I keep my placid smile in place. “I don’t know.” I have a sneaky suspicion that Thorn Beathach killed Cal Sokolov, but I can’t prove it, and I would never ask Alana, his fian-cée, who also happens to be one of my best friends.
“I’m sure the family has investigators on it,” Cage notes, admiring himself in my ornate mirror. “But it’s my understanding they’ll be of no help in this case. They disowned Alexei even before he was convicted of murder.”
“I see,” I murmur.
Cage straightens. “Although now that Cal is dead, maybe Hendrix will want another brother to help at the helm.”
Not based on the way Alexei had objected to his last name. “I’ll need to speak with the family.”
“I agree, and I’ll go with you if you like.”
“Thank you, but I can handle this case.”
His gaze warms. “Of course. Also, look on the bright side. If you do get a new trial and we get him off, you’ll probably score an office on the 11th floor.”
I meet his gaze evenly. “I’m aiming for the 12th.”
He chuckles. “I know. We all know.” With that, he turns and disappears from my doorway.
My ambition has never been a secret, but I’m sure they don’t understand the reasons behind it. It’s not only money I crave. It’s security. A stack of unpaid bills sits over to the right of my computer to remind me. My student loans are due, as is payment for the mortgage I took out on my home after inheriting it outright. But there had been no other alternative. Not really. I look at the pearl and silver letter opener that had been a present from Alana when I graduated law school, now sitting innocuously on the bills, ready to shred them open and stress me out.
My attention is drawn to the evidence from Alexei’s trial.
Idly, I grasp the top disc, noting it was filmed the night of the murder, and shove it in the disc bank attached to my computer. I had secured the attachment from the basement earlier in the week. These days, a USB would be used. A lot has changed in seven years. I’ll go through all of the discs later, but I’m just curious for a hint of what they might show.
The video appears of Alexei from at least seven years ago. He’s smiling with his arm around the neck of another man at a bar, who’s laughing and spitting up what looks like beer. Women cling to Alexei’s arms, and a stunning blond futilely tries to remove the choke hold, snorting with giggles.
I open a file folder and scan notes and annotated pictures to see that Alexei and his friend Garik Petrov owned the Amethyst Pony. What a stupid name for a bar. The guy being choked is Garik. He’s around Alexei’s age but wears a tattered T-shirt and has forgone a haircut for an immeasurable amount of time. He seems rough, like he should be the bouncer and not co-owner.
I watch them laugh and joke and goof off on the screen. Alexei looks different. Younger definitely, but more free with fewer tattoos. The panther on his neck must’ve been inked while in prison.
When he looks at the camera, obviously knowing he’s being videoed, there’s still an edge in his eyes. The same one I saw today. He’s dressed in an expensive-looking white shirt with embroidered dragons on each breast, and it’s unbuttoned to his navel. His slacks are black and perfectly creased. He was slimmer back then, in good shape but not nearly as hard cut as he is now. On the video, he releases the other guy, and they move past several women trying to grab them, to reach a stage.
Both pick up guitars.
I lean forward, curious. They play a hard rock song and Alexei sings. His voice is smooth and sexy, even with a hint of devilment in it. He smiles as he croons about lost love and murderous dragons. It’s impressive. The man can sing. At least he could. Today in the prison, his voice had been darker, deeper, raw, and more scratched like he’d screamed for years.
As I watch, women throw panties and bras onto the stage. He grabs several pairs and laughs, tossing them in the air and catching one. He stops singing, holding white lace panties up. “It looks like we have a winner tonight, and they’re still warm. Who just pulled these off for me?”
A woman shrieks happily from the audience and runs forward, climbing onto the stage wearing a sheer white dress, sans the undies. She’s a young brunette, hopefully at least eighteen. Pink flushes her face, and her nipples are hard beneath the barely there material. She hops up and down, her hands clutching at one of his arms.
“I guess you won, darlin’.” He leans over and kisses her, one hand sweeping down to grab her ass, the epitome of a spoiled rich boy accepting a gift. “Free drinks for the entire month.”
She squeals and presses closer to him.
I note that his business partner has his lips pressed tightly together. So Garik didn’t like his buddy giving away booze.
Alexei cuts him a quick look. “I’ll cover it.”
Garik’s face relaxes.
The brunette leans up and whispers something into Alexei’s ear.
He grins and shakes his head, looking over the crowd to the bar. “I’m afraid not tonight, sweet thing. I have plans.”
I zoom in to study a woman sitting on a bar stool turned to face the stage, her legs crossed with a slit up the sparkling red material that reveals her well-toned thigh. It’s Blythe Fairfax, and her platinum blonde hair is cut with sharp edges across her shoulders, which are bare except for thin spaghetti straps holding up the elegant and sexy dress. Her lips, painted in matching scarlet, and her eyes, adorned with heavy makeup, complete the look. Her smile looks possessive.
At the time of the recording, Alexei had to be in his early twenties, and she was at least in her late thirties, maybe early forties. There’s no doubt she’s beautiful, yet I find it odd that she was so public with their affair. They hadn’t seemed to hide it from anybody. I scratch a note on a sticky pad to dive deeper into her deceased husband. Anybody partying at the Amethyst Pony that night would’ve clearly seen that the two were involved.
