Read Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) for Free Online Page B

my feelings. But what’s the point? What happened, happened. Dead is dead.
    Life requires that we move on. Some things have to be locked away. That’s what my dad said and I’m sticking with it.

9

    NAZAR KUBLANOV, MEDVED, the Bear, drove across the Brooklyn Bridge and pulled up to a 24-hour convenience store. He stared straight ahead, the engine idling roughly. Not the route he was supposed to be on to take the silver-haired man to an unmarked warehouse in Queens. Not the place he was supposed to be. He looked at his cheap cellphone. Eleven missed calls. The number was blocked but he knew who was calling.
    Pasha. A legend in the bratva for his brutality combined with a businessman’s style. He could beat a man to death for breakfast and then change into a tailored suit for lunch at a fancy restaurant, all smiles and charm. He would be Pakhan one day.
    Med replayed all that had happened. He went on his shift at eleven the night before. It was a slow night because of winter storm conditions. That didn’t keep everyone inside. He picked up a few fares. Tips were decent. Then business fell off. He sat in a line of cabs outside the only throbbing, crowded club in the Meat Packing District. No one was in a hurry to leave. He got bored. He sipped vodka. He might have dozed off a few minutes. A little after three o’clock, Pasha called him. A first. Not someone who worked for Pasha, but the man himself.
    Medved was over thirty but was still the lowest-level street soldier. He got called from time to time to apply some muscle when a shop owner got behind on insurance payments, but nothing more. Not since his time on Riker Island. That’s when he started drinking all day and all night long. His age and his position were a bad combination. It meant he wasn’t going anywhere in the bratva . He’d get table scraps, but he was far from the real money that guys younger than him were now making.
    He knew his days with Ilsa were numbered. She looked too good.She had loyally waited for him to get out of Riker, but no way would she stick around with the man he had become.
    Pasha’s call represented a big opportunity. Problem was he had been sipping vodka. He couldn’t tell Pasha that and miss out on a chance to show his value to the bratva , the family. So he grabbed a cup of coffee at an all-night Dunkin Donuts and headed for the Dexter. But he lost track of time when he went down into Central Park to pee.
    Now everything was a mess. The question wasn’t promotion and getting back in the action. The question was staying alive.
    His phone rang again. He looked at the flashing number with a dawning sense of dread. It wasn’t blocked. It was Ilsa. Ilsa never got up this early. She worked graveyard shift at a bakery. She had been home less than an hour. She was always asleep by now.
    He hit the green answer button.
    “You okay, konfetka ?” he asked quickly.
    “Med,” a gravelly voice responded. “You are there. I was getting worried about you. Very worried. You didn’t show up and you haven’t been answering.”
    It was Pasha Boyarov.
    “I can explain, Pasha.”
    “Good. I hope you can explain things to me and to your lovely wife. Your konfetka . Neither Ilsa nor I are very happy with you right now.”
    “I’ll come explain. Where do I head? The warehouse or my apartment? Just tell me where.”
    “Are you alone?”
    “Yes.”
    “I was afraid you would say that.” A pause. “Where is the man? Answer me truthfully. It will make Ilsa and me happy.”
    Med heard Ilsa scream in pain.
    “Pasha, I can explain. He ran. Into the park.”
    “He escaped then?”
    “He fell. Bad. He’s . . .”
    “Yes?”
    “He’s dead.”
    “Who has him? Where is the body?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe he’s at the morgue. Just tell me where to meet you. This has nothing to do with Ilsa.”
    “Do you have the man’s wallet?”
    Med hesitated and then lied, “No, I just take the cash.”
    Pasha sighed. “You found no small sheet of