, the gallery owner is sweating through his expensive shirt.
“We’ll be in touch,” I tell him as we leave. “Don’t destroy anything.”
“I would never?—”
“Don’t.” Tony’s voice carries a threat that makes Deny flinch. “Ms. Kozlov’s brothers don’t take kindly to people who waste their time.”
The evening air is cold and crisp outside. St. Petersburg in winter has a brutal beauty that Moscow lacks. The buildings are more elegant, and the architecture is more European. I’ve always loved this city, even if I rarely get to visit.
“You hungry?” Tony asks.
“Starving.”
“I know a place. Small restaurant near the Hermitage. Best pelmeni in the city.”
“You’ve been to St. Petersburg?”
“A few times.” He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. Whatever brought him here before is part of the life he had before me. The life I’m still trying to understand.
The restaurant is what he described. It’s tiny, and tucked into a basement beneath a bookshop, with maybe ten tables and a menu written in chalk on the wall. The owner greets Tony by name and leads us to a corner table with a view of the kitchen.
“You come here often?” I ask as we take our seats.
“Not for years. But some places stick with you.”
We order wine and food, and the conversation flows more easily than it should between two people who are technically working together under suspicious circumstances. Tony asks more about my time at Christie’s. I tell him about the forgeries I caught, the genuine masterpieces I authenticated, and the satisfaction of building something entirely my own.
“You miss it,” he observes.
I take a sip of wine and nod. “London was the first time I felt like I wasn’t just Dmitri Kozlov’s little sister. I had a reputation I built myself. Colleagues who respected my work, not my family connections.”
“So why come back?”
