The Siren's Dream

by Amber Belldene

  She managed to shoot him the bird without missing a keystroke. “No record. He never worked here.”

  “But surely he’s in the HR database? Mind walking me over—?”

  “Zurkov, what kind of media director would I be if I couldn’t access the HR database? I know everyone in this building’s password.”

  In spite of a disappointingly dead end, he chuckled. “Woman, I wish you would choose to use your powers for good, not for evil.”

  She crossed her arms, eyes glinting, and not with amusement. “Novyye Resheniya employs 20,000 workers in Ukraine. We are a major player in economic development. Don’t blame us that you sister didn’t respond to her cancer treatments.”

  Chert. How the hell did she know about Sofiya?

  He snorted. “Don’t psychoanalyze me. Novyye Resheniya didn’t even make her drugs. What makes your company one of the bad guys is all the pockets you grease to get out of paying corporate taxes and the judges you pay off to find in your favor every case brought against you from class action suits to employment disputes.”

  “That’s the price of doing business in Ukraine. You can’t hold us responsible for a corrupt system.”

  “If no one’s held responsible, things will never change.”

  Her brittle laughter rang out, vibrating off the glass wall of her office. “You sound just like that American superhero. What’s his name? Batman.”

  “You know about him?”

  “My goddaughter made me watch a movie. Apparently, the comic books are all the rage among Kiev’s youth.”

  “Them, and Femme Fatale.”

  She snorted disdainfully. “This Batman, he spouts principled determination in a low, gravelly voice just like yours, and all the women find him sexy. But I know his type, and yours. You chose an impossible fight, and the only way to win it is by pushing your self-destruct button. That’s not sexy for long.”

  He didn’t give a fuck who thought he was sexy, but he sure as hell felt the bruises from every round in this unending match. Nine years reporting on corruption, beating the bushes, turning over the rocks, dodging the bullets—had he accomplished anything? Made Ukraine even a little safer? A little fairer? But her analogy was fundamentally flawed.

  “Batman is tenacious, but he’s also a vigilante. I’m a journalist. I’m Clark Kent.” He tapped his glasses in proof even as he wished like hell he felt like the more chipper, less-jaded Superman than the guy Dariya called the Dark Knight. “I write news stories because I believe in the power of the truth.”

  She sighed. “Well, the truth is, Fedir Antipin never worked here. Your eyewitness must have been mistaken. Or maybe he’s the one lying to you.”

  Shit. He drummed his fingers on the table. He had a very sick feeling his eyewitness was the one who’d been lied to, by the person who loved her most in the world.

  Time to call in some favors at the militsya station. Outside the pharmaceutical company, he swapped his blazer for a hooded sweatshirt he kept in his messenger bag, pulled down a ski cap over his hair, and traded out the fashionable glasses Dariya had picked for him for a ten-year-old pair. Not exactly deep cover, but he didn’t want to be recognized at HQ Voldamyra Street like he had been in the media department.

  Then he was off to find Nagarov. Last September, with the cop’s help, he’d blown open a criminal ring whose leader had been a member of the president’s cabinet. The case had become known as the Sentyabr Affair. As it had unfolded, a sniper had shot out the windows in Nikolai’s apartment and fired one deadly round into his fish bowl. Tiger, the little orange and black beta fish Sofiya had given him, had never stood a chance.

  With the evidence Nikolai had published, the cabinet official went to jail and before he could post bail, someone strangled him with his own sock to silence him. Nikolai would have preferred a triumph of law and order, but at least there was no price on his head anymore and he had a trustworthy informant in the city’s central police station.

  From the lobby of the building, he could head downstairs to processing—he’d been escorted there twice before on cooked-up charges meant to silence him—or upstairs, to the administrative offices. He climbed up to the reception area and asked for Nagarov through a window in the wall.

  A smartly dressed grandmotherly type appraised him. “Hold on.”

  He dropped into a worn vinyl chair. A young man came out and looked him over carefully, from his dress slacks and shoes to the hoodie. Under the guy’s close examination, Nikolai would put money on him being a detective, not a beat cop like Nagarov.

  After a long moment contemplating Nik’s face, he spoke. “You’re Zurkov?”

  The hair on the back of Nik’s neck stood up. Was he inviting trouble or putting Dariya in danger? He rose. “And you are?”

  “Junior Investigator Sergey Yuchenko.”

  As Nikolai shook the man’s proffered hand, he studied his youthful features. The name was familiar, but he’d certainly never seen the fresh-faced inspector before.

  “Where’s Nagarov?”

  “Extended leave. Screwed up his hip in pursuit of a suspect.” The investigator patted his middle, which was trim and flat in contrast to Nagarov’s. “Has to lose twenty pounds before he’s allowed back on patrol.” He lowered his voice. “I know he was your source on the Sentyabr Affair.”

  Nikolai stared into the young man’s eyes, eerily ancient for one who looked to be as old as Katya was, or had been before she’d died. Was he offering to inform for Nikolai too? He tested the theory. “Nagarov’s a good man. He cares about people.”

  “He manages to keep himself pretty clean too, and that’s not easy.”

  The kid was right. Dirty cops were a dime a dozen in Kiev.

  “You any good at staying clean, Yuchenko?” Nik pinned him with his signature stare—journalistic and penetrating.

  The inspector met the gaze head-on. A shudder of warning traveled up Nikolai’s spine, like Yuchenko could see far deeper into him than he could ever hope to peer into the inspector’s knowing eyes.

  “I try.” The cop shrugged, and the uneasy sensation retreated down Nik’s backbone and vanished altogether. “But to tell the truth, the longer I’m at this, the messier the lines between black and white. I’ve got a wife, a baby on the way, so I do what I’m told. Sometimes the only way to keep a man’s conscience clear is to tell the truth to somebody who can’t fire him.”

  Nikolai shook his head. “You’re in the wrong job then. You want to keep your family safe? Go work at an insurance company.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration. But since Nagarov’s not here, is there something I can help you with?”

  Nik scanned the man’s upright posture, his steady hands, and relaxed shoulders. That had to be good enough. Sometimes a reporter had to take that first leap and decide to trust the one who did not flinch or blink under close scrutiny, with no external guarantees of his integrity.

  “I’m looking into a murder. I have a witness, but there’s no militsya record, at least none I can find. Looks like a cover-up. I was just wondering if Nagarov knew anything.”

  “I can look into it. What have you got? A description of the victim? A date?”

  Was it worth the risk? This cop was just as likely a part of the cover-up as he was ignorant of it, and Nik refused to expose his precious niece to the sort of danger that did in Tiger the fish. But Yuchenko might be the key to getting justice for Sofiya and Katya.

  Nikolai rubbed the cut on his cheek until the split flesh stung. “It was last June, in a building on Saint Cyril Street. A couple in their twenties.”

  If the address meant a thing to Yuchenko, Nikolai couldn’t see it.

  “And you’ve got a witness?”

  “She saw the whole thing.”

  “Not much of a cover-up for the killer to miss something like that.” Was Yuchenko a little white around the lips, or was Nik imagining it? “Where’s the witness now?”

  “
Somewhere no one on earth could find her.” Or she would be, when the second serving of his blood ran its course.

  “Earth?” Yuchenko tipped his head forward, his brows drawn close together. “That’s a funny way to put it.”

  “She’s safe, and I plan to keep her that way.”

  “Sounds like you have a damsel in distress on your hands. Is she hot?” Yuchenko waggled his brows exactly the same way Dariya had earlier, like the two were old pals talking about chasing skirts. Speaking of skirts, a woman wearing an unseasonably short one passed by. Another woman followed, and oddly, they both cast glances at the detective that Nikolai could only describe as soft-core ogles. He was used to the attentions of eager women, like the one on the metro, but Yuchenko was getting an exponentially higher degree of female interest.

  Nik could appreciate the kid was good looking, but really? The more modestly dressed woman stopped to stare, fluffing her hair and angling her hips like she was posing for a photo. Weird. Even weirder, Yuchenko didn’t pay her a second’s notice. Maybe he was used to it.

  Nikolai raised his chin. “She’s a source, asshole. And didn’t you say you’re married?”

  “So hot then?” He winked.

  “She watched her lover get shot and she wants justice. It doesn’t matter if she’s a gnarly old babushka, has a third eye, or looks like…” Funny, people might very often invoke the name of Katya’s supermodel mother to end that sentence. “Or what she looks like.”

  “Fair enough. But what if the victim was a scumbag? They usually are.”

  Nikolai fisted his hands and shoved them into the front pocket of his hoodie. If he were Batman, he might agree with that sort of rationale. “It doesn’t matter if he was a scumbag. If we want freedom in this country, we must enforce the rule of law. We can’t execute scumbags off the record. We have to arrest them, try them, and send them to prison.”

  Yuchenko’s face cracked open into the kind of smile that could land him a part on one of Dariya’s soap operas. He stuck out his hand. “I like you, Zurkov. I’ll see what I can find out about a murder in June on Saint Cyril Street.”

  “Thanks.” For the first time in the conversation, the ground under Nikolai solidified. Instinct told him this Junior Investigator Sergey Yuchenko was a good cop, maybe even a good guy. He handed him a card—the one he used for sources, with only a number and no name on it. “You turn anything up, give me a call.”

  With a crisp nod, the man pocketed the card and strode back to the door leading to the internal offices, using a badge to unlock it.

  Nikolai headed for the stairs.

  Footsteps thudded behind him and he turned.

  Yuchenko had hurried back for a last word. He glanced around, confirming the stairway was empty before he spoke. “You know, Zurkov…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sometimes, in the end, justice isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes even the bad guys deserve mercy.”

  A scoffing sigh escaped Nikolai’s throat. “Once again, I’m going to suggest an alternate career in insurance for you, while I keep on striving for a Ukraine free of corruption, where honest judges can enforce the rule of law, and militsya protect and serve without presuming to be judge and jury.”

  Yuchenko held up his hands, grinning. “Just saying, man.”

  Nikolai didn’t dignify that with a response, but as he pounded down the stairs, the edge of a laugh lodged in his throat, and he found himself smiling. There was something about that kid-cop he liked.

  He texted his informant Nagarov. “You trust Yuchenko?”

  “Like a brother,” came the quick reply.

  As he pondered those three simple words, his phone buzzed in his hand with a text from Dariya.

  “I like your girl.”

  Along with the message, she sent a selfie of them on the couch. His niece smiled broadly, her cheek smeared with what had to be jam. Katya held a mug tightly to her chest. The subtler curve of her mouth conveyed shy reserve, or even embarrassment over being caught in a schoolgirl’s photo for her uncle. But it was still, most assuredly, a smile.

  Chert. Now he had Tiger the fish times two to worry about.

  He put the phone back in his pocket and headed along the tree-lined street, busy with cafes and grocery stores, toward his office—morning life in the city. As he stood at the next intersection, waiting for the blue triangular crosswalk sign to flash, he found the device in his hand again. He could stare at the photo of Katya all day, trying to guess at the mix of emotions playing on her face—complicated like a painting or sculpture. A work of art, different in every light.

  Then he snorted. He was no connoisseur of fine art. Hell, he barely managed not to suck outright at editing the culture section.

  Maybe she was complicated, but his task was simple—use her evidence against Lisko, get justice.

  Chapter 6

  After a breakfast of Nikolai’s decadent dark-roast coffee with plenty of cream and sugar, and several slices of toast with jam, which tasted like heaven to a starving no-longer ghost, a warm, well-fed Katya was starting to get used to being alive.

  The Zurkovs’ cluttered apartment was decorated with homey, sturdy, well-worn furniture, and it felt so much more comfortable and domestic than Fedir’s cheaply made but pricey white leather, chrome, and glass decor. It had been his bachelor pad before he’d brought Katya there, and he’d taken pride in having those fashionable things. She’d sensed he hadn’t liked it when she’d moved the coffee table around or added a personal touch, though he’d always been kind about it.

  Dariya sat next to her and cued up video after video of Femme Fatale’s performance art. At first glance, the band’s outrageous costumes and rhythmic rapping style made them seem like pop princesses, but every message within their lyrics and every image behind them on the screen cried out for revolution. With a father who thought himself a revolutionary artist, Katya could spot self-aggrandizing stars and cause co-opters from a hundred yards. But these women were the real deal. They’d even served time for bogus charges meant to silence them.

  Katya’s hands twitched with the need to do something. She pointed at a row of baskets overflowing with clean laundry. “Mind if I fold those?”

  “Kolya will think you’re a saint.”

  That settled it. A little housework was the least she could do for a man who’d gone out to investigate Fedir’s murder. By accomplishing some chores and keeping Dariya company, maybe she wouldn’t be too much of a burden.

  As the music videos played, Dariya read biographical information about the band members online and took down notes for Nikolai. She bounced facts off Katya, who in turn offered her opinions about the band’s influences and explained the intricate tapestry of historical and political references woven into the rhymes.

  Dariya hit pause and set down her notebook. “How do you know so much about them?”

  Katya folded a pair of blue boxer shorts in half and pushed images of Nik’s beautiful body from her mind. “When I did my degree in Ukrainian cultural studies, I read about history, music, art, literature—from the first tribes to settle on the Dnieper River, to the emergence of Slavic culture, and our complicated ties to Russia.”

  As she thought back to her coursework, an idea niggled at her. She knew a mara possessed her because of her class on folklore, but she’d seen a picture of one in particular who resembled her stringy-haired, big-eyed, sharp-toothed reflection in the mirror somewhere else. Where had that been? She foraged around in her memories looking for a clue and found the image of an old, green book. That’s right—it had been in Mr. Kulish’s apartment.

  “Kolya says if the pro-Moscow party takes over, they’ll punish people who speak out against them.”

  “I’m afraid he’s right.” Katya folded his undershirt, which had turned a bit yellow around the collar and under the armpits, but it was so soft she wouldn’t have thrown it away, either. She petted it, her fingertips still buzzing with t
he freshness of sensation. When she looked up, she found Dariya staring at her quizzically. Katya cleared her throat, putting the shirt onto a pile. “And I’m sure your uncle knows what he’s talking about.”

  “Before my mom got sick, she used to say he would get himself killed or end up in jail with his news stories. I pictured him as Batman, watching over Kiev on a moonless night from some high ledge.”

  Katya had been flapping out a pillowcase, but she lowered it to look at Dariya. “I thought he covered Arts and Entertainment.”

  “Oh, he does, now.” The girl sat up straight, her pride in her uncle spelled out in her wide-eyed excitement. “But he used to write exposés. The kind that piss off government officials and reveal corruption. I know he loved the excitement of it, and he thinks being the senior culture editor is boring. It’s like if one day Batman had to transform into the cheerful, clean-cut Superman. Or worse—Clark Kent, unable to use his superpowers.”

  Katya giggled at the analogy. Poor bored Nikolai, though she definitely preferred him avoiding dangerous stories, for Dariya’s sake. “What made him change assignments?”

  “My mom. The day she heard she wasn’t going to get better, she sent me to bed early, sat Kolya down, and made him promise not to put me in danger. I eavesdropped from the top of the stairs while she told him to take care of himself so he could take care of me. The next day he put in for the change.”

  It only confirmed her observation that the man was devoted to Dariya, even if he was clueless about how to help her. But then a contrary detail wormed its way into her consciousness, and with it the mara’s demands. Find Lisko, Kill him.

  “What about the case against Lisko Enterprises?” Her question came out husky and strained, though thankfully not in her siren voice.

  Dariya nodded. “He’s following it, and he did a lot of the background research for the victims’ case, but everything he learned is public record now. There’s no reason to kill him.”

  Unless he starting poking around in an unsolved murder. Her belly churned. For her own vengeful plans, she’d dragged a man sworn to protect himself and his niece back into danger.