In Sheep's Clothing. Susan Warren May

the Cold War. They’d pushed out the old arsenal, including tanks and Katusha rocket launchers, and had assembled them in the square, crushing the stones to dirt. She had to admit the sound of a thousand or so male soldiers singing the Russian national anthem had sent pangs of patriotism through her. Indeed, there were times she dearly missed America.

      Ten minutes later, she felt nearly soused herself, courtesy of the wino beside her. She gulped fresh air as she stumbled off the bus. Approaching the Youngs’ building, she noticed Leonid’s blue Zhiguli was not parked in front. She’d held out a slim hope he’d actually check in with Evelyn, not relishing the day hiking around town. Still, as much as she needed a lift she had to admit to some relief. The guy gave her the creeps. He ogled her like a starved lion. Her irritation died in the face of the alternative. Hoofing was definitely safer.

      Gracie shuffled into the dank corridor and called the Youngs’ lift. It wheezed to life and lumbered down six floors. Shivering, she wondered why someone didn’t clean the cobwebs, hanging Spanish-moss–fashion from the dark corners. A pile of old cigarette butts, crushed juice boxes and plastic bags added a musty odor to the shadows. She smirked as she read the new chalk graffiti on the already well-decorated walls—“Natasha loves Slava.” Some things were the same throughout the world.

      The elevator doors wrenched open and a buzzing fluorescent light beckoned her to enter. Gracie hesitated and waged her familiar self-debate. She’d been imprisoned twice in an elevator in Russia and the experience had left scars on her psyche, not to mention her olfactory glands. Still, six flights of stairs waged a compelling case. She pushed the sixth-floor button, charred black from a vandal’s lighter, and ascended in the tiny box sticking of dog urine. Perhaps she would walk back down.

      The lift stopped on the sixth floor. Gracie stepped out and froze.

      The black metal door protecting the Youngs’ flat, a standard for foreigners, hung slightly ajar. Talk about creepy—it groaned as Gracie eased it open. “Evelyn?”

      The inner wooden door gave easily. Gracie stood there, her stomach coiling into a cold knot. Evelyn was a zealot about locked doors.

      “Dr. Willie?”

      Silence oozed from the apartment. Gooseflesh rose, pricked her neck.

      “Evelyn? Dr. Willie?” Alarm pitched her voice high and it added to the gnawing fear in her gut. Stop. It. She took a deep breath. There were simple explanations. Like, they’d gone out shopping and forgotten to lock the door.

      She nearly jumped through her skin when she closed the door and found the Youngs’ coats neatly hung on the hallway hooks. From the kitchen, the refrigerator clicked on and buzzed.

      She startled, turned and braced her hand on the wall. Stupid girl. Maybe they were next door. Gracie stepped into the kitchen. A fresh, wet rag dripped into the sink next to the drying rack, which held the clean breakfast dishes. Bacon grease glistened in a cast-iron pan on the stove. On the ledge, an African violet sparkled, freshly sprayed.

      “Evelyn?” Maybe she was in the bathroom.

      Gracie stalked down the hallway, noticing the French doors to the family room were closed. If Dr. Willie was studying, he wasn’t answering. A light streaming from the bathroom urged her down the hall. Gracie stuck her head in, a smile on her face, ready to catch Evelyn hanging laundry. A stepladder and a fresh batch of laundry drying from a line above the bathtub cast gloomy shadows on the white tile.

      No Evelyn. Gracie flicked the light off and stood in the hall, listening to her heart beat.

      Stop. Gracie held up her hands as if to halt the ridiculous fear cascading over her. She would not let the unknown push her beyond the cradle of common sense. Evelyn and Dr. Willie had obviously left and forgotten to lock their door. Odd, but not impossible. Besides, weren’t they safely tucked under the protective wing of her Heavenly Father? Gracie bowed her head, shame dissolving her fear. Forgive me for my lack of faith, Lord.

      Gracie checked her watch. She still had time to download her mail and send her mother a note. She headed for the bedroom office.

      Knocking on the bedroom door, she laughed at her silliness. If Evelyn were in the bedroom, she would have heard her long before Gracie’s timid rap.

      As she pushed open the door, the moment slowed like an old movie on creased film. Horror filled her—starting at her gut and building until it emerged in an all-out howl. Her bones turned to rubber. Gracie collapsed to her knees and fought for breath.

      No, no!

      She whimpered as she pulled herself across the bloody floor toward Evelyn’s unmoving body.

      Chapter Three

      Toweling off after his frosty two-minute shower, Vicktor caught the phone on the third ring.

      “Slyushaiyu.” He rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven skin and winced at a raw spot. The clock hands inched toward eight-thirty.

      “You have some explaining to do, Shubnikov.” Comrade Major Mikhail Malenkov’s voice grated Vicktor’s already throbbing nerves.

      “Come again?” Vicktor folded his towel and hung it over a straight-backed chair.

      “Maxim. He’s supposed to be your partner. Yet you didn’t have the courtesy to call either him or me and let us know that one of your best informants is stone cold in the morgue?”

      “He was a friend, sir, and unless I missed a memo, my understanding was Maxim just shares my office space.”

      “Don’t get smart. You know he’s assigned to you.”

      Vicktor’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed his closet. His voice grew cold. “I was walking my dog. I found Evgeny by accident.”

      “Right. Next time call your own guys for backup. We don’t need the goats in the militia sniffing around our dela.”

      “Since when are local murders our business?”

      “Since they are mafia hits.”

      Vicktor scrambled for balance, his sock halfway on. “Mafia hit?” Hope lit inside him. That meant the case would head to the COBRA force of the FSB. Roman’s division. Vicktor schooled his tone. “Sorry about the oversight, sir. Old habits die hard. I’ll call our guys next time.”

      Malenkov’s voice softened to a cultured tone. “Aren’t you supposed to be here by now, Captain?” The phone hummed in Vicktor’s ear.

      He slammed it onto the cradle and smirked. With Roman on the inside, maybe Vicktor wouldn’t have to kowtow to Arkady. He’d happily shove the raw memories and unending penance behind him.

      He tugged on his black suit pants and white oxford. Straightening his tie in the mirror, he caught a glimpse of Alfred, sprawled on an armchair, tearing into the last of his loaves of bread.

      Vicktor crossed the room in two strides. “You’re a menace, you know?” He tried to wrench the bread from the dog’s mouth, then gave up and scratched the dog behind his pointed ear. “Try not to eat me out of house and home, huh? No furniture, no pillows, no shoes and I promise to take you home tomorrow morning, okay?”

      He thought he heard the dog sigh with contentment as he slammed the door behind him.

      The sun had peeled off the initial chill of the morning. Vicktor flipped up the collar of his tweed sports coat while he coaxed his forest-green Zhiguli to life. He felt like flicking on his siren and parting traffic on his way to work. As it was, anticipation sent his accelerator into the floorboard and he soon found himself in the back parking lot. Screeching into his regular space, Vicktor hopped out and shut the door.

      “Vicktor!” A feminine voice, high and smooth, sailed over car tops to greet him. Yanna strode over to him, hitching her leather computer bag and gym bag up her right shoulder. The satchels dwarfed her lean body, but she was crisp and pretty in a black leather skirt, hose and matching jacket. Yanna knew how to pull off European fashion.

      “Do