“Shagin? Hi. It’s Andrey Yakovlev. Listen, I have a question for your underworld expert. Which of the lowlifes out there have started shaving the backs of their necks in fancy ways? You know, fancy, like, creative, shaving out numbers, for instance.”
Masha suddenly focused on his voice. Numbers?
“Oh yeah? Well, it’s a new trend. Okay. Write it down for your book on criminal folklore. Guy I saw had a fourteen. Seven plus seven? Double the symbol for good luck? Huh, never would have thought of that. Thanks. Talk to you later.” Yakovlev hung up the phone, meeting Masha’s eye without meaning to.
Numerology! Masha’s heart sped up. The symbolism in numbers! She shuffled through the files on her desk again. One, two, and three were the first victims, at the Bersenevskaya waterfront. There had been a number four on the arm of the drunk they had found dead a year ago at Kutafya Tower. Then a six, on the dismembered arm on Red Square almost six months ago. Now there was a fourteen. Could they all be victims of the same perpetrator? Or was Masha’s mania for maniacs driving her insane? She looked over at Yakovlev again and decided to take a risk.
“Excuse me?”
The captain unhappily lifted his eyes from his papers.
“Do you happen to have the coroner’s report from yesterday’s death on the riverbank?”
Yakovlev lifted his eyebrows, obviously annoyed at Intern Karavay meddling in his case.
“I mean,” Masha hurried to add, blushing, “was there anything strange about it?”
Now his eyebrows reached a nearly unnatural height. “What do you mean by strange?” he asked coldly.
Masha shrugged her shoulders, feeling helpless, and tried to think. Yakovlev took the opportunity to turn back to the papers he was studying.
What a jerk. Masha was furious. Fine, she told herself, arranging her own eyebrows in a way that would make her mother say she scowled just like her father. Fine. Screw him, and the numbers, too. Let’s try a different angle. There was the weird way the tongues were cut. And there was that other case, a bizarre one, with the drunk who had come to Kutafya to die with his throat all swollen. There was the severed arm and hand with the Chagall painting. What else? Masha went on reading old files, finding more and more strange things. How could she have forgotten? There was the terrible case all the papers had covered, not long after the severed arm, about the wife of the governor from Tyumen Province. She was one of the ten richest women on the planet, wealthier than the Italian boss of the Benetton Group and J. K. Rowling. They found her body, hacked into four pieces then neatly wrapped in old newspapers, at a gift shop at the Kolomenskoye estate.
Masha felt sick. The governor’s wife had not been well liked—too many people depended on her business dealings. Everyone had to bribe her, grovel at her feet, and do their best to cater to the whims of this all-powerful woman. And Liudmila Turina had ruled with an iron fist. Her businesses grew, and money flowed into her Swiss bank accounts. The papers loved to describe her mansion outside London, wondering when she’d show some shame. But she never did, and anyone who dared to scold her for it was punished. Liudmila squeezed them dry.
Who could have done such a thing to a governor’s wife, someone who was always surrounded by bodyguards? And who could have done it and not gotten caught? That’s the real question, Masha thought. Would they let her take a look at the full case file, or at least the initial evidence they had collected? There had been a time when Petrovka’s best resources had been directed at solving that murder, but Turina’s widower had fled, one fine day, to the foggy shores of England, and after that, things had quieted down.
Masha sketched out a table (every line perfectly straight, though she hadn’t used a ruler). In it, she wrote, Liudmila Turina. She entered the date of death, and the place: Kolomenskoye.
Then she dove back into her files. Yesterday she had spotted something else strange, but let it go, because she hadn’t known yet what she was looking for. Half an hour later Masha stopped cold. There it was! Architect and builder Bagrat Gebelai had died in an exquisite apartment on Lenivka Street from severe enervation and physical exhaustion. The contrast between the words exquisite and enervation jumped out at her. And Masha thought she’d heard the name Gebelai in the news, too. Masha filled in the next line in her table: Bagrat Gebelai, eight months ago, Lenivka. She leaned back in her chair. Most of the strange cases were connected by one thing: the places where the bodies were found. Aside from Liudmila Turina at Kolomenskoye, on the outskirts of Moscow, all the rest had shown up right in the city center.
The detective sitting next to her announced that it was time for a smoke break, and Masha asked if she could use his computer. He told her to go ahead, then walked out, the rest of the office trailing after him.
First Masha pulled up a detailed map of Moscow. She fed some A3 paper into the printer in the hallway and printed out a full-color map of downtown. Down the hall she caught a glimpse of Captain Yakovlev, cigarette in hand, listening with an ironic gleam in his eye to the detective whose computer she was borrowing.
She went back to the computer and risked searching for a few numbers and the word numerology. Google didn’t let her down. The number one, Masha read, was a symbol of glory and power, action and ambition. Someone born on the first day of the month was supposed to pursue those things, never wavering from his course, but never trying to make a big jump too early, either. Then there was two, which symbolized balance in a person’s mood and actions, a personality that was gentle and tactful. Four meant an even-natured, hardworking disposition. Six predicted success in business, as long as the person could win the trust of those around him, attracting not just customers, but followers.
Masha closed the browser window and sat down again in her own seat, irritated. So the man who had the tip of his tongue cut off was ambitious, and the woman labeled 2 was supposed to maintain balance, despite the blood rushing from her mouth. Not to mention the alcoholic whose number indicated his hardworking personality. She had no idea how numbers had predicted destiny for the owner of the arm found on Red Square; nevertheless, Masha was sure the numerology idea was too simplistic to be useful. She didn’t even know whether the numbers meant something, or if it was only her imagination.
“Captain Yakovlev!” Masha stood up and set a sheet of paper down before her supervisor, who’d just returned.
He gave a start at being addressed so directly, but his face stayed impassive as he picked up the paper.
“What’s this?”
“These are deaths I picked out that seemed strange to me.”
“Strange again?”
“Yes. Again.”
“You know, I asked you to look at murders passed off as accidents.”
Masha said nothing.
Andrey sighed. “I’m listening, Intern Karavay.”
“You don’t actually care what I work on,” Masha said quietly. “Right? But without anything to work on, I’m still going to be here. You can’t get rid of me.”
“That sure seems to be the case.” He smirked. “Fine. Go ahead and investigate your strange things.”
Masha nodded quickly and almost ran out of the room.
“Why are you so pissy with her?” she heard someone ask as the door closed behind her.
Masha didn’t wait around to hear the answer.
ANDREY
When Pasha finally called, Andrey raced off to the morgue. Something was needling at him. He knew his intern didn’t deserve this treatment. She had been working hard all day. A couple of times Andrey had noticed the intense focus on that odd, striking face of hers. An honor student! He had to admit she knew something about navigating case files. He wasn’t sure what sort of strange stuff she had dug up, but if it helped her with her thesis, then fine, why not? Why shouldn’t she run around asking questions? Some people would tell her to fuck off, but some might tell her what she needed to know. It wouldn’t hurt her to learn a little about working with people, too, instead of just paper.
In thi
s pedagogical mood, Andrey walked into Pasha’s office and shook his enormous hand, before accepting the latex gloves his friend held out for him.
“Crazy stuff,” Pasha began, pointing to the dead man’s open stomach.
Andrey winced and looked inside. A big, empty cavity.
“All his internal organs had been removed,” Pasha said, nodding. “Somebody gutted the guy like a big fat chicken. All I found inside him was this.” Pasha handed Andrey a plastic bag.
“Money?” he asked.
“Right. Soviet kopecks, to be precise. Pennies.”
“How many?”
“Fourteen.”
“Huh.” Bewildered, Andrey sat down.
Pasha went on. “And on the back of his head—”
“I know. I saw the number.”
“But that’s not all. Look!” He lifted up one of the blue hands for Andrey to see. “I found ice under his fingernails. But it’s not from a freezer. There are microparticles in there that indicate the ice occurred naturally.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, it’s the middle of July, and the last time there was ice on the river was February, maybe March at the latest. His lungs are gone, but I can tell you for sure the guy was drowned. Dropped through some hole in the ice.”
“Okay. And the body froze?”
“Yes, and I stand by that. Plus, he was only thrown back in the river again a couple of days ago.”
“That’s crazy.” Andrey rubbed his forehead.
“I know,” Pasha said, his voice tired.
“So, this is what we have.” Andrey made himself look again at the man’s contorted face. “The guy is dying because somebody chucked him through a hole in the ice, then he tries to claw his way out of there—”
“He gave it a good shot, too. He’s covered in scrapes and scratches. Look.” Pasha turned the corpse’s head so Andrey could get a better view.
“Right. So the guy puts up a good fight, but he croaks. Then the murderer goes and reels him in, and puts his catch on ice for six months before tossing it back. Was he trying to cover up the time of death, maybe?”
“Well, if the killer’s not a complete idiot, he knew we’d detect the frozen tissues. On the other hand, he might have killed him, say, three winters ago. If it was frozen well, the body could still be in this sort of shape.”
“No, Pasha.” Andrey looked again at the victim’s wide-open eyes. “That’s not possible; Yelnik disappeared last winter.”
“That’s the guy’s name?” Pasha pushed the corpse back into the refrigerated compartment.
“Yep. Matched him to his mugshot yesterday. The tattoo helped. So if the murderer wasn’t going to be able to trick us in terms of time frame, then why make such a big tzimmes, as an old woman I know used to say?”
“The place?” asked Pasha, pulling off his gloves.
KATYA
First she rang the doorbell. Not much chance that Natasha would be home, but it was best to be sure. Then Katya used her key to unlock the door, took a deep breath, and crossed the threshold, smiling at the familiar smells. While she was taking off her boots, she thought she heard someone in the kitchen.
“Natasha?” she called. But there was nobody there. Only a clock ticking, and the washing machine spinning in the bathroom.
Katya paused before the mirror just inside the door. She liked to look at herself in this mirror, as if she were the lady of the house. It felt totally natural. The soft golden light from the chandelier had the same magical effect she remembered from childhood. She was a princess again, not some poor shepherd girl, and everyone else could get out of her damn way. Katya tiptoed farther into the apartment. There was a new blanket on the sofa in the living room. Soft. Probably cashmere.
A new bottle of lotion sat on the shelf in the bathroom. Must be Natasha’s. Masha never cared about things like that. Katya mentally put the lotion aside for later.
In Masha’s room, everything seemed frozen in time. The summer sun beat through the window.
“So stuffy in here,” Katya said out loud, and she opened the window to air things out.
She spent a bit longer in Natasha’s room, standing in front of her closet. She took note of the chocolate-brown strappy heels and the businesslike pinstripe suit with its surprising leopard-print lining. Katya took a deep sniff. Natasha had switched perfumes again. Masha’s mother could never stay loyal to just one. She was always experimenting. Katya liked that. She played a game with Natasha’s perfumes, trying to decide which one would be best for her, and concluded they would all work nicely.
She moved on into the kitchen and peeked inside the fridge. But that always ruined her fun. There was no way, here, to pretend this was her own place, because the real-life lady of the house might notice if half a wheel of cheese disappeared (Katya adored this Dutch cheese, and it was crazy expensive), or a bunch of grapes went missing. So Katya devoured the contents of that enormous refrigerator with her eyes only, like a poor idiot visiting from the provinces might look at a fancy still life at the Hermitage.
Katya desperately wanted to take a bath, but it was too risky. It would be too hard to explain if they caught her lounging in a tub full of bubbles and aromatic oils. A shower, maybe. Katya had her alibi ready. “Oh, Natasha, I fell in a puddle, I got caught under a downspout, a Mercedes flew by and splashed me!” Katya knew Natasha would allow it. They’d even have some tea afterward, and Natasha would grill her about Masha’s many admirers. She always wanted to hear about that. Sometimes, when there were clues that Masha had her eye on someone (bold but amateurish attempts at makeup, for example), Natasha even sent Katya out to spy for her.
And Katya performed well. One time she found out that the “someone” was in Masha’s class, and his name was Petya, a respectable son of wealthy parents. He drove a Porsche, and when Katya caught sight of that Porsche, she practically jumped out of her skin. But silly Masha said she wasn’t impressed—with all the huge SUVs on the road, you couldn’t see a thing from a little sports car. It was never clear what Petya saw in Masha. Katya would have said there wasn’t much to see. Her thick hair, she supposed, or her eyes, maybe. She had even said something about them to Masha once. Masha had laughed and shocked Katya by quoting something in French about how people compliment a woman’s eyes when the woman herself isn’t very pretty. And she was smart, sure, but for guys that was more of a drawback. So what had Petya fallen for? Must have been her last name: Karavay. Real elegant, and pretty famous in some circles. The dead lawyer and all.
Katya remembered how much everyone fussed over Masha after he died, even Katya’s own mother, as if she didn’t have anyone better to pity. Oh, the poor child, losing her father so young! What a tragedy!
Katya had spoken up then. “What about me? Don’t you ever feel sorry for me?” she objected. “My father deserted me before I was even born!”
Her mother said she did feel sorry for her, really. She patted Katya’s head and told her not to be jealous, that it wasn’t nice. But Katya was jealous. She thought she must have been born with that feeling inside of her, the feeling she felt when she looked out their first-floor window at the girl in the colorful jacket, riding high on her father’s shoulders as he laughed, when she heard the old women praising him from their benches. What a good father that Fyodor Karavay is, they used to say. And a big shot, too! And she felt it when she saw Fyodor with Natasha, who looked so young and who dressed in the sort of clothes Katya’s own mother had never even dreamed of owning, and every time she saw his picture in the paper with an article about some high-profile trial. Katya desperately wanted to be friends with Masha, but she also wanted to claw her eyes out. It was a strange, worrying, terrible feeling, one that Katya’s mother correctly identified only ten years later.
The year that both girls turned thirteen, Katya’s mother, Rita, was offered an enormous amount of money for their one-bedroom apartment downtown. They could use it to buy one twice as big in a less trendy neighborhood. Her mo
ther was happy. The buyer made all the arrangements for them, even helped them move, and Rita was so grateful, knowing she never could have handled it on her own. She gushed to Katya about how they’d have their own bedrooms now, not to mention an extra room, an actual living room (“And maybe, Katya, it could be a nursery someday!”).
“It won’t be,” Katya had snapped. She was determined to marry a rich guy.
Katya was glad about moving, though. She could finally get away from Masha’s ugly face. Only months later Katya realized she was dying of loneliness in their dull new neighborhood. Life without Masha was boring. It was as if some sort of engine had been removed from her mind, one that had given emotional tone and tension to Katya’s life. And Katya was no idiot. She knew she couldn’t talk with her new neighbors the way she had with Masha. All these girls talked about was boys, makeup, and clothes—the three subjects she and Masha had never, ever discussed.
At first, she got a kick out of looking through their dog-eared issues of Vogue. Then she felt lonely again, remembering the guys from Masha’s special math and physics school who used to come over. She didn’t always understand the things they talked about, but those boys were a whole lot more interesting than the ones her new neighbors were always drooling over. Katya dreamed of eventually marrying one of those math-and-physics boys—provided, of course, that he made a lot of money, and didn’t work as just a boring old researcher somewhere like her mother.
So Katya decided to get back in touch with Masha, despite the ten metro stops between them. She knew, deep down, that her jealousy was pointing the way like a compass, that Masha would continue rising up into the cream of society, and that Katya needed to hitch a ride.
The Sin Collector (Masha Karavai Detective Series) Page 4
