Dmitri Petrov studied the cuticles of his nail. He wanted to make sure he got them off.
I should have left the ropes on the hands and ankles.
The sink bore bloodstains on the sides so he took a paper towel and wiped it off, crumpled the paper then threw it in the plastic bag. He could hear Irina, crying in the background, as she gathered the clothes off the floor of the man she had f****d. He should have left the ropes on the guy; now the blood on the ropes and the dead man’s skin transferred to him.
“Dmitri, what should we do with his body?”
He swore a string of Russian cuss words. “What do you think we should do?”
Irina burst out into a wail.
Stupid b***h!
How were they going to dispose of the body? That was the easy part. Not getting it traced to him was the hard part. If the bod
