Murder Under Cover by Kate Carlisle Page A

and find out anytime soon.”
    “No.” He pondered the facts for a moment. “She was able to drive to your home, so she had her keys, at least.”
    “Right,” I murmured. “And she had her purse. So I assume the guy didn’t steal her wallet. Which kind of creeps me out even more. I mean, a burglary would make sense. But this.” I rubbed my arms. “It’s disturbing.”
    “Yes.” He paused to take a sip of his coffee. “While looking through his clothing, I noticed his shirt label was in Russian.”
    “Russian? From a Russian shirt company? Printed in Russian letters?”
    “Cyrillic lettering, to be precise.”
    “Right. Robin said he was from Ukraine. Do Ukrainians speak Russian?”
    “It’s a source of friction, but yes, Russian is spoken by many Ukrainians. The two countries were still united up until twenty some years ago.” He finished off his coffee and tossed the cup in a nearby trash can. “Let’s get back to the shirt, which I happen to know came from a well-known men’s store in Russia.”
    “You know the store it came from?” I asked in amazement. But why was I surprised? The man had traveled all over the world. He’d worked with British intelligence, so he might’ve spent time in Russia. Or Ukraine. Or anywhere else, for that matter. He spoke, like, forty-three languages. Okay, seven or eight, but who was counting?
    “Yes, I do,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Uomo Firenzi is a high-end men’s store. There are several branches in Moscow and one in Saint Petersburg.”
    “Have you shopped there?”
    “No. The clothes are of Italian design but they cater to . . . Russian tastes.”
    I smiled at the tone of distaste in his voice. “Not your style, I take it?”
    “Beautiful craftsmanship, very expensive, but no, not my taste.”
    “Not Burberry enough for you?”
    He pursed his lips to keep from smiling. “No. Not a bit of plaid or an elbow patch to be found anywhere.”
    “What a shame.”
    “Indeed,” he said with a regal nod.
    I sipped my coffee. “So he’s Russian or Ukrainian. He’s wealthy, with expensive taste in clothing.”
    “And exceptional taste in women,” Derek added.
    “Right, because he zoned right in on Robin. But he’s got seriously questionable taste in friends.”
    “Or enemies.”
    “More likely.” I chewed my last bite of muffin. “Which leaves us precisely nowhere. Except wondering how or why in the world Robin got mixed up with this guy.”
    He patted my knee. “Let’s go see how she’s doing and perhaps find out more about this mysterious Ukrainian.”
    Before we left the bakery, I purchased four of their fluffy red velvet cupcakes, hoping they would cheer Robin up.
    As we walked, my mind went back to wondering how Robin had dealt with the grizzly scene in her apartment earlier that morning. Had she realized her apartment was a mess? A shambles, as Derek said? And not just from blood and death. Someone had apparently torn her place apart.
    She hadn’t mentioned it earlier. Had she even noticed? Or had Alex’s death eclipsed all else?
    As we walked back on Noe Street and turned on Elizabeth, I asked Derek’s opinion. “Do you think Robin simply didn’t notice, or do you think someone came in later, after she was gone, to search for something?”
    He gritted his teeth, indicating that he’d had those same questions. “My gut instinct tells me she simply didn’t notice. She shut down, grabbed the essentials—her keys, purse, coat—and ran. That same instinct makes me think whoever killed Alex searched the place immediately afterward, before Robin awoke.”
    “Why do you think so?”
    “The killer and the searcher are probably the same person. As long as Robin slept through the killing, why wouldn’t they stay and search the place right then and there? Otherwise, they’d have to leave and take a chance on returning later, unobserved.”
    “True. And the thought of two different people breaking into her home in one night