“My parents worked for a global aid agency and were on the move every few months. I grew up in a lot of exotic spots around the world. A guy in Kenya taught me knife fighting when I was sixteen.” I didn’t add that an instructor in CIA Special Projects gave me pointers, too.
“And that was, what, ten years ago? You’ve stayed in practice.”
“Like riding a bike.”
“That’s very handy.”
“Not until now. It’s not like I do it at children’s parties.”
She tapped out a beat with the edge of her pencil against the table. “You own The Select, true?”
“Yes, I own it. What else? I have had the snot beaten out of me tonight. Are you arresting me?”
She hesitated. “Given you have a number of witnesses who support your story of self-defense, I spoke with the district attorney’s office, and they don’t seem inclined to have you arrested.”
I tried not to sag in relief.
“But…the case could go to the grand jury, and they might make a different decision.”
“May I go home now?”
“Just a couple more questions. You don’t reside here in San Francisco?”
“I own bars all over the world, and I travel, visiting all of them,” I said. “It keeps me moving around fairly steadily. New Orleans is my home base, though.”
“How many bars?”
“Thirty-two at last count.”
She raised an eyebrow and the scowl deepened. “Wow, and you’re what, twenty-six? Entrepreneurial, aren’t you? How lucrative. You’re like a cocktail tycoon.”
“It can be a moneymaker. Unless you have customers being attacked and you stand there and do nothing. Then the customers tend to sit on some other stools at some other tavern.”
“Do you own any bars in Russia?”
“Yes. One in Moscow.” I hadn’t visited it yet. I blinked, wondering why she cared. And then, mental rewind, I saw where this was going.
Uh-oh.
“One of the witnesses in the bar said you spoke Russian to the dead man after he spoke it to you.”
“I speak several languages. As I mentioned, I grew up all over the world.”
“But what a coincidence that you and this attacker both speak Russian.”
“Three hundred million people do, actually.”
“Perhaps in Russia. It’s a rarer skill in America. Did you know him?”
I already knew his name—Grigori Rostov—as I’d searched his pockets and found a driver’s license in his wallet. And his cell phone. I slipped his ID under mine in my wallet and put his phone in my pocket. So when the police officers searched me and found wallet and phone, it didn’t occur to them that there was a second ID wedged in my wallet or that the cell phone in my suit jacket wasn’t my own. You have to think creatively in these situations.
“I don’t know him. I had never seen him or the other man before.”
“What did he say to you in Russian?”
“He called me an idiot. I agreed with him.” I could feel the conversation move in a direction I dreaded. Maybe this wasn’t about a woman in trouble. Maybe a man who owned thirty-two bars around the world had enemies. I could imagine the thought inching across her brain.
She made a note on her pad.
I kept my voice calm. “Let’s review who the actual bad guys are. One pulled a knife, one pulled a gun, in my place of business.”
I knew it was a trump card and it shut her up. She glanced back at her tightly written notes. I didn’t wait for her to ask a question again. I wanted a new normal: just running the bars and taking care of my kid. The bars were the safe houses for Mila’s team, but that didn’t mean I had to play spy anymore. I could just be like Rick Blaine in Casablanca (well, how he wanted to be before Ilsa showed up) and run the bar and not get involved in the world’s troubles. The only trouble I wanted came from mixing drinks too strong. So I cut her off.
“My bar, my customers, my responsibility. I suppose it’s a practically medieval idea—my protection offered under my roof.”
“I suppose this woman you
“And that was, what, ten years ago? You’ve stayed in practice.”
“Like riding a bike.”
“That’s very handy.”
“Not until now. It’s not like I do it at children’s parties.”
She tapped out a beat with the edge of her pencil against the table. “You own The Select, true?”
“Yes, I own it. What else? I have had the snot beaten out of me tonight. Are you arresting me?”
She hesitated. “Given you have a number of witnesses who support your story of self-defense, I spoke with the district attorney’s office, and they don’t seem inclined to have you arrested.”
I tried not to sag in relief.
“But…the case could go to the grand jury, and they might make a different decision.”
“May I go home now?”
“Just a couple more questions. You don’t reside here in San Francisco?”
“I own bars all over the world, and I travel, visiting all of them,” I said. “It keeps me moving around fairly steadily. New Orleans is my home base, though.”
“How many bars?”
“Thirty-two at last count.”
She raised an eyebrow and the scowl deepened. “Wow, and you’re what, twenty-six? Entrepreneurial, aren’t you? How lucrative. You’re like a cocktail tycoon.”
“It can be a moneymaker. Unless you have customers being attacked and you stand there and do nothing. Then the customers tend to sit on some other stools at some other tavern.”
“Do you own any bars in Russia?”
“Yes. One in Moscow.” I hadn’t visited it yet. I blinked, wondering why she cared. And then, mental rewind, I saw where this was going.
Uh-oh.
“One of the witnesses in the bar said you spoke Russian to the dead man after he spoke it to you.”
“I speak several languages. As I mentioned, I grew up all over the world.”
“But what a coincidence that you and this attacker both speak Russian.”
“Three hundred million people do, actually.”
“Perhaps in Russia. It’s a rarer skill in America. Did you know him?”
I already knew his name—Grigori Rostov—as I’d searched his pockets and found a driver’s license in his wallet. And his cell phone. I slipped his ID under mine in my wallet and put his phone in my pocket. So when the police officers searched me and found wallet and phone, it didn’t occur to them that there was a second ID wedged in my wallet or that the cell phone in my suit jacket wasn’t my own. You have to think creatively in these situations.
“I don’t know him. I had never seen him or the other man before.”
“What did he say to you in Russian?”
“He called me an idiot. I agreed with him.” I could feel the conversation move in a direction I dreaded. Maybe this wasn’t about a woman in trouble. Maybe a man who owned thirty-two bars around the world had enemies. I could imagine the thought inching across her brain.
She made a note on her pad.
I kept my voice calm. “Let’s review who the actual bad guys are. One pulled a knife, one pulled a gun, in my place of business.”
I knew it was a trump card and it shut her up. She glanced back at her tightly written notes. I didn’t wait for her to ask a question again. I wanted a new normal: just running the bars and taking care of my kid. The bars were the safe houses for Mila’s team, but that didn’t mean I had to play spy anymore. I could just be like Rick Blaine in Casablanca (well, how he wanted to be before Ilsa showed up) and run the bar and not get involved in the world’s troubles. The only trouble I wanted came from mixing drinks too strong. So I cut her off.
“My bar, my customers, my responsibility. I suppose it’s a practically medieval idea—my protection offered under my roof.”
“I suppose this woman you
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