AFTER BINDING THE WRISTS and ankles of the two Russians I wounded with my .38, I ask Roger to stand guard over them.
“What are you doing with Alexander?” Suzanne asks.
I hand her one of the other two hand cannons the thugs brought along.
“Georgie and I are going to interrogate him inside the van,” I lie. “You help Roger.”
She seems apprehensive at first, like she doesn’t quite believe my story. And for good reason. As a woman who sells fiction, her own built-in s**t detector must be as good if not better than mine. She’s also read my book. Which means she’s fully aware of how much I hate Russian mobsters and, now, how desperately I need to clear myself of having anything to do with Sissy’s death. But that doesn’t mean I want her to witness the rather nas
