Now the Sasha Tkach in the mirror was a man, a handsome man with soulful eyes and no trace of boyishness. That man still held an animal within him. The evidence of that was the Englishwoman in the next room. He had not hesitated to come up here with her, to take off his clothes, to kiss and hold and make love to her and have her make love to him while all the time he thought of Maya and nearly wept believing he would never be able to control the animal within.
Steam covered the mirror and Sasha backed away, knowing that if Iris called he would return to the bed in spite of the hour, in spite of Elena, who would be calling him, in spite of his memories of Maya.
He stepped into the shower. It was too hot. His fair skin would be red for hours. He was tempted to make it even hotter, but instead he cleansed himself and then lathered his face with soap. His beard was light and came off with gentle, even strokes.
When he finished showering, he reached out for the towel on the nearby rack. Iris stood in front of him, still naked, towel in hand.
“Inspector Timofeyeva is on the phone.”
“The room phone?”
“Cell.”
Sasha eased past the smiling Iris, wrapping the towel carelessly around his waist. The phone lay on the bed. He picked it up.
“You did not answer your cell phone,” Elena said.
He detected no hint of reprimand.
“No, I have not turned it on yet.”
He was certain that she knew, and his certainty was confirmed by her question.
“Are you dressed?”
“No,” he said.
“Get dressed and bring Miss Templeton down to the lobby with you. Daniel Volkovich is dead.”
Iris was standing in the doorway of the bathroom meeting his sudden glance. Volkovich, the procurer who had allowed himself to be interviewed by Iris and who had let her into the brothel, was dead.
“What is it?” Iris asked.
“Get dressed quickly and come down. I have another surprise for you and Miss Templeton,” said Elena. She hung up.
Sasha hung up, tossed the towel on the bed, and reached for his underpants, saying, “Daniel Volkovich is dead.”
Iris dressed quickly. When she was finished, she spent a few moments in the bathroom preparing herself, doing her best to quickly brush her hair into a semblance of order.
They left the room together and used the stairs instead of waiting for the indifferent elevator. They found Elena Timofeyeva sitting in the lobby with a pretty young woman who had difficulty holding her cigarette steady between her fingers.
Elena looked at Sasha and Iris as they approached. There was no overt sign of reproach in Elena’s look, but Sasha detected a distinct disapproval.
Elena stood and so did the nervous young woman.
“This is Olga Grinkova,” said Elena. “She went to a police patrol car early this morning. She told her story and was taken to Petrovka, where she was directed to the Office of Special Investigations, where she sat waiting when I arrived. It was Olga who reported the murder of Daniel Volkovich. She is afraid that she too will be murdered.”
The young woman’s eyes were red and moist. Sasha detected an almost imperceptible quiver in her full lower lip. Olga Grinkova’s eyes kept turning toward the lobby door.
“Why is she afraid that she might be killed too?” asked Iris.
“Because,” said Elena, “she talked to you last night.”
Iris looked at the young woman again and said, “Svetlana?”
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was well prepared with reading material this morning. He had his usual Eighty-seventh Precinct novel and two newspapers. The skies had stopped dropping various kinds of moisture, leaving only a dark slush that seeped into the shoes of those who failed to take this weather into account.
Rostnikov had, thanks to his wife, been well prepared with ankle-high waterproof shoes. The left shoe had proved to be somewhat obstinate. In custom-manufacturing the foot, the craftsmen had made the left foot more than a half size too large. The artificial left foot of all three pairs of shoes that the Chief Inspector owned had been stretched. He kept a special German-made shoe stretcher in the left shoe he planned to wear each morning, but as soon as the device was removed the shoe began to seek its normal shape and size.
Porfiry Petrovich considered forming a self-help group for people with one leg to discuss all the things that the two-footed never thought about. He considered it, but he was certain he would not be forming such a group.
One thing he would have put on the agenda of the first meeting, had he actually proceeded with the idea, was the problem of walking. Now he was walking through Bitsevsky Park, pausing from time to time to search for a bird feeder. He found three among the trees at least fifteen feet from the path. As he walked, the policeman displayed only a slight limp, but he felt a distinct growing ache where his leg had once been. He would have to sit very soon.
People passed him coming and going. He noted but did not acknowledge them. These were people on the way to work as he was. They had no time for pleasantries and barely enough time for small unpleasantries.
There were few morning chess players. They had been greeted with wet benches and tables. The veterans had remembered to bring towels to dry enough space for them to begin their combat. If these veterans recognized those who had not come prepared, they might allow them to use their towels.
Rostnikov had planned to make it as far as the ski slope. There would be no skiing today. The hills would be sponges of cold water with puddles of melting ice.
It was too far and would be too much for his leg. He had not set the slope as a goal because he expected to find anything there. He had no clear objectives. He turned around and headed along the meandering path back to the entrance to the park from which he had come.
As he moved slowly, he encountered a small bridge over the creek and paused to listen to the rushing water. He went to a bench nearby, cleared a spot for himself with some wadded newspaper, and sat facing the water and the trees, most of which were weeks from bearing leaves again.
After listening and watching as people passed and birds began to chirp, cry, and caw, Rostnikov took out his novel and found his place. The book was in English. Porfiry Petrovich could understand written English far better than he could understand English when it was spoken to him or he spoke it. It also helped that this was the third time he had read this particular ragged-edged paperback.
“What are you reading?” asked the man who sat next to Rostnikov after picking up the wadded newspaper and using it to dry a space for himself.
“An American police mystery,” said Rostnikov.
“What is it about?”
“A group of detectives in a mythical city who are trying to catch a serial killer.”
Rostnikov looked at the man, who was neither young nor quite in the middle of life. He had good teeth, a knowing smile, and the face one sees on hundreds of Russian men every day.
“I saw you here yesterday,” the man said. “Over by the chess players.”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “You were on the path walking toward Shavaska Street. You were carrying a grocery bag.”
“Yes,” said the man. “My name is Aleksandr Chenko.” He extended his hand.
Rostnikov took it and said, “I am Chief Inspector Rostnikov of the Office of Special Investigations.”
“May I ask why you spend time here?” asked Aleksandr Chenko.
“Pleasure and business.”
“The Maniac,” said the man knowingly.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“We are all worried about this madman,” said Chenko. “You police have been trying for so long. I hope you catch him soon.”
“We will catch him.”
Aleksandr looked at his conservative black-band Swatch and stood, saying, “I cannot be late for work. Well, we will probably be crossing paths from time to time if you keep coming here. I come this way to get to my work, and when I have time I put some seeds into the b
ird feeders. You might want to try it. The birds, particularly the pigeons, come right down and perch on your arm if you hold up a palm with a few seeds on it.”
“Your work?”
“My work? Oh, I fill shelves at the Volga Grocery Supermarket on the other side of the park. I am on my way there now. I had better hurry. I don’t want to be late.”
“No.”
“I feel better knowing you are here, Chief Inspector,” said the young man. “Do you play chess?”
“A little.”
“Perhaps we could play a game sometime soon, or are you not allowed to play games while you are on duty?”
“I play games.”
Rostnikov watched as Aleksandr Chenko moved quickly up the path. When Rostnikov was about to lose sight of him behind a bend of bushes, Chenko turned and waved. Rostnikov waved back. When he could no longer see the young man, Rostnikov took out his notebook and pencil and made the following note:
Aleksandr Chenko
Volga Grocery, does it carry Nitin wine? Is there any record of Chenko buying it? Where does he live? Does he drink guava juice?
?
Then Porfiry Petrovich went back to reading his book.
6
Tai Chi in the Rain
“I did not call them,” said Albina Babinski.
She sat, as disheveled as she had been the previous day when Vera Korstov had come to her apartment. The widow of Fedot Babinski seemed to be wearing the same house dress and holding the same fingerprint-besmirched glass of vodka.
Vera was certain that the two men who now stood before her were the police.
She considered stepping back quickly, pulling the still-open door closed, and dashing for the stairway. Vera was, after all, a former athlete who still competed from time to time in park district competitions. She could certainly outdistance the slouching, sad-eyed man who stood facing her on her left. She might even be able to make it down the stairs ahead of the broad-shouldered dark man who stood to her right.
What Vera did not know was whether there might be more police waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“You have my two hundred euros?” asked Albina. “You promised. I trusted you.”
“Who are you?” asked Iosef Rostnikov.
“Who are you?” Vera responded.
“I am Inspector Rostnikov. This is Inspector Zelach.”
Zelach moved behind Vera and closed the door. All thought of flight was now gone, so she decided to lie.
“I am a journalist with Sputnik Secrets Magazine,” Vera said.
“You owe me …,” Albina muttered but was ignored.
“You have credentials?” asked Iosef.
“I can get them,” said Vera.
“You do not carry them?”
“I have broken no laws,” said Vera.
“I am keeping the money you have already given me,” said Albina. “And that is that.”
“Your identification cards, please,” said Iosef.
Vera reached into the black cloth bag slung over her shoulder. Zelach stood close by, ready in case a weapon was drawn. Vera came up with a wallet and extracted several cards.
Iosef examined the cards and handed them to Zelach, who punched a number into his cell phone. Vera glanced at Zelach and then with a sigh faced the more formidable-looking of the policemen.
Zelach was far more comfortable with a standard phone, one with buttons, one that looked like a phone and not like a box such as the one in which his mother held her daily pills. In truth, Zelach was not comfortable with any phone. He disliked the silences that he was expected to fill.
Vera could hear Zelach talking softly on the phone. Albina, the widow, sat mumbling softly to herself. The policeman named Rostnikov spoke. Vera tried to focus on his words, to buy time for Ivan Medivkin, but the policeman was not selling time.
“You think the weather is really about to change?” Iosef asked.
“Why do you ask me that?” said Vera.
“Because I am trying to bring you back to the conversation from the world in which you appear to be searching for a way to deal with me.”
“I have nothing to say,” she said.
Iosef looked at the window where a lone cluster of gray ice about the size of a hand was slithering down the glass. He nodded and turned to watch Zelach press the “end” button on his phone.
“I have it,” said Zelach.
“Good. Let us go.”
“Where are we going?” asked Vera.
“To your apartment,” said Iosef.
Albina began to rise. Iosef raised a hand to signal to her to resume her seat. She sat reluctantly.
“I am a widow,” said Albina, examining her now-empty glass. “I have rights.”
“And which of those rights do you wish to invoke?” asked Iosef.
The question puzzled the widow, who ran her fingers through her wild hair, allowing her breasts to spread the nightgown.
“Akardy,” said Iosef. “Call for uniformed backup. Have them pick us up here as soon as possible. We may be walking in on Ivan Medivkin.”
Iosef looked at Vera Korstov again.
“Have I guessed correctly?”
“Let me talk to him,” said Vera. “He will not give you trouble.”
“We shall see when we get there,” said Iosef.
“He did not kill them,” she said.
Iosef said nothing.
“Ivan will not give you trouble,” Vera repeated.
Iosef certainly hoped this would be true. He had never arrested a giant before, particularly one who might well become the heavyweight champion of the world if he was not in prison for murder.
______
Olga Grinkova bore little resemblance to the woman who had called herself Svetlana the night before. Iris found the transformation incredible, the material of which prizewinning stories are made.
Olga was no more than twenty, cheeks slightly pink, eyes wide and frightened, hands at her sides, more girl than woman. Her dark skirt hemmed below the knee and her white up-to-the-neck sweater fit loosely. Olga kept pushing her sleeves up and the sleeves kept refusing to cooperate. When she spoke it was with the voice of a shopgirl who had lost her confidence.
Svetlana had been sultry, dark, confident, almost bored, and carefully made up for the evening. Her dress had been formfitting, with the revelation of promising cleavage. Svetlana’s voice had held a promising huskiness not unlike that of a young Lauren Bacall.
They were seated now at a table in the hotel’s small breakfast room. There was a buffet of yogurt, cold cuts, hard-boiled eggs, and cheese. A pitcher of water was surrounded by glasses.
“Room number?” asked the plump blond girl who stood over the table.
Iris tried to imagine Olga transformed into a sultry prostitute named Svetlana.
“Room Four-eighteen,” said Iris. “Does anyone want breakfast?”
“Coffee,” said Sasha, looking at Elena, who met his eyes.
Coffee was agreed upon and the blond girl moved off slowly. There was only one other person in the breakfast room, a well-dressed man of at least seventy who read a newspaper and ate very slowly.
Olga Grinkova kept her hands in her lap to hide their trembling.
“They killed Daniel,” Olga said, forcing herself to speak slowly and distinctly.
“Why?” asked Iris.
“Because he spoke to you,” said Olga. “That is why they want to kill me. You have already been told that. It is not right that they should want to kill me. I did not ask to speak to you. It was Daniel who told me to do it. Now … I am alive only because I mentioned Pavel Petrov and saw the car, the black American car with the little flag on the …”
She made a motion that looked as if she were miming the act of pulling a thin piece of string into the air.
“Antenna,” said Sasha.
“Yes,” said Olga. “Antenna. I recognized the car parked across the street from the entrance to my apartment building. It belongs to them
, the two men who even Daniel was afraid of.”
And with good reason, it seems, thought Iris, who wanted to pull out her notebook but thought this a time for consoling and not writing.
“I knew when I saw them,” Olga said. “I knew.”
“How did you know Daniel was dead?” asked Elena.
Olga looked at Elena, who touched her arm and said gently, “Go on.”
“I did not go to my apartment,” said Olga. “I found a cab and went to Daniel’s to ask him why the men in the American car were waiting for me. Daniel lives … lived not far from where we … where we work. His apartment is on the first floor. If you work the outside door just right, it will open. I also know where Daniel hid his spare key, under the carpeting on the sixth step at the end of the hall.”
“You have been there many times?” asked Iris.
“Sometimes Daniel wanted one of us to visit him,” Olga said. “He liked me as I am now, not as Svetlana. He treated me gently. He treated us all gently.”
“You found him,” Elena said.
“Yes,” said Olga. “He was … He had been … I do not know. Violated.”
“Daniel Volkovich had been stabbed at least twelve times and his throat cut,” said Elena.
Olga closed her eyes tightly and bit her lower lip. She made a small, clipped whimper and shook her head. The blond waitress returned with four coffees and a full hot pot, which she placed gently on an ornately decorated stone trivet. The waitress looked at Olga and then retreated through the door to the kitchen.
“Tell them who owns the black car with the little flag,” said Elena gently.
“Pavel Petrov,” said Olga. “He sat in the back each of the four times I saw the car. He sat in the back behind closed and tinted windows while the two men terrorized us. I saw him when the light hit the car windows just right. I saw him. I saw him today. He was reading a newspaper. The two men were murdering Daniel and he sat reading a newspaper. And if they had gotten to me, I would be cut to pieces like Daniel and he would sit there reading the newspaper. Arrest him. I will tell you everything I know. Arrest him and get me out of Moscow.”
A Whisper to the Living (Inspector Rostnikov Mysteries) Page 9
