Masha shivered, remembering the architect with that medal pinned into his skin. Cruel, too, she thought. He must imagine the shining wealth of New Jerusalem all around him. He hears the choirs of angels, so he can’t hear the cries of his victims. He is as cold as the jasper and emeralds in the walls.
Innokenty parked the car Masha shared with her mother in the garage and walked her to her door.
“Good night, Mashenka,” he said gently, looking at her with a sort of tender sadness.
Masha smiled, and gave him a kiss on the cheek and a quick hug. She really didn’t want to sleep alone tonight. But the idea of sleeping with Innokenty was ridiculous.
Masha crept into her apartment and took off her coat without turning on the entryway light. She didn’t want to bother her mother and stepfather. She could hear their calm, measured breathing from the back bedroom, and Masha felt a sense of relief, for the first time, that there was a man in the house. She tucked herself into bed and curled up tight in a ball. She warmed her feet one at a time in her hands, trying to banish terrible images from her head. Her dreams, when they finally came, were incredibly beautiful.
Masha dreamed of medieval Moscow, a church at every crossroads. The walls of the churches were decorated with herbs and vines, flowers and birds, and Masha tilted her head back and stared up at a cupola shining in the sun. She walked over a wooden roadway, casting her gaze hungrily in all directions. Flowers were blooming everywhere; she heard roosters crowing, cattle mooing, and birds singing; and the air smelled of freshly cut grass. Any direction she turned, Masha could see the brick-red battlements of the Kremlin, stretching in a toothy row above the lush-green banks of the Moskva. In her dream, Masha effortlessly traveled from Borovitsky Hill, where the Kremlin stood, to the lowlands on the far side of the river, and then southwest to Shvivaya Hill. Everything she saw was fresh as when the world began, when human beings had not yet been created—yet there were already gardens and cathedrals with countless floating cupolas. And everything seemed very logical and correct. All streets converged at the Kremlin’s gates; the towers of the concentric old walls—Kitay-gorod, Bely Gorod, and the Skorodom—grew taller and more numerous the closer they were to the Kremlin itself; and when Masha suddenly found herself sitting in the Ivan the Great Bell Tower, a breathtaking view spread out below her of ancient monasteries dancing in ancient circles.
Masha awoke with a feeling of delight she had not experienced since childhood—like the feeling when you open your eyes and know there are presents under the tree and you are wrapped warmly in your family’s unconditional love. In the shower, the feeling began to fade a little. She thought, sheepishly, that the dream-Russia was the false image zealous nationalists clung to. They acted in the name of the blue sky, golden cupolas, ruddy-cheeked children, and maidens in traditional dress. But, she realized, one thing about her dream did make sense: everything had been beautiful and good and simple as far as the eye could see because there were no people there.
When she climbed out of the shower, a new question occurred to her: How did Moscow look in the murderer’s mind? Could it really be so mawkish, so dripping with honey? No, Masha thought with confidence. Her killer knew everything there was to know about people. He did not forgive them; he killed them.
Masha made her way to the kitchen table. Her stepfather gave her a wink over his cup of coffee, but her mother kept her back to Masha, making an awful racket at the stove. Masha smiled. This was Natasha’s way of proclaiming that, like any decent mother, she would like to have a little insight into her daughter’s personal life. When Masha came home after midnight, what could her mother assume other than some romantic rendezvous? Oh Mama, thought Masha, pouring herself a cup of Belov’s always-excellent coffee. If you only knew!
She could easily have cleared up the misunderstanding and informed them that there had been no romance last night. But then she would have to make a similar statement the next day, and the day after that. And Masha hated talking about herself. Her mother blamed it on the annoying sense of secrecy she had inherited from her father.
“You look great, Mama!” Masha said as she stood up and gave her mother a kiss on the side of the head, noticing her skillful new dye job.
“Really?” Natasha turned and grinned happily.
“Just what I’ve been telling you!” Masha heard her stepfather crow as she skipped out the door.
ANDREY
Andrey pondered the mysteries of the universe in the same place the vast majority of humankind did: sitting on the crapper. He thought about Yelnik’s bathroom, the toilet with a tank and the marble floor, hidden away in that godforsaken village. Yet here under Andrey’s feet were nothing but warped wooden boards. His outhouse was practically medieval. Even the average villager has a septic tank these days, Andrey scolded himself. And what did he have? Soviet-style sanitation, with newsprint tacked to the wall.
What a pile of crap, literally. And that newsprint . . . When he got inside again, there it was, the ubiquitous MK. On days when Andrey took the train home, he sometimes bought a copy. MK was the kind of newspaper that didn’t tax your brain. Here, for example, were the latest shocking crime chronicles. Something itched at his memory, buried, like a dusty coin that had rolled under the couch. He had read something, not in a case file or a novel . . . something about a soldier’s mother who had her son’s body shipped home to her, and found it to be surprisingly light, because the body was missing its heart, kidneys, and liver. The official story was that the soldier had committed suicide. The coins! Fourteen of them in Yelnik’s empty belly.
Andrey ran back to the house, where Marilyn Monroe was waiting for him with such a demanding expression on his face that you never would have guessed that after the kibble last night, he had also weaseled out of Andrey half a dozen sausages Andrey had bought for himself.
“You call yourself a dog?” Andrey asked as he pulled on his jeans and boots and chugged some lukewarm coffee. “No, Marilyn. You’re a pig. I’m kicking you out of here so you can go die on the street, got it?”
But Andrey wasn’t even fooling himself, he thought as he hurried to the car. He sounded like half of an old married couple. He could yell all he wanted, but there was no way of getting rid of Marilyn now.
When Andrey finally flew into the office after what seemed like hours in traffic, he made a point of not noticing the expression on his intern’s face, which hinted loudly at something secret and weighty. Instead he rushed to the computer and pulled up MK online. Marketing experts might have said that the newspaper’s website pushed the limits of bad taste. But Andrey wasn’t there for the style. He needed an item that was probably two years old. He started searching, keying in two or three terms at a time—organs suicide soldier, army stolen organs, and so on—until he found it. There it was, the suicide of Private D., body returned home, something something something . . . Here. General Ovcharov denies rumors of stolen organs, calling the allegations a deplorable provocation . . . All right, nothing interesting after that. But now he had a last name. Andrey wrote the general’s name in his notebook, along with the name of the reporter.
The phone rang and Andrey and Masha both jumped. Anyutin was summoning him to report on the investigation. Andrey was so pleased with himself this morning that he graciously invited the intern to come with him. This was her chance to get a glimpse of how real professionals operated, guys who weren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Nothing like the girl-talk she was probably used to at her fancy college.
“I really need to speak with you,” the girl told him in the elevator.
“Later,” said Andrey, committed to his role as the stern hero.
The intern shut her mouth. But when they knocked at the colonel’s door and walked inside, it was Andrey’s turn to shut up.
Anyutin wasn’t alone. Katyshev was sitting there, too. Andrey just had time to wonder what the hell was going on before Anyutin, demonstrating all the hospitality of a polished host, seated the intern at the all-powe
rful prosecutor’s right hand, and showed Andrey to a seat a little farther off to the left.
“So, how are we all getting along?” Anyutin began, while Katyshev practically winked at his little golden girl.
Andrey felt a wave of anger welling up inside him again. The feeling got even stronger when the little idiot grinned and said, “Fantastic!”
“Well, Captain? How would you evaluate Intern Karavay’s contribution so far?”
“I give her an A plus,” Andrey said, in a voice so full of scorn a deaf man could have heard it. “I’m glad to see Mr. Katyshev here with us. Just the man I was hoping to talk with today.”
“At your service,” the prosecutor said with a nod of his gray head.
“I’m investigating a hitman named Yelnik. Maybe you remember—he was charged with murder but acquitted in the Nungatov case. You were the prosecutor.”
“Yes, I do remember,” Katyshev said, nodding again. “Not a very pleasant story. The detectives were able to scrounge up only a few paltry leads, and the defense attorney—Tishin, I think—twisted the facts all around so that, by the end, it wasn’t even clear who had killed whom. Yelnik only served a couple of years for failure to cooperate. So what’s he done this time?”
Andrey sat at the ready, his chest puffed out proudly.
“Actually, Yelnik has been murdered, and I’m investigating. After he got out of jail, Yelnik got out of the game. He moved out to the village of Tochinovka and raised chickens and potatoes. But his place, which looks like a dilapidated shack from the outside, is a luxury resort on the inside.”
“Did you have a search warrant, Yakovlev?” Anyutin interrupted.
“The door was open. Kind of,” said Andrey. “But here’s the strange thing. The last time he was in prison, Yelnik’s cellmate was a guy named Zitman, also called the Doctor. The Doctor was famous for traveling around poor regions and getting people to sell their organs—and for pennies, compared to the going price abroad. When Zitman got out of prison, he moved to Israel. But I have a source who says that Yelnik received several visits from some unidentified military officers. And his call list includes multiple short calls, just a few seconds long, to a number at the Ministry of Defense.” Andrey looked in turn at every member of his rapt audience. “Meanwhile, a couple years ago, the bodies of soldiers started getting shipped home—without their internal organs.
“What I think is this: Yelnik was inspired by Zitman, but decided to take a streamlined approach. Instead of a single kidney, he’d take both, plus the heart and liver. Basically, everything he might be able to sell. One healthy young soldier could make him big bucks, even if he split it with the medics and commanding officers. You might remember, Yelnik was known for making his hits look like suicide. Probably his military contacts would notice some dumb recruit, an orphan or someone from a poor family, somebody whose suicide wouldn’t cause a scandal, and pass the information on to Yelnik. But he must have cheated somebody, sometime, and they came back to collect their share. That’s why Yelnik’s guts are missing. They decided to make up the difference at their supplier’s expense!”
“Somebody? Sometime?” Anyutin said. “Rather a foggy theory, isn’t it, Captain?”
But the chief’s radiant face belied his doubt. He was especially pleased that Katyshev himself was there to see the top-rate work his people were doing.
“Colonel Anyutin, sir,” Andrey said with a smile. “I already have the name of one general, and a journalist who wrote an article about the soldiers a couple of years ago. It won’t be too hard to get to the bottom of this.”
“So if I understand correctly,” said Katyshev, swinging one leg, “this murder is not at all connected with my old case against Yelnik? I had been worried about that. A completely separate crime, eh?”
“Sorry, but I don’t think it is separate,” a young, clear voice rang out.
What the fuck! Andrey turned to glare at his intern. She was staring at the floor, a nervous but stubborn expression on her face.
“Tell us more, Intern Karavay,” said Katyshev with an exaggeratedly official tone to his voice, and looking at the girl’s pale face, Andrey felt like he might explode with fury any second.
Oh, she doesn’t think so, huh? This fucking brat, all wrapped up in her books and her serial killers, doesn’t think so!
“I only have a very raw theory right now,” Karavay began. “But it seems to me that this is part of a pattern. A series of murders that started almost two years ago at the old electric station.”
“Is that so? Let’s hear an explanation,” said Anyutin.
“I’m sorry,” Masha said, raising her eyes, “but I’m not yet ready to provide a full analysis.”
No fucking way, thought Andrey. Now what was he supposed to say? Anyutin also looked dumbstruck. If this were any other member of his staff, anyone other than this girl here as a favor to you-know-who . . . What the hell was this?
Andrey stood up with a grunt and said a curt military-style farewell to Katyshev. As he was leaving, he saw how Katyshev was looking at the intern. It was an attentive, appraising gaze. But there was something else in it, too: Katyshev was looking at her with admiration.
MASHA
Masha caught up with him in the hallway.
“Andrey!” Masha shouted, startling herself. She had never called him by just his first name before. He spun around, looking like a hurt child. “I’m sorry, I tried to tell you, but you—”
“‘I’m not yet ready to provide a full analysis?’” the captain roared, and Masha thought for a second he was going to hit her. “Where do you think you are, some rich girls’ finishing school? This is Petrovka! We have discipline here! If you have something to say, you sure as hell better back it up with facts!”
“I can,” said Masha, quietly.
“I’m listening!”
“I’d like to bring in an outside expert for this discussion. Could we have lunch together?”
Her mannered tone made Andrey grimace like he had tasted something sour.
“With pleasure,” he said with a fake smile, and with obvious scorn he clicked his heels like a nineteenth-century Prussian soldier. With uncharacteristic elegance, he bowed to her, then turned and took off down the hall.
Masha waited until he was safely around the corner, then took out her phone and dialed Innokenty.
“Kenty! Come rescue me, please!” she whispered. “I need your moral support, or this denim-clad crocodile of mine is going to eat me up.”
“What sort of support do you require, my unfortunate Medea?” But Kenty’s irony quickly turned to sympathy, and he added, “Is he really getting to you?”
“Yeah,” said Masha, “but it’s my own fault. I started to share my theory with the bosses before I told him about it. Now I need you to come in, show some authority, be the guy five minutes away from getting his doctorate in history, and back up everything Gluzman said yesterday.”
“Not a problem, seeing as I really am that guy,” Innokenty bragged. “And I know a great little place near your office.”
“Just nothing too expensive,” Masha warned. “My denim detective is obviously not swimming in money.”
“Good! Given where he works, that’s probably a sign of moral rectitude,” Innokenty reasoned.
They hung up, and ten minutes later Kenty texted her an address. When Masha told Andrey, he just nodded, not looking up from his papers. Masha felt terrible. She looked at the back of his crew-cut head and cursed herself for not showing more restraint. But there was just no way she could keep this insane theory inside. It was tickling her lips, begging to be set free. How could Yelnik’s bizarre murder be a one-off? Could Yakovlev really not see it?
Masha made herself sit patiently till lunchtime, thinking over every point all over again.
When the time came, Maria Karavay and Andrey Yakovlev took an awkward walk down the stairs together and stepped out of the building without exchanging a word. As she tried to match his stride, Masha noti
ced with surprise that the girls they passed were looking appreciatively at Mr. Denim. They say there’s a demographic crisis, she thought, but I didn’t realize men were that hard to come by.
As usual, Kenty had selected the ideal place. Nice and quiet, with tables placed a discreet distance apart, and judging by the decor and the customers, not too posh.
When Innokenty stood up from the table to greet them, Masha saw Andrey’s face go dark. Tall, broad-shouldered Kenty in his expensive jacket made the poor captain look like a nobody. Masha realized how much they both must irritate him, as a short, obviously provincial man without much money. But to hell with him! thought Masha. Did she have to please everybody she met? It wasn’t her fault her father was a lawyer rather than a truck driver, or that her mother was a doctor who ran a private clinic. Why was she always apologizing to this guy? The revolution was supposed to have made everyone equal, and look how that had turned out! Why shouldn’t Andrey look at her and Kenty, and see that they were different?
As she sat down at the table, Masha very deliberately, with a slow, genteel gesture, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Then she clearly dictated her order to the waiter, and turned to the captain in a rather majestic posture.
“What will you have, Andrey?”
Glowering, he ordered the first thing he saw on the menu. Then they settled in to wait for Innokenty, who after pondering for a while finally ordered the same thing as Masha. As he extended his arm to hand his menu to the waiter, the light reflected off his cuff links.
Masha smiled wryly, and took the file on the murders out of her bag.
ANDREY
“I think it’s time to get down to the facts,” said Andrey, thoroughly irritated by being talked at about medieval architecture.
“You’re just like our Masha,” said Innokenty, shaking his head. “I’m simply trying to explain that there is an actual system behind all of this.”
The Sin Collector (Masha Karavai Detective Series) Page 8
