“Karavay!” Andrey barked, but she didn’t even slow down. Woman’s stubborn as a mule, he thought. She was going to keep digging around, anyway, no matter what he said.
Andrey grabbed his jacket and took off after her, oblivious to his colleagues’ silence and the astonishment in their eyes. Masha was already outside by the time he caught up with her, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her silently to his car. She didn’t resist, just walked along next to him, looking off in the other direction. Andrey opened the passenger door, put her inside, got in himself, and steered the car quickly, angrily, out of his parking spot.
“We’re going to the morgue,” he said after a while, though she hadn’t asked. “Another woman got killed this weekend.”
From the passenger seat, he heard a barely audible gasp.
“She might not be one of ours, but she lived at an address on Innokenty’s list.”
“Where?”
“Pushkin Square.”
“Bely Gorod.” Masha sighed. “The third fortified wall, after the Kremlin and Kitay-gorod. Built at the end of the sixteenth century, and, just like in Jerusalem, it had sixteen gates. The Tver Gate was where Pushkin Square is now.”
“For God’s sake,” said Andrey, making a sharp left. “I’m starting to think you can’t spit in Moscow without hitting something from Jerusalem.”
“There are a lot of places that fit. Basically, the whole historical city center,” Masha said. “He used to make more of an effort, try to leave the bodies in important places like St. Basil’s. But now, I think he knows we’re onto him, so he’s rushing, looking for convenient spots closer to where the victims are.”
“What?” Andrey slammed on the brakes to park the car. “How can you possibly know that he knows that we know? I mean—you know what I mean!”
Masha shrugged. “I just have this feeling.”
“A feeling?” Andrey snapped. “You ought to do what my grandmother does, and cross yourself when you get a feeling like that!”
Andrey and Masha were standing on opposite sides of the car now, staring furiously at each other. When he realized what he’d just said, Andrey heaved another sigh. What had the world come to when a godless atheist like him was talking about sins and the sign of the cross!
“This is great, just great!” he grumbled under his breath. He turned and stalked into the morgue, not bothering to check that Masha was following him.
MASHA
Masha trailed Andrey, still fuming and off balance. The denim tyrant had practically kicked her off the case and out of Petrovka that morning! But Masha had to admit that she knew very well that Katya couldn’t have just randomly caught the killer’s attention as she drove down the road on her way to Masha’s apartment. And Andrey was right; that meant he knew about her, knew who she was. The thought terrified her, but at the same time it sent off a wave of excitement, and Masha’s whole body tensed like a greyhound ready to race.
I’m going to catch you, she vowed for the thousandth time. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re tired of proving how right you are about this soulless world. Come on, lay that burden down! Show yourself, phantom!
Masha looked around, just in case a killer really did appear. But all she saw was the morgue, and Andrey holding the door open for her. Behind her was the hustle and bustle of the Moscow street.
While they walked down the hallway, its floor tiled with a cheerful yellow linoleum, Masha tried not to think about what she was about to see. Pasha’s formidable figure appeared in the hall. He was just getting ready to go out for a smoke. Andrey introduced him quickly to Masha, and the coroner bowed chivalrously.
“Yakovlev, are you always this lucky with your interns?” he asked.
“Not always,” Andrey muttered. “Thank God.”
“He’s such a boor!” said Pasha, leaning close to Masha’s ear. “But there’s a kind and noble heart beating somewhere under that hideous surface.”
“Isn’t that always how it is?” Masha smiled, joining in the game. “No good heart without a hideous surface. Is there any justice in this world?”
“Only in fairy tales,” answered Pasha in all seriousness. “I’m reading a whole book of them to my youngest. The monsters with the good hearts always change into handsome princes at the end. But first, they need to be kissed. Even though they’re ugly.” Pasha winked. “What about giving Yakovlev a kiss, huh, Masha? What could he turn into? It would be nice to have something pretty to look at around here once in a while, since all I ever see is corpses, and nasty types, like, you know—”
Masha laughed, and Andrey narrowed his eyes at Pasha.
“Knock it off, Rudakov. Where’s our corpse?”
“Your corpse has become a real celebrity. Quite the unusual cause of death. Let’s go to my clubhouse.”
Pasha gestured grandly, and they followed him into an autopsy room, where the corpse was waiting for them under a white sheet. Pasha must have noticed that Masha’s face had gone green, because he paused.
“You know,” he said, hesitantly, “I don’t think I’m going to show you the whole thing. Pretty unappetizing, this one, even for the experienced connoisseur. For a young lady like you—here, let me just show you her hand.”
Pasha carefully lifted up one edge of the sheet, and what a hand it was. There was no skin left at all, and in some places bone was visible. Masha yelped in alarm, and clutched at Andrey, who was pretty pale himself.
“What happened there?” he asked.
“I can’t tell you for sure. I’m not an entomologist.”
“A what?”
“A bug expert. Seems like it was ants. Ordinary ones, so far as I can tell. I kept some of them in a jar here. Turns out ants are not exactly vegetarians.”
“Are you saying she died of ant bites?”
“No.” Pasha removed his gloves, and tiredly wiped one hand across his forehead. “I did an autopsy. Her heart gave out. The guys at the scene said the place was swarming. They ate her alive, and nobody heard her screaming. Extra-soundproof walls, apparently. The woman worked out of her apartment as a psychic or a witch or something. She soundproofed the walls so the neighbors couldn’t hear her speaking with clients. Turns out they were a little too soundproof. I can’t really tell you anything else. I think I’m going to go have a smoke, all right?”
Masha and Andrey both nodded, and they trailed him to the exit. Without explanation, Masha flew out the door and dashed around the corner of the building. She vomited.
Andrey found her a minute later, gulping greedily at the polluted city air. He offered her his handkerchief. It was enormous, with an old checked Soviet design. Masha nodded in thanks.
“Let’s go,” Andrey said. “That’s another reason I didn’t want you involved in this anymore. Looking at dead bodies is no fun. And this killer is putting on a show that’s too much even for an experienced coroner.”
“I didn’t say good-bye to Pasha.”
“He’ll understand. Come on, get in the car.”
Without talking, they drove off. When traffic stopped, as it always did, Andrey looked over at Masha. Her face still looked pale, and dark shadows had appeared under her eyes. He was seized by an acute feeling of guilt.
“I’m sorry I got you into this,” he finally said. “I’m afraid for you. This isn’t the kind of case that should be your first, you know? Most detectives never see this kind of thing in their whole careers. And here you are, just an intern.” He wanted to add that on top of all that, she was a law student, the daughter of a family of intelligentsia, a pampered girl who had only ever thought about ants as they related to picnics or fables.
“My childhood wasn’t as easy as you think,” Masha said, as if reading his mind.
“Sure, sure,” Andrey said. He assumed his definition of an easy childhood was different from hers.
He drove her to her place, and even walked her to her apartment door, which Masha appreciated. Her legs had gone wobbly somehow, and her head was spinning.<
br />
“Okay,” he said, almost propping her up outside the door. “Get some rest. We’ll have a lot of work to do tomorrow. Oh, and ask your folks to change the locks, okay?”
He turned quickly and walked down the stairs. Masha wanted to say something, to tell him—what? Thanks for taking care of me, even though you don’t have to, even though you probably don’t actually care at all. Thanks for turning out to be better than I thought you were. Or something even crazier, like, You know, I feel so calm and safe with you. Better than I’ve felt for a long time. Better than anyone since my papa.
But Masha only turned her key in the lock and opened the door, almost falling into the quiet, familiar darkness of the apartment.
Masha caught herself smirking, but then felt bad. A crime scene was no place to be snotty. Still, it was hard, because this apartment—home to Alla Kovalchuk, or Adelaide, as she called herself—was stuffed to the gills with kitsch. Everything was gilded and twisted into the florid contortions of that baroque style particular to people with lots of new money. Andrey was examining the room where the murder had actually taken place and where Adelaide had received her clients. He hadn’t let Masha in, even closing the door behind him. But the smell of decay, terrifying and sickly sweet, got through to her anyway, so she hadn’t protested. In fact, Masha had decided to stop arguing with Andrey altogether—when possible. She also decided she would yell at him only when absolutely necessary, like when she had to prove she was (obviously) right, for instance.
Masha ran a hand over a velvety throw pillow and tried the divan, which gave way softly beneath her. The lady of the place had evidently pampered herself in every way, as if she could not bear the discipline of furniture with a straight back or a firm seat. Only things pleasant to the touch were allowed here, only objects that were soft and warm. The coffee table held romance novels with luxurious scenes on the covers, the stories as pink and fluffy for the brain as this couch was for the body. Though of course she hadn’t known her, Masha suddenly decided that Alla Kovalchuk must have had a hard time as a child and teen. That was probably why she gathered so much sugary sweetness around her as an adult.
Masha pressed her forehead against a window and looked down on Pushkin Square. Not a single sound penetrated the three layers of glass, which made the people and cars rushing down Tverskoy Boulevard look unreal, like ghosts in some senseless masquerade. She heard footsteps behind her, but Masha didn’t bother to turn around. Andrey stood next to her, looking down out the window with her.
“They look like ants,” he said and grunted. They both shuddered, remembering the hand chewed through to the bone.
“Pushkin Square used to be called Strastnaya Square,” said Masha quietly.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Strast means passion, but the square was named after the Passion of Christ. In Old Church Slavonic, strast meant suffering or torment.” Masha shook her head, trying to escape the endless chain of associations stretching out in her mind. “I’ve been reading too much about this stuff.”
“Come into the kitchen. I have something to show you.”
There was a chair turned upside down, one that looked nothing like the others with their luxurious dark wood. This chair was shabby, probably cobbled together in a Belarusian furniture factory for some government office. Andrey spun it around so that Masha could see a metal plate, bearing the number fifteen, on its back. Masha drew in a sharp breath. So it was him again.
Andrey smiled gloomily. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, and they both hurried from the apartment and pulled the heavy door shut behind them.
Masha jogged down the stairs after Andrey. Her eyes kept catching on his neat, close-cropped hair. “You know,” she said, “I checked the numbers against the Arma Christi.”
Andrey slowed down to listen.
“Those were the instruments of the Passion, the things they used to torment Jesus Christ: the column, the whip, the crown of thorns. The quantities match, but—”
Andrey snorted. “But Christ never sinned.”
One floor down, a door opened, and a young woman in a pink raincoat stepped out onto the landing.
“Right,” Masha was saying. “But the place where the Passion took place was Jerusalem, so I thought maybe—”
She ran straight into Andrey, who’d stopped dead in his tracks.
“Sorry.” Masha grabbed a handrail to steady herself, and felt her cheeks flush at the momentary contact with Andrey’s back. But he didn’t answer, or even turn around.
Then Masha saw that the girl in pink had stopped short, too, and was staring up at him. The dumbstruck expression on the girl’s thin, almost doll-like face transformed into a flirtatious grin.
“Andreeeeeyyy! Hello! How long has it been?” she sang in a tone that exaggerated her already-high voice.
Andrey still hadn’t spoken, and when Masha tiptoed two steps farther down and caught a glimpse of his face, she was shocked at its pallor.
“Hey,” he managed finally, his voice flat.
Masha had been waiting for an introduction, but she realized Andrey had no attention to spare for good manners.
“I didn’t think you’d escape old Garbage-grad and turn up in Moscow, too,” the stranger went on as her eyes traveled over him, head to foot, with no hint of modesty. “Maybe I shouldn’t have dumped you after high school, huh?” She winked artfully.
But Andrey just stood there, eyes wide, as if he’d swallowed his tongue.
Masha acted on impulse. She tucked her hand into his, which Andrey seemed not to even notice. But the girl sure did, and now she looked at Masha for the first time. That look was domineering, despite the fact that she stood half a flight below them. For a split second, Masha regretted that she wasn’t wearing the expensive clothes her mother liked to buy her, ever hopeful that her daughter might finally answer the call of fashion. But almost immediately Masha got her bearings, led Andrey down the steps to the landing, and offered her hand.
“Hello, I’m Masha. Masha Karavay.”
The girl apparently wasn’t prepared for a handshake. Where she lived and worked, they were probably used to greeting each other with brisk nods.
“Raya,” she said, and squeezed Masha’s fingers halfheartedly.
“Nice to meet you!” Masha told her, putting on the smile her mother used when she didn’t think something was nice at all, but still intended to behave. “I wanted to thank you. I mean, if you hadn’t broken up with Andrey back then”—Masha pulled her shell-shocked supervisor closer with a proprietary flourish—“the two of us never would have gotten together. So, thank you so much! But now, you’ll have to excuse us, we’re on our way to go order our new kitchen. You know how you have to watch them every minute, or they’ll send you last year’s models from Italy instead of the new collection!” With that, Masha delivered another blinding smile. “Take care, now!”
“Um, bye,” said the girl, her voice wavering. She hadn’t moved, and she was no longer grinning.
“See ya!” said Andrey, his voice almost normal. He and Masha took off down the stairs again, but without talking this time. Now Masha was in the lead, pulling Andrey by the hand, and she didn’t let go until they got to the car.
“Last year’s models? From Italy?” Andrey gave her a crooked smile.
“Who knows!” Masha shrugged. “I needed a quick way to show her your happy family life.”
“What for?” Andrey avoided her gaze.
Masha gave him an angry look. “I thought you needed it.”
“A fake family?”
“No,” said Masha, her voice hard. “Happiness.”
“Well, yeah . . .” Andrey trailed off, then let out a low whistle. “Thanks, I guess.”
“You’re welcome, I guess.” Masha smiled. “Lunch?”
“Absolutely, Intern Karavay.” Andrey grinned in response. “And the boss is paying.”
ANDREY
Andrey barely knew what to do with himself. On the one hand, t
he fact that Masha had caught him in a moment of weakness was humiliating. On the other, her response had been touching, the way she had immediately come to his aid, playing the role of his wife, no less. Touching, and flattering, too. He looked at her from across the table of the inexpensive café she’d thoughtfully picked. Andrey had to admit that if a girl like that actually were his wife, he never would have acted like such a helpless moron on those stairs. Of course, girls like Masha only married guys like . . . The intimidating figure of Innokenty rose up before his eyes. Guys who didn’t freeze up like assholes when they ran into ghosts from their past.
Masha told the waiter what she wanted, and Andrey pointed to the first thing he saw with meat in it. As the waiter walked away, he called after him, “And vodka! For two.”
“She was my first love,” he told Masha apologetically, then winked to show her how silly the whole thing was.
“I thought so,” Masha said, her voice serious, and she smiled uncertainly.
“We were supposed to take the capital by storm together, and my plan was to support her so she could focus on her writing. She wanted to get into the Institute of Literature.”
Why am I telling her all this? Andrey wondered, but it was too late to stop now. He looked down at the polyester tablecloth. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Masha’s folded hands with their short, unpolished fingernails.
“I thought I’d come get a job. But she wrote poetry. Bad poetry, probably, but I didn’t have a clue about that stuff.” He laughed again. “I still don’t.” Andrey looked up at her. “Do you like Asadov’s poems?”
“No,” Masha answered honestly, frowning a little.
“Well, Raya loved them.”
The waiter brought them a sweating carafe of vodka and some bread. He offered her some, but Masha declined. She took some bread, though, and started squeezing it in her fingers, molding it like clay. Andrey took a shot, then a long sniff from a crust of bread. Let her see how real Russians did it. And by real Russians, he meant provincials like him. He didn’t need a chaser. Andrey knew Masha was waiting for the rest of the story, and he didn’t mind giving it to her.
The Sin Collector (Masha Karavai Detective Series) Page 17
