Dmitry's Closet by Nelson, S. (read people like a book .txt) 📕

After a quick shower, she walked into the large walk-in closet and circled the racks looking for something simple to put on. Even though she had access to every label in Memphis, she still liked understated elegance. Hair in a simple ponytail, she pulled on a black Ralph Lauren turtleneck, jeans, slipped on a pair of black boots and grabbed her RL Rickey bag.

Her stomach growled as she headed down the main stairwell leading into the front foyer of the house.

Quickly, she headed to the kitchen to grab an apple and found Anatoly sitting quietly looking at CNN on the flat screen mounted on the wall and nursing a cup of coffee and a bowl of corn flakes.

“Hi,” she said, trying to smile.

Anatoly looked over at her but did not speak. Evidently, the good feeling of the Thanksgiving dinner the night before had worn off.

Royal walked up to the table and grabbed a green apple out of the bronze bowl. She rubbed it on her pants to make it shine and sighed.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, trying to start a con-versation.

Anatoly looked over at her from the television with a smirk on his face. Hunched over his food, he ran his spoon around the edge of the white porcelain bowl.

“Does it have to do with Ivan?” she continued, when he did not answer.

Anatoly still said nothing.

“Don’t you think yesterday was a lot more fun. We should communicate more…like normal people.” Her words fumbled out. She was treading in new territory by trying to talk to him. He was like a statute most days.

“Everything is fine,” he finally said, tired of her whin-ing.

“Now was that so hard?” Royal asked, recognizing progress, even in small increments. “I’m headed to the shop.” Turning on her heels, she headed out the back hall to the garage but she stopped at the doorway. “Have a great day, Anatoly,” she said, turning around to give it another try.

Anatoly didn’t take his eyes off the television. “I will.”

∞♥∞

Lt. Agosto and FBI Special Agent Danny Sorrello followed behind Dmitry in an unmarked, unwashed black Dodge Charger as he pulled into the Peabody Hotel valet parking area. Stepping out his conspicuous vehicle, Dmitry stretched and looked around, then proceeded inside to have a meeting with Omar Jackson, a well-known financial advisor.

Agosto turned off his car on the hill of the parking area and got out after Dmitry went inside of the doorway. Sorrello soon followed, putting away his half-eaten Porto-bello mushroom wrap. The two men had been following Dmitry since he pulled out of his driveway to various meetings all over Memphis with some of the most influential bankers in the city. This was the most activity that they had seen in nearly a year. Most of his meetings were out of the city and often out of their joint-task force’s reach, especiallywhen he chose to meet in London and Moscow.

“Something big is going down,” Sorrello said,closing the passenger door.

“I don’t get it. He never meets in broad day light and never this many meetings.”

“Reorganizing because of Ivan, I suppose,” Sorrello concluded, pulling his leather jacket to ensure that his guns were concealed.

“Let’s take a walk inside and visit our old friend,” Agosto suggested, hitting the alarm to the car.

Dmitry had just ordered a nice early evening meal of fresh hearts of palm, Great Hill blue cheese and black truffle casserole, when Agosto and Sorrello interrupted him.

They found him sitting at a small booth on the second level of Chez Phillipe restaurant nestled comfortably in the east wing of the hotel sipping on a glass of wine and reading the newspaper that he had neglected the entire day.

It had taken Agosto and Sorrello showing both badges and one gun to get into the restaurant in their jeans and t-shirts, since Chez Phillipe only allowed a minimum of business casual. Plus, it was only five o’clock and the restaurant had not officially opened to the public.

Dmitry ate alone, as he often preferred to do. The ambiance of the soft music, the strategic low lighting, beautiful rich fabrics and painting, regal French décor and marble columns throughout the fine dinning establishment fit Dmitry just right. Waitresses set down his drinks and picked up the extra placements quickly, but he never took his eyes offthe newspaper.

Lt. Agosto skipped the theatrics of making a scene and quietly had a waitress bring both he and Sorrello a chair. Dmitry finally looked up as she set the chairs in front of his table. He placed the newspaper on the white table cloth and sighed.

“If I had known that you were coming, I would have ordered for you.” He motioned at the chairs and invited the men to sit. “Please bring these men a bottle of your best wine,” he said, sitting up a little from his slouched position.

“You know we’re on the job. We can’t do that,” Sorrello said, countering Dmitry’s offer.

“Speak for yourself. Bring me a glass of your best scotch. Keep the wine,” Agosto said, looking at Sorrello. He raised his eyebrow and smiled. “What?”

“Nicola, you still are drinking scotch?” Dmitry asked.

“Still doing a lot of the same shit,” Agosto smirked.

“You too know each other,” Sorrello asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“Yeah, we used to know the same girl,” Dmitry chuckled.

“That was way back when you first came to Memphis,” Agosto reminisced. He looked over at Sorrello. “She was a Grizzlies dancer, very flexible.”

“Really?” Sorrello said, suggestively.

“Only, I can’t remember her name now.” Dmitry looked at Agosto.

“Me either. It was Karen or Keasha. I don-no…something.” Agosto shook his head.

“Miss, please bring him a scotch and water for the other gentleman,” Dmitry said to the petite woman still standing by the table waiting with pen and pad. The woman scribbled something and quickly excused herself.

Now alone, the three men convened animpromptu meeting at the dinner table. It was a strange sightto see. Each man was comparable in size and all three overshadowed the small table. They sat trying not to invade the