by Frank Perry
blushed. “That would be difficult to prove, Sir, but I appreciate the compliment.” She kept her high-heels on the floor, showing only a small amount of thigh under her blue dress that she’d warn since visiting the museum archives in the morning.
“Now, Karina, I want you to call me Gregori, or just Gregor if you like.”
“Thank you, Gregor, that would be nice.” She remained erect without relaxing her posture. As a researcher, her first task was to assess her client. She had learned that he was a dangerous man, and she might have been smart to avoid working for him. On the other hand, she had learned to control men. Men had always pursued her. It wasn’t the same thing with Jelavich, of course, but she was confident that her ability to control situations would apply equally in this case. He was paying her more than any other client in the past.
He placed both hands on the desk, “Tell me, my dear, what do you know about me?” He was no fool. She would have done her homework and probably knew everything bad that had ever been published. He’d never been convicted of a crime; his wealth protected him. She would know that. It amused him as much as anything.
She felt like they were suddenly engaging in some kind of game. She was being tested and actually enjoyed it. The man wasn’t hiding anything. “I know many good things that you have done.” She didn’t need to elaborate; he wasn’t interested in this angle. “I also know that you have been implicated in some evil crimes, even murder.” She maintained direct eye contact and didn’t flinch.
After several seconds, he slapped the desk. “Yes! Yes! I like you, Karina. I should put you on my payroll permanently. You are not afraid of the truth. I have been accused of many bad things. This does not scare you. I don’t expect you to like me; it wouldn’t be in your nature to like me, but you will do a very professional job for me. I appreciate honesty above all things.”
She was momentarily off balance. She wanted to maintain her objectivity and poise, but he was connecting on a level unfamiliar to her. Would it be possible to actually like this man after all that she knew to be true about him? He didn’t deny any of it. She smiled, unsure how to respond.
He sensed her momentary insecurity. “Shall we talk about what you have learned so far?”
Collaboration
Evan Evanoff rented a small flat in the heart of Moscow, close to Metro and bus stations with easy access to all the important parts of town, those parts important to his research. It was expensive by Russian standards, and expensive relative to his partial salary, but he had access to government offices with vital records, national libraries, museums, and the universities in the capitol without need of a car or taxis. He had only one room, but it was enough. It had one large sink, enough to stand near for bathing and to wash his clothes. It also had a lavatory inside the room along with a small electric stove top and miniature oven. He wasn’t there for comfort and could live with the barest necessities to complete his work. He even took pictures and sent them on the internet to colleagues, showing his “primitive” living conditions.
But now there was this girl, Karina, dominating his thoughts. She hadn’t been part of his plan. He hadn’t come to Moscow expecting to need, or want, female companionship. She enchanted him, and he wasn’t prepared at all. He felt like a high school boy all over again, nervous about asking the new girl to the prom. What was it about her? He didn’t want a girlfriend right now, he’d just escaped a relationship in Boston, but no matter how he tried to avoid it, he couldn’t help thinking about her. She wasn’t like any woman he’d ever been around. In the past, some women had been beautiful, some smart, some mysterious, but he suspected Karina was the whole package. He wasn’t prepared.
He hadn’t brought any dress clothes with him for this project. He lived in a crash pad. He was planning to live like a grad student, bumming aimlessly across Europe after seven years in the classroom. This was his first real break since finishing graduate school. He’d only brought one decent shirt and one pair of Dockers to Russia. The rest were sweats and tattered old jeans, comfortable, but totally plebeian. Karina and he were, by appearances anyway, total opposites. They were both well-educated and able to communicate on the same level; in fact, he might even be a step above, but he looked like a student, an old student, and she was a classy professional in all respects.
He finished typing his notes into his laptop before retiring for the night, never leaving his room. He went to bed thinking about her, hoping she’d be at the museum again in the morning.
By daybreak, he bathed, dressed and arrived at the museum before it opened. Several people were congregating at the side entrance where the archives were stored. Some looked familiar, but he didn’t know any of them. They all had their individual interests. Many were students, but it wasn’t clear why others were there unless they were history buffs. Karina wasn’t there.
Around ten o’clock, he was absently scanning the documents he’d requested when leaving the night before, his mind drifting. He was only mildly interested. Then she sat down in the seat to his left, “Good morning, Dr. Evanoff.”
He smiled at her as his heart rate increased, “Good morning, and call me Evan. People look at me funny after someone calls me doctor.”
“Why? You do not give physical examinations?” She was smiling playfully, and once again, she had him completely off balance. She actually seemed to be flirting, or at least acting a lot friendlier than before.
“Okay, you got me there. I’m actually proficient in some areas.” He was fearful of treading toward too much familiarity with someone he’d barely met, someone he found enchanting. He continued, “So, what do you think? Should we collaborate -- divide and conquer the Kolchak mystery together? Two heads and all that, as they say?”
He noticed her white skirt and shiny red blouse. Again, he felt uncomfortable around this immaculately dressed woman, and he was wearing his very best. Not that she would notice. She answered, “I cannot do anything officially without a non-disclosure agreement with my employer, and I do not think he wants me to share information that he has paid me to produce.”
“So, today he’s your employer? Yesterday, he was just a client.”
“Do not play semantics with me.” She chided him without conviction. “I suggest we work independently, and we can discuss things informally. I don’t want to be quoted on anything and won’t give you credit either.”
“Fair enough.” He offered, “Nothing written gets shared.”
“Fair enough.”
Deboe
The cause of death read: Natural causes, with pulmonary and respiratory complications. There was no autopsy performed. The coroner had signed the report. She sat staring at it: so this is it? This is all there is. My father’s total legacy all wrapped up in one fancy certificate.
Kiki’s father had been a chain smoker as far back as she could remember. She gave up years ago trying to talk him into quitting. They never even discussed it during their infrequent phone calls. She could hear the telltale pauses whenever they spoke. Her father wasn’t as old as he appeared. He’d only become eligible for social security a few years earlier, but hard work, difficult weather, and disregard for health warnings, not to mention excessive hard liquor, had taken its toll. A few people had known Marlin Deboe for most of his adult life and probably knew his real age, but anyone unfamiliar with the man would have guessed he was in his mid-seventies. He died young, mostly from for causes he could have avoided.
Kiki sometimes wondered about the breakup of her parents. In some ways, she blamed her mother for the old man’s behaviors, but it could have been the other way around too. She just didn’t give a damn growing up, and, as an adult, had never gotten around to ask about his story. Now, she never would.
She wasn’t sad. It bothered her that she didn’t feel anything; after all, he was her father. Her mother left when she was too young to remember her. No explanation was ever given, and Kiki had never aske
d. When her dad worked at Ford, Kiki spent the day with an elderly neighbor lady named Mrs. Fudge. Occasionally, there were other kids in day care at Mrs. Fudge’s farmhouse, but not always. When Kiki was three or four, they let her chase chickens in the yard or sometimes the wild house cats that were always around Mrs. Fudge’s barn.
When she was six, her dad took her to another neighbor’s farm each morning to wait for the school bus with older children. It dropped her at their farm after school, and she usually sat on the front porch until he came home. It seemed normal to her, as a little girl, but, as she thought about it now as an adult law officer, it seemed irresponsible. It was a different time.
She just stared at the death certificate. It was the only memento she had of her father. He hadn’t done much in life that was recorded. He’d been a veteran of the Vietnam War and had some medals, but there weren’t any citations or other explanations in any of the papers she had taken. She’d asked him about the Army a few times growing up, but he was never interested in discussing it, although some minor insights were shared periodically. He didn’t suffer from depression like other vets; he’d just been disgusted with the way people hated him in uniform. He’d been spit on at the airport when
