"At least ten so far."
"Dr. Kevin Sinclair sold girls. He sold me for $50,000. To pay for his fucking sports cars that were so important to him, his house in theHamptons."I laugh. It's high and a little hysterical. "His apartment in London. I thought his family was rich because even a surgeon doesn't pull that kind of money. How many more are there like him?"
"We're still going through all his known connections from the club and hospital that fit the profile," he says. "Combing through bank records, looking for unusual cash transfers for hidden accounts. So far, nothing that fits."
That's not all. Dmitri looks haggard.
"What else?" I whisper. "Tell me."
"The police found Ilya outside of his parent's house this morning, carrying a pile of cash and his passport. He'd been killed in the same way."
***
A few days later, I return home to an empty penthouse, sweaty and bedraggled after six hours of emergency surgery. Five of the Morozov men came in wounded, two of them with chemical burns after an "incident" at one of their warehouses. I was getting good about what questions I asked, just how they got their injuries. Don't tell me anything else. Do not elaborate.
I want a long, hot bath, dinner, and Dmitri. Actually, the bath and Dmitri first, dinner could wait. He's probably busy cleaning up this latest mess with some cartel that I refuse to hear about. A bit discouraged, I go turn on the water, shedding my scrubs in a little trail behind me.
When I get out of the tub, my scrubs have been picked up and thrown in the hamper, and a flowing summer dress in shades of blue and green lay on the bed with a note.
My little Magpie,
Meet me on the roof in five minutes.
~D.
As I'm hastily blow-drying my hair, I can hear the dull thud of rotors as a helicopter lands on the roof. Dmitri has used this wildly expensive method of transportation every now and then when he had urgent meetings.
After the barest suggestion of lipstick and eyeliner, I take the stairs two at a time, swinging my sandals in my hand. The wind from the helicopter blades hits me like a slap. I'm holding down my dress, hair flying loose as Dmitri stands there in his gray suit and a vivid green tie, calm and unruffled.
Good lord, the man'shairis still in place.
"Are you ready, Magpie?" he shouts over the noise of the rotors, holding out one broad palm to me.
I eye it suspiciously. "Where are we going?"
He gives me a grin. It's one I've not seen before, it's more open. Youthful and anticipatory. "I'm taking you to dinner," he says, and I take his hand. I could never say no to a grin like that.
The helicopter swoops through the canyon of high-rises, swiftly gaining altitude, soaring over the water. The late afternoon lights up the ocean with bursts of green and blue and gold over the surface. Trawlers and tugs decorate the water, sharing space with expensive yachts and a cruise liner. The flight can't be more than an hour or so before we're approaching a small island, all craggy rocks and a white lighthouse standing tall. The pilot lands us on the grass and Dmitri helps me out.
"We're having dinner at alighthouse?" I say with a huge grin. "I love lighthouses!"
"Yes darling, I know," he says. "You sketch them in the margins of my books."
"It was just that one time," I protest, immediately feeling guilty. "I did buy you a new edition right away."
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a sheet of paper, carefully folded. It's the page from that book with my drawing of a lighthouse vivid, though inexpertly detailed. White like this one, even with the small cottage I'd added, little shrubs and trees, and on its own island.
I look at him in disbelief. "You searched through all the island lighthouses on theEast Coastuntil you found one that most closely matched my drawing?" I ask incredulously, hands pressed to my heart.
"It's fortunate that the Murrow Point lighthouse was similar," he says. "The next closest was down near Florida."
"You are the sweetest and most thoughtful man on any given day, but this is over the top. Cowboys will sing songs about you around campfires, women will toast to your legendary status on girl's night for decades to come, men everywhere willhateyou for raising the bar." He's laughing, it sounds more relaxed, not the polite chuckle he usually gives.
"Come on." He takes my hand. "We have several flights of stairs to circle before we make it to the top and you get your dinner."
Marie is a talented chef with a huge grin and a magical way with lobster and citrus ceviche. To Dmitri's amusement, I thank her lavishly for every new dish and by the time she brings out dessert - blueberry bread and butter pudding - I'm ready to propose marriage.
"I do appreciate your enthusiasm," she says demurely. "But your companion is giving me meaningful glares that I'm interpreting as, 'get the hell out now and leave us alone.'"
