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quietly behind her, climbed into the Land Rover, and headed for the one man she thought
could provide some answers. Who was Kolinsky and what did he have to do with a long-dead
Russian poet?
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Chapter Twenty-five
It was shift change at the station; blue uniforms crowded the hallways, coming and going
amidst the usual flotsam of a big city police station. She saw a few people she knew and
waved; saw some others she knew and looked the other way. There was more than one reas-
on Cyn had decided to become a private investigator. Low whistles of appreciation for her
snug skirt followed her passage through the warren of desks in the squad room. So much for
sensitivity training, she thought. Dean Eckhoff was waiting for her when she rounded the
corner to his office, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling like he'd been waiting a
long time.
"Cut the dramatics, Eckhoff, you've got nowhere else to be and you know it."
He let his chair drop to the ground with a scowl in her direction. I'll have you know, Ms.
Leighton, that I've got a lady friend who's very anxious for my company this evening."
"Yeah, but she only wants you to scratch her belly while you watch Wheel of Fortune, and
that doesn't come on for a couple of hours yet."
Eckhoff shook his head in disgust. You wound my ego, Cyn. How's a man supposed to
make it in the world when a beautiful woman says things like that to him."
"As if, she said, chuckling. She gave a deep sigh and flopped down on the chair in front of
his desk, painfully aware of her short skirt and bare legs.
"Rough day? he mocked.
"You have no idea. She eyed her old friend. You look good, Dean. Maybe you really do
have a lady waiting for you. Eckhoff was a tall, skinny guy who dressed like an Oxford don
and could talk like one too, when he got the urge. Which urge usually involved an inordinate
amount of alcohol. His eyes were a washed out blue and what was left of his hair still showed
some red through the gray. He'd worn a comb-over for years after he started going bald, until
Cynthia had given him her unvarnished opinion on comb-overs. Turns out he had a perfectly
nice skull.
"So what brings you way over here today, grasshopper?"
She smiled. I'm working a job for a client. It looks like a kidnapping, probably extortion to
get something out of my guy. Some information surfaced that makes us think there might be a
connection to the Russians."
Eckhoff frowned. Isn't that a little out of your league, Cyn? Did you tell him to call his
friendly police force?"
"You know me better than that, Dean. Of course I did. But this guy's not gonna make that
call. He's got reasons. Pretty good ones, actually."
Eckhoff regarded her somberly. This one of your special clients?"
"Maybe, she acknowledged, which was the same as admitting it.
"Yeah. Well, that does make a difference, I guess. Can't blame the guy for wanting to
keep a low profile. So who's working it with you?"
"Just me, all by my lonesome. You know I work alone."
"Which is why you're no longer wearing a blue uniform, he replied sourly.
Cyn shrugged. Partly. So, what do you know about the local Russians? I've got a
couple "
"Not my territory, sweetie."
"Not directly, no. But you must have caught a few cases, heard a few things?"
"Not lately. Listen, Cyn, I really do have to get out of here. You want to walk out with me?"
"Sure, she said, puzzled. I'm parked out back."
"Perfect."
* * * *
Eckhoff put a companionable arm around her and pulled her close as the station house
door closed behind them. You wanna be careful talking about the Russians around here,
Cyn, he murmured softly. They've got someone feeding them from the inside, and we can't
figure out who it is. They've pulled everyone from this division."
Cynthia laughed up at him, as if they were having a lighthearted conversation. How
long? she asked.
"Couple of months, maybe more. How much do you know?"
"Not much. I've got two names. One's pretty solid, guy's name is Kolinsky. The other's a
long shot. Pushkin. And a possible hit on a phony export company over in East L.A. Pretty
weak, but it's all I've got so far."
"I don't know anybody named Pushkin, but Kolinsky runs out of Odessa Exports over on
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