“A Russian, eh?”
“Came to the States as an eighteen-year-old mail-order bride,” Officer Cooper said. Kingsley laughed. “I’m serious, King. We see it a lot. Russian women so desperate to get out of the country they marry American men, total strangers most of the time. They hook up through matchmaking agencies. Sometimes it works out and they live happily ever after. Sometimes the lovely bride tries to poison his dinner.”
“She poisoned her husband?”
“That’s the charge.”
“You brought me down here to meet a murderess?”
“Attempted murderess. I don’t know. You know what I like,” Officer Cooper said. “And I like her. I get that feeling about her. Want to meet her?”
“A Russian mail-order who tried to kill her husband? Of course I want to meet her.”
This day was looking up.
“I don’t have any excuse for bringing you down here, so if anyone asks, lie and say you’re her translator or something.”
“Da,” he said in Russian. “>Q AC4=> =0 2>74CH=>9 ?>4CH:5 ?>;=> C3@59.”
“Whatever you say,” Cooper said, nodding. “And you’ve got ten minutes before I have to get you back out again. Good luck.”
Kingsley slapped Cooper on the arm. They’d met at a party, and Cooper claimed he was such a good submissive, he could pick out a dominatrix in a lineup of five other women simply by listening to her voice. “It takes a sub to know a domme,” he’d said. Now they would find out if he was right.
A woman sat alone in a cell on a gray metal bench. She had her back to the door and didn’t turn around when Cooper let Kingsley in the cell.
Cooper left them alone together.
From the back he could see she had black hair, stylishly coiffed, and she wore designer clothes. He walked around to stand in front of her and found her staring into the corner of the room, refusing to make eye contact.
“My name is Kingsley,” he said in Russian. If his f luency surprised her, she didn’t betray it with so much as a blink. “You’re Irina Zhirov.”
“Harris,” she said, in thickly accented English. “I’m married.”
“I heard someone tried to poison your husband.”
“I’m a bad cook. His stomach overreacted.”
Interesting answer. Kingsley studied her as she picked at her nail polish. She had an elegant profile, undeniably Russian, undeniably lovely. But she had a hard set to her mouth, as if she hadn’t smiled in so long her lips had calcified into a pale tight line of bitterness.
“Does your husband overreact often?”
Irina met his eyes before looking away again without speaking.
“I’m not with the police,” Kingsley said. “And I’m not a lawyer. I’m not a translator.”
“Who are you?” she asked in Russian, finally meeting his eyes.
“A friend,” he said. “If you need a friend.”
“I need a lawyer.”
“I can help you get a lawyer. Tell me more about your husband overreacting.”
She cocked her head, tried to look innocent. “He’s a man. They all overreact. A man you’ve never met before smiles at you, and now you’re sleeping with him. You don’t do his ironing right, so you hate him. You cook the food bad, and you’re poisoning him.”
“Your husband sounds like a little poisoning would be good for him.”
“A lot of poisoning would be better for him.”
She had a hard cold voice. Her dark eyes sparked like struck f lint when she spoke. The anger in her went all the way to her toes. He could work with that.
Kingsley knelt on the f loor in front of her. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she made no objection. A good sign that she had no issue with men kneeling in front of her.
“Did you poison him?” Kingsley asked, studying her face and neck.
“I didn’t want him to fuck me,” she whispered. “If he’s sick he can’t fuck me. I wanted to make him sick. That’s all.”
“Most wives I know like getting fucked by their husbands.”