by Dianne Emley
“These are Todd’s friends,” Palmer explained, not introducing them by name.
Iris smiled weakly and nodded at them while she leaned Todd’s portfolio against the side of the couch. The woman who had been sitting moved to shake Iris’s hand. The one in the kitchen came into the room to do the same thing.
Iris noticed that a bed sheet was covering the mirror over the fireplace. “What’s this doing here?” When she raised a corner, the sheet fell away, partially exposing the mirror.
One of the women gasped and then rushed to cover the mirror again. She smiled apologetically at Iris who looked quizzically at Palmer.
He explained. “It’s a superstition. She thinks mirrors are windows into the netherworld and doesn’t want Todd’s spirit to reenter the world of the living through it.”
The women gathered their designer handbags and animatedly spoke to Palmer as they walked to the front door. After shaking his hand, they left.
“Do you need more time here?” he asked Iris, quickly skirting the issue of the two women.
“What did they want?”
He reached to tuck the sheet around the mirror’s edges. “To say good-bye to Todd, I guess.”
“They didn’t seem to be very broken up over his murder. Frankly, they seemed to have come to pick over his bones.”
“Iris, I’ve told you what I know.”
She put the framed photo of herself and Todd inside the portfolio and tossed off a question. “Where’s Todd’s photography equipment?”
Palmer thoughtfully raised his eyebrows. “Good question. Maybe he used a studio.”
“In Paris, he worked out of his apartment. Even if he used a studio, he’d still have darkroom equipment.”
Palmer walked to the door and opened it. “This whole incident has been very strange.”
“And it’s getting stranger.” Iris walked past him and into the corridor. He closed the door behind them.
“I know you didn’t know Todd very well,” Iris began, “but did you ever see him smoke?”
“No. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
Outside, the cab they’d arrived in was still waiting. Saying she was tired, Iris turned down Palmer’s offer of a drink. He instructed the driver to return to the Metropolis Hotel.
Iris gazed out the window, thinking about Todd’s apartment and what she had and hadn’t found there. Suddenly she said, “Todd’s driver, Sasha. His bodyguard. He drove us from the airport. Where is he?”
Palmer took a leather-bound notebook from his inside jacket pocket and slipped out the pen that was encased in it. “Sasha, you say?” He scribbled on the pad. “I’ll look into it.” He wrote a few more notes. “Then there’s the issue of whether Todd had any bank accounts. And what else?”
“Missing photography equipment.”
“Right.” His responses were clipped.
“I doubt you’ll find it, but it should be reported.” Iris absently stroked her neck and then turned to Palmer. The whites of his eyes looked yellow. “A ring. Todd was wearing it on his left pinky finger. It was my class ring. I gave it to Todd in Paris. Do you think you could get it for me?”
Palmer made a note and drew a star by it. “If it wasn’t stolen in the mortuary, I don’t see why I can’t get it for you.”
“He was also wearing a watch. Looked like an antique, gold with a rectangular face.”
Palmer noted that as well.
Iris frowned as a thought occurred to her. “His body.”
“Tracy Fillinger said that Todd talked about being cremated in the event of his death. The mortuary will do that as soon as the police release the body.” He raised an eyebrow, as if coming to an unwelcome conclusion. “I guess we’ll ship the ashes to his sister.”
“Oh, no.” Iris grimaced. “The poor woman.” She shook her head, then touched Palmer’s arm. “I’ll take them to her. I want to go there anyway to give her these things of Todd’s.”
Palmer brightened. “That would be extraordinary, Iris. Tracy was really broken up over Todd’s murder. From what you said, it was just the two of them left. I’m certain that would bring her a lot of comfort.”
“It’s the least I can do.” Iris sighed. “For all the people Todd knew, it seems like he didn’t have many friends.”
“As you said earlier, he was an enigma. He still is.”
The taxi stopped in front of the hotel. Iris handed Todd’s portfolio to a doorman.
“I’ll call you tonight, Iris, just to touch base. Or sooner if I’ve found out anything about your passport.”
Iris waved him off and watched as the taxi turned the corner. She handed the waiting doorman some rubles and asked him in English to take her things to her room and to call her a taxi. He raised his hand and the first taxi waiting in a nearby queue pulled up to the curb next to her.
“Club Ukrainiya,” she told the driver.
CHAPTER SIX
The taxi slowed on a street of dingy concrete block buildings and stopped in front of closed black iron gates embellished with brass ovals between the bars. The brick columns supporting the gates were painted a yellow ochre color. An iron statue of an eagle about to take flight topped each one. Beyond the gates, a gravel path lined with trimmed boxwood and classical sculptures on pedestals led to a grand house that was surrounded by a vast lawn and many trees.
Two men wearing what seemed to be the bodyguard’s uniform of black leather jackets and dark slacks hung around in front of the gates. One had a thatch of sandy brown hair and looked to be barely out of his teens. The other looked as if he’d been around. He had a soft belly, slicked back hair, and a tough expression. He was talking on a cellular phone. Both of them eyed Iris when the taxi stopped in front of the gates.
The driver asked for the fare in Russian and Iris didn’t feel like sorting out the language differences. She pulled out a handful of rubles in different denominations, fanned them in her hand, and held them toward him. The driver took what seemed an excessive amount and she didn’t protest.
Iris didn’t like the looks of the two guys but, in her experience, the world tended to be kind to attractive women, so her chances with them were good.
Taking her traveler’s dictionary from her purse, she flipped through the pages as she walked over to the younger man. He had earnest eyes and seemed too kind for his profession.
In the book, she pointed to the phrase in Russian that meant, “Do you speak English?”
He rubbed his finger across his upper lip and shot a glance at the older man who was still on the telephone. “Little.”
“I want to see Nikolai Kosyakov.”
The other man ended his call and walked to join them. He put his hands in his pants pockets, pulling back his jacket, revealing the bottom of a shoulder holster above his ample waistline. Looking at the other guard, he hitched his greasy head in Iris’s direction. The younger guard explained Iris’s request while the other man produced a pack of unfiltered Camel cigarettes from his shirt pocket, tapped it against the side of his hand, pulled a cigarette free with his lips, and lit it with a gold lighter. From their Russian dialogue, Iris picked up the name Kosyakov and nothing else.
The older man drew heavily on the cigarette and fixed Iris with a steely gaze as he exhaled smoke. “Who are you?”
“I’m Iris Thorne.” She repeated her name in response to his frown. “Iris Thorne. Please tell Mr. Kosyakov that I’m here. It’s very important.”
“I don’t know you.”
Iris was tempted to make a smart remark, but smiled instead, trying sugar instead of vinegar. It didn’t seem to work. “I’m a friend of Todd Fillinger.” She pronounced it again, slowly. “Fillinger.”
That got their attention. The older man pulled a two-way radio from his jacket pocket and spoke into it, dragging on the cigarette, consuming the rest of it and throwing the butt on the ground, not bothering to mash it out. Something clicked and the two gates slowly swung open in the direction of the house.
The older guard was finished with Iris. He moved several yards away and stood with his back to her, once again talking on the phone, a fresh cigarette between his lips. She quizzically looked at the younger man who jerked his head toward the house.
Iris walked down a gravel path, the soles of her hiking boots crunching against the small gray stones, and admired the marble statues of Greek gods that led to the two-story neoclassical mansion. She passed a huge oak tree that grew in a circular bed filled with wood chips; a flock of black birds resting there took flight. She inhaled slowly. The air here seemed sweeter than in the city. Ironically, this stroll across the property of the man who may have murdered her friend was the first bright spot in her Moscow visit. She had no reason to feel safe, but the beautiful house and well-tended grounds calmed her. She could have been on the campus of an Ivy League university in the States.
Marble steps ascended to a colonnade of six Corinthian columns which were topped with a pitched roof inset with a large clock. Two rows of evenly spaced windows lined the face of the long building. The windows and doors were finished with molding painted shiny white, as was the colonnade. The rest of the house was painted yellow ochre.
She climbed the white marble steps and unseen hands slowly opened the tall, carved door. She entered a large rotunda. The floor there was laid with an intricate mosaic of colored marble. She involuntarily let a long sigh escape as her eyes trailed up to the domed ceiling, lined with gold leaf which reflected the light of a large chandelier in the center. Its crystal teardrops cast tiny, shimmering rainbows across the floor and walls. Piano music, laughter, and the hum of conversation came from a distant room.
“Good afternoon.”
She hadn’t noticed a young man standing a few feet from her. After staring at the floor, her eyes had been immediately drawn to the gold ceiling. She closed her mouth, which had dropped open. “Oh, hello.”
Two men with flushed faces stopped their animated conversation to look questioningly and, Iris thought, reproachfully at her before brushing past. They went out the front door, trailing the odor of alcohol.
Iris knew she didn’t belong there and that she might end up doing more harm than good, but she wanted to take the chance. Kosyakov might be the only one who could get the police to let her leave the country.
“Miss Thorne,” the young man said, smiling timidly. “This way, please.”
His shoes squeaked against the marble floor. As they walked, the sound of the laughter and music grew louder. They passed a large room cluttered with sofas and armchairs. In it were about a dozen men. Someone was playing a grand piano that stood in a corner. There was cigarette smoke and the clinking of ice against crystal. The conversation dimmed as Iris passed. Someone shouted something, everyone laughed, and Iris’s escort blushed. He shot her an apologetic glance. She smiled and shrugged.
As they walked, Iris admired the paintings and tapestries that covered every wall, the statues and vases in every corner and on top of every table, and the cabinets full of crystal and china.
“Mr. Kosyakov is an art collector?”
“Yes. He loves beautiful things.”
Finally they reached another tall door divided into panels and painted white like the house’s other woodwork. The young man pulled down on the brass door handle, and Iris walked onto a polished parquet floor covered by a large oriental carpet. This room was also cluttered with furniture, art, and ornaments. The walls were covered with nubby silk in a soft peach color. A large desk of dark wood—Iris guessed it was mahogany—and a substantial chair with a high back that gave it a throne-like quality took up one side of the room. Brocade drapes were pulled open, giving a view of a manicured garden.
“Please be comfortable,” her escort said to her. “Can I offer you a beverage?”
Iris sat on a couch against a wall, slipping her backpack from her shoulder and setting it on the floor. “No, thank you.”
Without another word, he headed toward the door.
“Uh…” Iris turned to ask him a question, but saw only the tall door quietly closing. You’re into it now, she said to herself.
She looked at her watch and then around the room. Several magazines about architecture and art, most of them in English, were strewn across a coffee table in front of the couch. She flipped through them absent-mindedly. She thought of Garland and hoped he hadn’t called her at the hotel. He’d be worried to find that she wasn’t there.
The sun spilled across a corner of the desk and illuminated a vase on a pedestal next to it. The vase was blue and white and decorated with frolicking cherubs. Iris suspected it was Wedgwood. Also caught in the sunbeam was a round hole in a corner of the desk. Near it, a long, narrow groove sliced across the top. The silk wall covering next to the vase was marred with several small holes. She stood and moved to get a closer look when the door opened.
In came the neat, fox-faced man who’d entered the police interrogation room and given her passport and Todd’s letter to Detective Davidovsky. Iris gaped at him, her heart beginning to pound.
“Miss Thorne, what a pleasant surprise.” He extended his hand and when she gave him hers, he warmly shook it. His hand was as small as a woman’s. “You look startled to see me. Understandably so. We’ve never been formally introduced. I am Konstantin Markov, head of security for Nikolai Kosyakov.” He gestured toward the sofa. “Please, sit down.” He sat in a wing-backed chair next to the couch. “Didn’t Yuri offer you a refreshment?”
Iris sat, her resolve wavering. She drew a trembling hand through her hair, looping it around an ear, detecting a hint of his musky cologne on her palm. “Oh, yes. He did. Thank you, but no.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Kosyakov is attending to his oil interests on the North Shore and cannot meet with you today. How can I help you?”
Iris was nonplussed by his polite formality, which was in stark contrast to his accusatory demeanor at the police station the previous night. She didn’t know where to begin.
He calmly waited, his green-black eyes under a fringe of dark lashes resting on her without animosity. If anything, his finely lined lips and sculptured eyebrows with their natural lift made him appear pleased to see her.
She blurted the first thing that came to her mind. “You told Detective Davidovsky to keep me in Moscow. Why?”
He crossed his legs. His black shoes glistened. “I suspect you already know the answer to that.”
“I told you everything I know about Todd Fillinger.”
“I disagree,” he said without changing his pleasant yet slightly distant expression.
“Then we’re even. I don’t think you’re telling me everything you know about Todd’s murder.”
Markov sat perfectly still. “What would you like to know?”
“What is the connection between Todd and Kosyakov?”
The light from the window shone on his fringe of neat black hair and his bald pate. “You and Mr. Fillinger were such close friends. I find it hard to believe that he never mentioned Kosyakov to you.”
Iris crossed her legs as well, unconsciously mimicking Markov’s behavior. In her jeans and hiking boots, she felt inappropriately casual in the elegant surroundings. “I’d never heard of Kosyakov until his name was brought up at the police station last night. Now I know a great deal about him.” She unzipped her backpack at her feet and pulled out the Business Week article. She unfolded it and held it up for Markov to see.
His eyes darkened slightly. He apparently didn’t care for this profile of his boss.
Iris read from the article. “Kosyakov denies having Mafia connections but an unnamed source is quoted as saying, ‘You don’t get that rich that fast in Russia without mob connections.’”
Markov didn’t respond and didn’t look as if he was about to.
Iris returned the article to her backpack. “Todd told me the Mafia was trying to extort money from him. Before he was murdered, he was writing a letter to his sister, telling her the same thing.” She took the letter from
the back pocket of her jeans and handed it to Markov.
He pulled his wire-rimmed half-glasses from his inside jacket pocket, slowly opened them, and set them on his nose. He read the letter, then punctiliously put his glasses away again. He handed the letter back to Iris without comment. His expression was as genial as before but his attitude had subtly chilled.
Markov’s lack of response and remote air was getting on her nerves. “It’s clear that Kosyakov had Todd Fillinger murdered and you’re keeping me in Moscow until you find out how much I know about it. It wouldn’t be good for public relations if I left here and told the world business community that Russia’s top entrepreneur is nothing more than a dressed-up street thug.”
Markov smiled with amusement, drawing his closed lips tightly across his teeth.
It burned Iris up.
“I recognize that American women are bolder than what we’re accustomed to here in Russia, but I must confess that your attitude takes me by surprise, Miss Thorne.”
Undeterred, Iris went on, “Well, Mr. Markov? Was Kosyakov shaking down Todd Fillinger?”
Markov chuckled brightly.
Iris blushed. Her skin felt prickly underneath her denim shirt.
“You’re mistaken, Miss Thorne. Frankly, Mr. Kosyakov has more pressing business than to…What was your term? Shake down a small-time photographer who pretended he was a celebrity.”
“What happened in this room?” She stood, circled the coffee table, and walked to the desk. Without rising, he turned to watch her.
“These look like bullet—” The oriental carpet squished wetly under her feet. She quickly stepped off it and tested the area with the toe of her boot. Several square feet of the carpet were wet. It also felt as if something was beneath it.
She reached down, grabbed a corner of the carpet, and pulled it back, revealing wet white toweling that was stained pinkish-red. She dropped the carpet and staggered backward, looking at Markov with dread.
