Blood Orchid (Holly Barker 3)

“Aren’t there any blond and blue-eyed Cubans?”

“I’ve never encountered one. And there’s something else.”

“What?”

“He had a tattoo on his left bicep that looks military to me.”

“American military? Like a regimental symbol?”

“Like that, but not American. There was a legend underneath that

was in letters of the Cyrillic alphabet.”

“You mean, like Russian?”

“Yes.”

“There were a lot of Russians in Cuba at one time, weren’t there?”

“Yes, military advisors. I believe they were advising on how to assemble medium-range ballistic missiles. But that was back in the sixties, and this guy is in his early to mid thirties.”

“Could it be a Cuban outfit?”

“Then the legend would be in Spanish, wouldn’t it?”

“You have a point,” she admitted.

“The tattoo is of crossed daggers, and I had the legend translated. It says, ‘Blood and Loyalty.’ ”

“Send me a photo of the tattoo, will you?”

“It’s already on the way.”

“Anything else about the guy that was unusual?”

“I think he might have been a boxer—or at least someone who has taken a beating on more than one occasion. He had a broken nose—twice, according to the X-rays—and some broken ribs that had healed, too. I’ve sent his prints along with the photo.”

“Thanks, Doc.” She hung up and tried to figure out why a Russian might be involved in this.

43

Holly drove to Grant’s house after work, an unmarked car following her. She had arranged for around-the-clock cops to be parked outside.

She entered the house to wonderful smells of cooking. “Hello there,” she called.

“Dinner’s in half an hour,” Grant called back.

“Mmmm,” she said, sniffing the air and kissing him. “Did you ever do an undercover job as a chef?”

“Short-order cook once, for a week. The worst work I’ve ever had to do; it nearly put me off food.”

She fed and walked Daisy, and came back to the house. “I’m going to grab a shower while you’re finishing dinner,” she said.

When she came back downstairs, dinner was on the table—a risotto with shrimp and asparagus, and a lovely chardonnay.

“So, how was your day?” Grant asked.

“Not bad. The ME called, said the dead pizza guy was Russian.”