A Whisper to the Living (Inspector Rostnikov Mysteries)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  A caw of insults came from the mouths of those surrounding him as he moved to the door and removed the key from his pocket.

  “Meduk, asshole.”

  “Govniuk, shit head.”

  Karpo could sense one of the boys, not Borka, step behind his back. He turned and faced a boy of no more than ten with a six-inch piece of pipe in his right hand.

  The insults stopped. There was a mad look in the eyes of the boy and Borka stood at his shoulder.

  “Bash him, Nicki,” a boy in the semicircle called.

  As the boy was about to strike, Emil Karpo softly said, “No,” and the boy lowered his weapon. Karpo entered his apartment building and with his free hand made sure the door was locked behind him.

  “We know where you live,” called Borka.

  The threat meant little to Karpo. They would not want to do battle with a policeman, a policeman who would certainly have a hidden gun. There was nothing to be gained from confronting this unblinking ghost. The gang would almost certainly not return.

  After climbing the stairs, he checked the door for the telltale hair that would inform him whether he had had company. There were no signs of company. He entered and put the cat down. The room was cold. The window was open. Nothing had been moved. Nothing had been touched. The narrow bed was hunched in one corner. The chest of drawers stood against one wall, with the freestanding closet at its side. Under the window stood a small, round wooden table with two chairs, and at the foot of the bed against the wall was a small sink and counter, with minimal dishes and utensils and a microwave. A few groceries, most conspicuously a large box of instant oatmeal, were lined up next to the microwave.

  The entire remaining wall was covered with notebooks dealing with the investigations of all cases with which Karpo had been involved. The unresolved ones, the ones he worked on in the evenings and on his days off, were neatly labeled to the left on plain wooden shelves he had built.

  He removed his clothes and placed them all neatly on a chair after removing something from his pocket. He held it up, looked at it, and brought the ocarina that Porfiry Petrovich had given to him to his lips. He blew into it gently, one note only. The cat’s ears turned to him and twitched. He placed the ocarina on his desk.

  After two hours of rest on his bed in the nude and cold, he would rise and report to Chief Inspector Rostnikov.

  Completely nude, Emil Karpo lay back atop the tautly tucked rough khaki military blanket on his bed and closed his eyes. Seconds later he was aware of a gentle movement on the bed to his left. The cat nestled down against his hip. Emil Karpo’s fingers touched smooth, silky hair. Then cat and man fell asleep.

  Iosef knew that Elena was as uncomfortable as he as they stood before the desk of the ZAGS officer.

  ZAGS (Zapis Aktov Grazhdanskogo Sostoyaniya), the official bureau that handled Russia’s weddings, had to grant permission for every wedding, and once a request was denied, little or no recourse existed in the Russian bureaucracy.

  ZAGS, an unimposing two-story half-block-long building, sat on the Butyrsky Ulitsa. In front of the shoe-box building, traffic ran heavily down the wide street and horns blared.

  The mandatory thirty-second day after they had applied for their wedding license had come to an end. This was the final chance for either of them to back out of the brakosochetanie, the minimal but official service in the sparse office in which a fluorescent light twinkled and pinged.

  Behind them stood the witnesses, Iosef’s mother and father and Elena’s aunt and cousin Edith. Iosef thought his father, two days out of the hospital, should not be there. Elena thought her aunt Anna, who awaited her probably inevitable fourth heart attack, should not be there. Elena and Iosef had no luck in convincing either one of them. Both Porfiry Petrovich and Anna Timofeyeva stood a few paces back, with Anna Timofeyeva between Porfiry Petrovich and Sara. Once Elena’s aunt had been a robust and often-uniformed procurator in the Soviet Union with Rostnikov as her chief investigator. But then both Anna Timofeyeva and the Soviet Union had collapsed.

  According to tradition, Iosef had been picked up at his apartment by his parents, and Elena had come with her aunt and cousin. An unmarked police car, a black ZiL, had been provided by Porfiry Petrovich to transport Elena.

  They had all met in the stark lobby that carried a nervous echo. Iosef wore his only suit, heavy and navy blue, with a white shirt and a blue-and-red-striped tie. Elena wore a white dress that Iosef had not seen before. She also wore a touch of makeup. To Iosef she looked healthy and beautiful.

  Papers had been signed. The ZAGS officer, a lean, smiling man of about sixty, bore an uncanny resemblance to the American actor John Carradine. Iosef remembered an old movie in which Carradine, a consumptive prisoner in an Australian hellhole, saved the life of Brian Aherne by killing an oppressive guard by throwing sheep shears into the guard’s back. Iosef imagined the ZAGS officer reaching into his desk, pulling out scissors, and hurling them toward someone in the room.

  The officer spoke, but Iosef, on the one hand, did not hear from his hiding place in the Australian outback. Elena, on the other hand, struggled to keep her attention on the words.

  Abruptly the officer stopped and looked at both of them, waiting. Neither knew what to say or do. They looked at each other and smiled broadly, sharing a thought about the officer and the ceremony.

  Iosef was instantly happy and Elena’s look conveyed that she was too. They embraced, kissed. Iosef took in the distinct scent of Elena mixed with an unfamiliar perfume while Elena was aware of his smell of bath soap and the familiar touch of perspiration.

  Porfiry Petrovich handed his son two plain gold marriage bands. Iosef placed one ring on the ring finger of his right hand. He then placed the other band on the same finger of Elena’s right hand.

  Then on to the party, which began with a toast from Porfiry Petrovich, who raised his glass and said, “Za molodykh, to the newlyweds.”

  A Russian wedding traditionally takes at least two days. Elena and Iosef had decided theirs would take one afternoon. Traditionally, the guests drank vodka and got drunk. Elena and Iosef had decided that vodka would be poured freely, but the length of the party would minimize drunkenness. Traditionally, the groom’s friends would block his way to the waiting bride. They would demand answers to embarrassing questions and, if not satisfied, would reject passage, forcing him to find another way into her room, possibly through a window. Elena and Iosef would skip that too, though they had both laughed one afternoon while at Petrovka imagining Karpo, Tkach, and Zelach blocking a stairwell. They added Paulinin, the Yak, and Pankov for more broken-up laughter.

  The party, held in the small third-story corner apartment of Sara and Porfiry Petrovich, quickly spilled into the hallway, where several neighbors joined in. Elena and Iosef stood in the living room greeting guests who brought white envelopes containing traditional gifts of money. The envelopes were handed to Porfiry Petrovich, who handed them to his wife.

  A twig of an old man from the second floor congratulated Iosef and Elena saying, “Your father fixed my toilet.”

  “Good,” said Iosef.

  “It was full of shit and wouldn’t flush. The man is a great plumber.”

  “Thank you for sharing that,” said Elena with a straight face.

  Iosef couldn’t hold back. He turned and pretended to cough.

  On the stairwell, Galina’s granddaughters, Laura and Nina, had come upstairs tentatively but had soon met Pulcharia Tkach, who took them under her wing along with her four-year-old brother. The four of them played on the stairs with squeals and shouts.

  In the crowded living room sat a table continually being restocked with glasses, knives, forks, and plates. New rounds of tableware and empty trays were constantly being gathered and washed in the small kitchen by Galina and Lydia, whose shrill voice could be heard chattering above the rumble of conversations around her. Having left her hearing aids in her apartment, she was barely aware that anyone was speaking.

  In
addition to vodka, bowls and platters piled high with food crowded together, some threatening to topple to the floor. The food included pelmeny, small balls of minced meat covered with pastry; vareniky, pastry filled with berries; soleniye ogurscy, cucumbers prepared for two weeks in salt water with spices; vinegret, pieces of herring, chopped beef, beets, cucumber, carrot, potato, and oil; and yazyk, slices of boiled beef tongue with horse radish.

  On the sofa with a glass of Pepsi-Cola in hand sat Anna Timofeyeva, who was keeping a secret that weighed upon her; she had promised to keep it, and keep it she would. Next to her sat Maya Tkach, who looked no happier than Anna Timofeyeva or the other person on the couch of gloom, Sasha Tkach. Sasha held a plate that had been piled high with food and handed to him by his mother. With the plate in one hand and a fork in the other, he ate dutifully.

  A man laughed, more the sound of a horse than a human. A man whom Porfiry Petrovich did not recognize called out, “Has anyone seen Victor?” A glass broke. The party went on.

  In the middle of the room with Pankov dutifully at his side, Igor Yaklovev, in a perfectly fitted blue suit and red tie, checked the time on his gold pocket watch. The watch was rumored to be a gift from Vladimir Putin. The Yak and Pankov were given room by the guests, who either knew who they were or recognized the presence of persons of power. It did not hurt this aura that the Yak looked very much like Lenin.

  Against the wall leaned Emil Karpo and Akardy Zelach. Hands folded in front of him, Karpo looked like a sentry before a secret conclave. An unbidden thought came to Emil Karpo, the flash of the face of Mathilde Verson, killed in the cross fire between a Chechen and a Russian gang. Mathilde, the only woman he had ever been involved with, had been a prostitute. That did not matter to either of them. She found him amusing and worried about him, but it was she who had been flung back against the window of a restaurant, her waves of red hair flowing as she flew.

  “Can I get you anything?” asked Zelach.

  The image was gone. Mathilde was gone.

  “No, nothing.”

  Zelach leaned back against the wall again and caught a glimpse of Sasha Tkach.

  Zelach knew that Maya had agreed to come to the wedding reception, where she would decide whether or not to return to Moscow. Sasha had told him this. Zelach had given him sympathy but no advice.

  Akardy Zelach slouched forward, face close to his plate of yazyk and vinegret, his eyes on his food, his thoughts with his mother at home too ill to come to the party. Zelach longed for a way to leave, and then Porfiry Petrovich appeared before him and said, “How is your mother?”

  “Poorly.”

  “You should be with her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Go. Bring her some food. Tell her I hope that she will get well soon. Go.”

  Porfiry Petrovich smiled and touched Zelach’s arm and then repeated, “Go.”

  “Thank you. I will just finish this quickly.”

  “And you, Emil Karpo, are you well?” asked Rostnikov.

  “Perfectly,” said Karpo.

  Rostnikov decided not to press the issue, not at his son’s wedding reception, but knew that something was troubling the gaunt detective. Karpo’s emotionless façade had been showing subtle signs of distress, which Rostnikov was reasonably sure that no one but he would notice.

  “Good,” said Rostnikov, turning to make his way back through the crowd.

  Anna Timofeyeva left first. Escorted by Elena’s cousin. Porfiry Petrovich guided them through the crowd and down the stairs. At the curb stood an unmarked police car for which Rostnikov had arranged.

  Just before Anna got into the car, she did something she had never done before. She touched and then kissed the cheek of her former chief investigator and said, “Rad za tebya, I am happy for you.”

  After two hours of pressing bodies, loud and shrill voices that created an unpleasant cacophony, Colonel Igor Yaklovev looked at his pocket watch. Time to leave. He had given the couple a suitable gift of cash and had wished them the best. Iosef sensed a slight tension in the Yak’s good-bye to him. Iosef had long shown signs of often-sullen disagreement with some of the work he had been assigned to do and some of the lies he was forced to tell. His father had kept him in line, and Iosef had performed with distinction.

  The Yak had met with Porfiry Petrovich while he was in the hospital. They had agreed that when Iosef and Elena returned they would no longer be teamed on an investigation. Porfiry Petrovich, however, took issue with the Yak’s wish that Rostnikov not team with either his son or new daughter-in-law.

  Colonel Yaklovev reconsidered. The decision that Porfiry Petrovich not work with Elena or Iosef had been a wish, not an order. Had it been an order, the Colonel was sure his Chief Inspector would have acquiesced.

  Pankov left the party with Colonel Yaklovev. He felt that he may have given a greater cash gift than necessary. He had asked his highly unreliable neighbor Mrs. Olga Ferinova how much he should give. Olga Ferinova, a huge woman who supervised two street-cleaning crews, was certain about everything. She had told him what was proper, and he had done it.

  On the way out, the Yak almost bumped into eleven-year-old Laura, who looked up at him and stopped laughing. Once outside, the Yak climbed into the waiting black police car at the curb. Pankov followed. The Yak had work to do.

  With the departure of Colonel Yaklovev, the party got even louder and the vodka began to flow even more freely.

  Zelach was next to leave, with a bag of food Lydia Tkach had prepared for his mother. He shook the hands of bride and groom. Iosef held Zelach’s hand a bit longer than he would hold others. Iosef smiled and Akardy returned the smile. When he touched Elena’s hand, he felt again that she held something back. She seemed to sense that he knew her secret. She gave him a reassuring touch on the arm.

  Emil Karpo stepped through the dwindling crowd, shook the hands of Porfiry Petrovich, Sara, Elena, and Iosef, and left without a word. The departure of the ghostly figure in black further emboldened the remaining guests to consume even more vodka. More bottles were brought out. The empty ones were carried clinking to the cartons from which they had come.

  A few of the now-drunken neighbors had to be politely urged to return to their apartments by Sara and Porfiry Petrovich. That left only Maya, Sasha, their children, and Lydia, in addition to Galina and her granddaughters. Maya had risen from the sofa to join her mother-in-law, Galina, and Sara in cleaning up, which they did with efficiency. Sasha watched his wife for signs of her intent to stay or go back to Kiev. He could detect nothing. He prided himself on his ability to see the small signs of intent in suspects. It was an ability he could not exercise on his wife. The children, a plate of food in each lap, sat on the floor of the now nearly empty living room.

  The bride and groom moved to the bedroom to be alone before leaving for a four-day honeymoon in Yalta.

  “Sit,” she said, gently ordering Iosef to his parents’ bed.

  He obeyed and she paced nervously, touching the unfamiliar ring on her finger.

  “I have to tell you something,” she said. “I should have told you this before we were married.”

  “You mean about the baby?” he said, looking up at her.

  She stopped fidgeting and pacing and met his eyes.

  “You know.”

  “I am a detective,” he said with a grin.

  “And?”

  “A girl would be nice. So would a boy.”

  “My aunt knows,” she said.

  “Do you want to tell your parents?”

  “Certainly.”

  He stood now. She moved into his arms with a sigh of great relief.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I know,” he said.

  The couple thanked Iosef’s mother and father when there was no one else in the apartment and the door finally closed. At that point, Elena told Sara and Porfiry Petrovich that they were going to be grandparents.

  17

  Talking to the Dead, He Misses the Wedding


  Only one invited guest did not show up for the wedding party.

  On the night before the wedding, Paulinin slept on the cot in his laboratory within a dozen feet of the two corpses laid out gently on two slabs. One was a male. The other a female. Both were covered by gray-blue sheets, the man’s just above his waist, the woman’s up to her neck. They were two corpses seemingly unrelated except for their means of death. She was forty-two, well dressed, well proportioned, decidedly handsome, and decidedly peaceful in death. He was an alcoholic of perhaps sixty years of age, underweight, ill clothed. If the killer had not selected him, he would have been destined to die within the year from a final rebellion of his organs.

  Paulinin had slept five hours. When he rose, he had completely forgotten the wedding. Buoyed by hot coffee and the ever-present laboratory smells, he was prepared to talk to the dead. The white mug had blue printing on the side saying: “Police Target Champion 1987.”

  Paulinin fired at no targets. The mug had been given to him years ago, though he could not remember by whom. He chose to ignore the three dark brown ring stains inside the mug as he drank.

  And then he made his phone call.

  “Paulinin,” answered Porfiry Petrovich after the third ring. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “No.”

  “And you do not care?”

  “No. I have information.”

  “I am listening.”

  “I dreamt that my two latest guests told me something,” he said.

  Rostnikov could hear Vivaldi playing in the background.

  “Both of them have deep trauma to the back of the head caused probably by a hammer, a clean new one, which gave up tiny shining metal chips,” Paulinin said. “The wounds are not as deep as any caused by the Maniac. The corpses were simply dropped in the woods off of a pathway. All the other corpses were laid out in repose, on their sides with hands as pillows. Two hairs from atop the body of the man were DNA tested. They belonged to you. However, another bitten-off fingernail proved not to be from the dead Aleksandr Chenko.”