Julian's call interrupts my thoughts, and I answer.
“I emailed you everything I’d found,” he says through the speaker.
“Thanks.” I hang up and open his email.
Julian is the best at background checks. He goes beyond credit checks and background history. He pulls every detail from the minute someone took their first breath to their last.
I put the car in park and read through his report.
Liliya Morozova, the middle daughter of Susannah and Armen Baranov. Armen worked for the Morozovas in Russia and moved to the States to help Yaroslav get his operation in order. Him and Susannah married.
Neither Susannah nor the children took the Baranov last name. Instead, they took Susannah’s maiden name. Years later, when Liliya was ten, Yaroslav murdered Armen, claiming he was a rat.
Liliya graduated from high school and got a degree in nursing. She worked in the city hospital until six months ago, after she was fired for reporting the chief ER doctor for sexual harassment.
My jaw gets tighter as I read the last sentence. I toss my phone into the passenger seat and make a U-turn.
Change of plans. I suddenly need to see a doctor.
The bastard’sshift ended ten minutes ago.
The sun bleeds into the horizon, casting shadows across the hospital parking lot. I crack the tinted window of the black BMW coupe I boosted earlier. I parked in the corner of the lot, just close enough to keep my eye on the doctor’s shiny red Mercedes.
There he is.
The smug prick waves goodbye to a nurse and strolls straight to the Mercedes. I roll up the window, push my Ray-Bans up my nose, and slide the BMW into drive. As the Mercedes reverses, I fall behind him.
The route is short, but I curse when he makes a right into a gated community. He rolls down his window to talk with the security guard, who then nods and waves him forward as the gate opens.
I follow, slow and steady.
The pudgy guard approaches my window, blinking, as if trying to recognize me. “Good evening, sir. Do you have ID?”
I smile and hold up five crisp hundred-dollar bills.
His eyes dart left and then right. His hesitation doesn’t last long. Greed thankfully wins, and he snatches the cash from myfingers. He hurries to the booth, and seconds later, the gate opens.
I give him a salute as I roll past him and into the neighborhood of multimillion-dollar homes with manicured lawns and luxury cars in the driveways. The Mercedes is parked at the home on the end of a cul-de-sac. I park a few houses down and wait.
Time feels like it’s crawling, but when it comes to a plan, I’m a patient man.
I reread Liliya’s harassment report so many times that I have the thing memorized.
When the sun sets, I step out of the BMW and break into the doctor’s home. Julian emailed me the floor plan, so I know exactly where I’m going. I climb the stairs and head straight for his bedroom.
The door is ajar, and I let myself in. The TV plays the news in the background as I pass it. I follow the sound of the shower running and ease the bathroom door open.
The doctor is singing a shitty rendition of “We Will Rock You.”
Steam fogs the mirror and glass shower.
I waste no time before ripping open the shower door. The doctor freezes, his fingers tangled in his shampooed hair. His eyes lock onto mine, and he blinks, thinking he might be imagining me.
I step into the shower, water hitting my back and soaking my shirt. It’s roomy enough for the two of us.
“Hello, Dr. Oswald,” I greet.
He backs away, his feet slipping against the wet tiles.
