Broken Angels by Richard Montanari Page B

the bell. Twice. They waited, cupped their hands on the windows. Sheer curtains. Nothing visible. Byrne rang one more time, then inserted the key in the lock, opened the door. “Philly PD!” he said. No answer. They stepped inside.
    If the outside was attractive, the inside was immaculate—heartwood pine floors, maple cabinets in the kitchen, brass fixtures. There was no furniture.
    “I think I’m going to see if there are any receptionist jobs open,”
    Jessica said.
“Me too,” Byrne replied.
“You can work a switchboard?”
“I’ll learn.”
Jessica ran a hand over the raised paneling. “So, what do you think?
    Rich roommate or sugar daddy?”
“Two distinct possibilities.”
“Maybe an insanely jealous psycho pathic sugar daddy?” “A definite possibility.”
They called out again. The house appeared to be empty. They
    checked the basement, found a washer and dryer, still in the boxes, waiting to be installed. They checked the second floor. One bedroom held a folded futon; the other had a rollaway bed in the corner, a steamer trunk next to it.
    Jessica returned to the foyer, picked up the pile of mail on the floor in front of the door. She sorted through the stack. One of the bills was addressed to a Sonja Kedrova. There was also a pair of magazines addressed to Kristina Jakos— Dance and Architectural Digest. There were no personal letters or postcards.
    They stepped into the kitchen, opened a few drawers. Most were empty. Ditto on the lower cabinets. The cabinet beneath the sink held a collection of new apartment staples—sponges, Windex, paper towels, cleanser, bug spray. Young women always had a supply of bug spray.
    She was just about to close the last cupboard door when they heard the creak of the floorboards. Before they could turn around they heard something that was far more ominous, far more lethal. The click of a revolver being cocked behind them.
    “Don’t . . . fucking ...move,” came a voice from the other side of the room. It was a woman’s voice. Eastern European accent and cadence. It was the roommate.
    Jessica and Byrne froze, hands out to their sides. “We’re police officers,” Byrne said.
“And I’m Angelina Jolie. Now put your hands up.”
Jessica and Byrne both raised their hands.
“You must be Sonja Kedrova,” Byrne said.
Silence. Then, “How do you know my name?”
“Like I said. We’re police officers. I’m going to reach into my coat now, very slowly, and pull out my ID. Okay?”
A long pause. Too long.
“Sonja?” Byrne asked. “You with me?”
“Okay,” she said. “Slow.”
Byrne complied. “Here we go,” he said. Without turning around, he plucked his ID out of his pocket, held it out.
A few more seconds passed. “Okay. So you are police. What’s this about?”
“Can we put our hands down?” Byrne asked.
“Yes.”
Jessica and Byrne put down their hands, turned around.
Sonja Kedrova was about twenty-five. She had teardrop eyes, full lips, deep auburn hair. Where Kristina had been pretty, Sonja was glamorous. She wore a long tan coat, black leather boots, a plum silk scarf.
“What is that you’re holding?” Byrne asked, pointing at the gun.
“It’s a gun.”
“It’s a starter’s pistol. It fires blanks.”
“My father gave it to me to protect myself.”
“That gun is about as deadly as a squirt gun.”
“And yet you put your hands up.”
Touché, Jessica thought. Byrne wasn’t amused.
“We need to ask you a few questions,” Jessica said.
“And this could not wait until I arrived home? You had to break into my house?”
“I’m afraid it can’t wait,” Jessica replied. She held up the key. “And we didn’t break in.”
Sonja looked confused for a moment, then shrugged. She put the starter’s pistol into a drawer, closed it. “Okay,” she said. “Ask your ‘questions.’ ”
“Do you know a woman named Kristina Jakos?”
“Yes,” she said. Wary now. Her eyes danced between them. “I know Kristina. We are roommates.”
“How