“Here he is,” Ivanovich said, pointing to another photo. “He was Nikita’s doctor and, I believe, his friend as well. In fact, Sidorov was a doctor to many in the business.”
“Mob doctor,” Hannibal said. “There’s always a guy who’s inside but not really. A guy who doesn’t feel the need to report the gunshot wounds he treats, and if a patient doesn’t want to go to the emergency room after a beating or stabbing, well, he won’t press the point.”
“Exactly. He was treasured for his expertise but more for his discretion.”
It was the man Hannibal had met all right, and from the pictures it was clear that he really was a family friend. His eyes slid over the photos almost as if they formed a motion picture of another time, another place. But what place?
“These all appear to be taken in the same swanky club. Where are they?”
“The Russia House, up on Connecticut Avenue. The best bar and restaurant in the city if you happen to be Russian.”
“And I see there is gambling too.”
“Well, there are private rooms.” Ivanovich said, turning a page. “If they know you, you can always get a room for your group. This is where you go to play preference. See? Here. It is the game for serious card players in Russia.”
“Whoa!” Hannibal sprang to his feet, and regretted it immediately. He felt dizzy for a moment, but focused on the new photo to steady himself. “Who is that guy? The one in the middle of the table.”
“I do not know him.”
“Everybody else sure does,” Hannibal said. “Dr. Sidorov, Petrova, and isn’t that Gana standing behind him? I thought he was new to the area.”
“He left Washington years ago,” Ivanovich said. “I never expected him to return.”
Hannibal’s index finger circled the photo. “Look at that. Sidorov, Gana, Petrova, they’re all looking at that guy in the middle.”
“They must all be friends,” Ivanovich said. “I admit I never looked that closely at this one but, he almost looks like the leader of the pack here.”
“Yeah, or at least the center of attention.” Hannibal said, tapping the picture with his fingertips. “And that woman practically on his lap, she’s clearly more than a friend.”
“The blonde?” Ivanovich asked.
“Yeah, but she’s a redhead these days. You can’t miss that body. That girl is Queenie Cochran.”
15
Saturday
Finding a parking place anywhere near the Russia House was a challenge. The yellow marble edifice sat just north of Dupont Circle, on the corner where Florida Avenue crossed Connecticut. That intersection was surrounded by triangular and trapezoidal blocks formed by streets crossing at awkward and bizarre angles. Parking was even more difficult for a man whose head was pounding due to a vicious hangover. Still, walking toward the stone monolithic that housed the Russia House, Hannibal considered the conversation that had led him there to be even more challenging. He had made the call from his office, with Ivanovich looking on.
“Well, good morning,” Raisa Petrova had said. “You are my very first caller of the day. And who might you be?”
“It’s Hannibal Jones, Mrs. Petrova.”
“Oh.” Her voice dropped a full octave. “Well, have you called to apologize?”
“Excuse me?”
“I thought maybe you had come to your senses. Have you finished cross-examining my son-in-law?”
“Ma’am, I spoke to Mr. Gana and we are not in conflict over anything,” Hannibal said in his most placating voice. “I’m sorry if I upset you, but now I’m authorized to tell you what this is all about.”
“Oh, so there’s more to the story?”
As he expected, the hint of a mystery got her in a listening mood. “Yes ma’am. The truth is, we’re looking into the circumstances of your husband’s death. I didn’t tell you right away because I didn’t want to get your hopes up about anything. Naturally, we had to consider every possibility. Now we’re trying to gather more background information.”
“I’m not sure I can tell you much.” He could hear her clinking the teapot against her glass and the sound of liquid pouring.
“I do understand, ma’am,” Hannibal said, trying to be gentle. “We don’t want to inconvenience you any further. But I would like to speak with Dr. Sidorov. If you could help me contact him, that would be a huge help.”
“Yakov doesn’t know any more than I do,” Raisa said.
“I understand he knew a great deal about your husband’s health,” Hannibal said in a soft, understanding tone. “He may be able to help us understand why, well, why things happened the way they did.”
Raisa took a deep breath and spent five or six seconds letting it out. “Yes, he may be able to help you with that. But I don’t know when he will be home. He spends a lot of time at that club. The lounge, he calls it.”
“Club?” Hannibal glanced at Ivanovich. “Do you mean the Russia House?”
“Why, yes,” Raisa said, but he heard the surprise in her voice. “In fact, he’s picking me up in a few minutes to go over there.”
“I see,” Hannibal said, not seeing at all. “But the restaurant isn’t open for any meal but dinner.”
Raisa almost snorted in skepticism. “That is for the tourists. If you know the right people, you go as part of a private party. Yakov will spend most of the day there, playing his card games. For some, it is like a drug. It sucked away my Nikita’s soul and now it has Yakov’s as well.”
“Maybe I could meet him there.”
“Perhaps,” Raisa said, “if you were expected.”
“Your help would be very much appreciated, ma’am.”
When Hannibal hung up, Ivanovich asked, “You still think he committed suicide?”
“Not now,” Hannibal said. “But she sure wants me to. That’s the only reason she’s pointing me to Sidorov, so he can tell me how much pain Nikita was in. But that’s OK, as long as I get to question him under friendly circumstances.”
“Why Sidorov?”
“Well, he seems to know all the players and might know something about your man Gana’s past.”
“But why not go back to the mystery woman, this Queenie? She already knows you.”
Hannibal shook his head. Everyone’s a detective, he thought. “Well, let’s see. She’s got her husband following Gana. Apparently, there’s a pile of money in the balance. And she’s working hard to disguise her Russian background. Everything about this broad tells me she’ll lie to me about anything. I think I’m more likely to get the truth out of the doc.”
All of that flew back through Hannibal’s mind as he knocked on the door a few minutes after one o’clock. Dressed in his regulation black suit, wearing his Oakley sunglasses and black leather gloves, Hannibal was accustomed to being treated like some snooping government official. When the stocky man wearing an apron around his waist opened the door with an irritated expression on his face, Hannibal knew this time would be different.
“Didn’t anyone tell you to use the back entrance?”
“I think you’ve got me confused with somebody else,” Hannibal said, presenting his card. “I’m here to join Dr. Sidorov’s game. I believe Mrs. Petrova told you to expect me.”
The man at the door at least had the grace to blush as he swung the door wide. “I am very sorry. Simple mistake. Please come in and follow me.”
Hannibal’s guide led him through the lounge, which was as opulent as Ivanovich’s photos had suggested. The red wall covering was what he thought Cindy called silk damask, and Russian paintings were displayed just far enough apart to not be too showy.
A flight of narrow stairs brought them to a more private but no less elegant room. Hannibal and his guide stopped in front of the elaborate oak bar that dominated one end of the room. The furniture was ornate, and in a style Hannibal couldn’t name. Someone had positioned blocks of mitered green marble around the room with great care. Potted palm trees sat between cozy couches and low coffee tables. The th
ree card tables looked too smooth and shiny to insult by sliding playing cards over them, but the people seated around them didn’t seem to mind.
Each table held four players, all of whom looked across at their partners while they played but hardly glanced at their opponents. A thin cloud of smoke hung over their heads, raised by what Hannibal’s nose told him were strong and probably foreign cigarettes. The play was quiet, and their fairly formal dress gave the impression of a serious tournament. The night before, Ivanovich had given him an overview of the play, which struck Hannibal as a simplified form of bridge. Having grown up playing spades and hearts, Hannibal figured he could sit in without much training. But he didn’t expect to that afternoon. The faces he was scanning for were missing.
“I don’t see Dr. Sidorov,” he told his guide.
“That is because he is not here,” a female voice said behind him. Hannibal turned to see a stately woman in a black, strapless formal gown — the kind of gown Hannibal didn’t think anyone wore before dinnertime. She was perched on a bar stool and offering him a half smile. Her dark hair was up in a chignon, accentuating her height. Her thin eyebrows and long ascetic nose seemed at odds with full, red lips. He thought she was blessed or cursed with a cold beauty, the kind men love to admire from a distance but are afraid to touch.
“Good morning. My name is Hannibal Jones and I was to meet Dr. Sidorov here.”
“He’ll be back,” she said. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “I am Anastasiya Sidorov. His wife.”
Hannibal did not allow his surprise to show as he held his hand out. “A pleasure to meet you. Now that I look more closely, I do recognize you.”
She touched her fingertips to his, and he was glad he was wearing gloves. Women don’t become this cold without reason, he thought.
“Have we met before?” One eyebrow arched in disbelief.
“No, ma’am,” Hannibal said, reaching into his jacket. “I have an old photo of your husband, and I think you are in it too.”
This was too easy, he thought. He placed the photo on the bar. Anastasiya looked down, sipped her vodka, and smiled. He thought the smile was not so much for the picture as for the past it called up.
“This was taken right here,” she said. She was standing beside Yakov in the photo. Gana stood to Yakov’s left, behind the mystery man and Queenie. On the other side of them, Nikita Petrova was just close enough to be in the picture.
“Yes,” Hannibal said, “taken right here. And whoever took it managed to get two lovely ladies in the photo. You and…”
“Renata.” Anastasiya said in her light, musical tone.
“Renata?”
“Renata Tolstaya,” she said with a heavy sigh. “You are interested in her?”
“Not really. But I did want to talk with your husband about some of the other people in the photo.”
Anastasiya looked Hannibal up and down. Then she turned away toward the bartender. “You need a drink,” she said over her shoulder. “Misha, please bring this fellow with the colorful name some vodka. He will have…” she looked at Hannibal as if measuring him anew, and then returned to the bartender, “He will have some Jewel of Russia to start. On Yakov’s bill.”
“Is that a good brand?” Hannibal asked, sliding onto the barstool beside her. She had apparently decided to have a real conversation with him. “I will admit to being pretty ignorant about vodka, although lately I seem to have developed a taste for it.”
She turned back to him and gave a full smile, resting her chin on her palm. “It is a true Russian vodka and one of my favorites. They have about fifty different vodkas here and there is only one way to know which you like most.”
Hannibal lifted his glass and sipped, just to be polite. Then he sipped again. It was an entirely different taste from the vodka he had shared with Ivanovich, not nearly so harsh, but it still flamed on its way down his throat. “I didn’t know it was supposed to be chilled. Much better. And this is really, really smooth.”
“I see you have been drinking cheap vodka,” Anastasiya said. “No one should drink cheap vodka.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Do you know when your husband will be back? I wouldn’t want these folks to get the wrong idea.” Hannibal smiled, knowing that the card players were ignoring them completely.
Anastasiya’s smile faded, and she fished in a small clutch purse to pull out a cigarette. “You needn’t worry. And Yakov should be back very soon, unless of course he decides to stop over. He went to drive Raisa home.” Her tone told Hannibal where the coldness came from.
“I see. I thought she came to play cards too, but I guess she doesn’t like to stay as long as you do.”
Anastasiya made a show of fitting the short cigarette into a holder. Hannibal spotted a heavy porcelain lighter on the bar and held its flame forward. She blew out a thank you with her first puff of smoke.
“You are a gentleman. A vanishing breed in this country. Your woman is very fortunate.” Hannibal neither confirmed nor denied the existence of a woman in his life. She looked as if this was a disappointment. “Raisa didn’t come to gamble. That was her husband. She came today so she could ask Yakov for money in person.”
“Money?”
“They are close,” she said. “You need more to drink. Misha, do you have some of that Kremlyovskaya chocolate in the freezer? This one needs his horizons broadened.”
Hannibal sat quiet until his second drink arrived, planning to nurse it until he left the building. A two-ounce shot was plenty of alcohol for him right after lunch, and that was the way they seemed to pour in this place. But he was curious enough to pick up the new glass. It looked the same, but the smell was a startling difference. He tasted slowly, his eyes widening behind his glasses.
“It really is chocolate,” Hannibal said. “Chocolate vodka. I’ll be damned.”
“Life is full of surprises,” Anastasiya said. She looked happy to have pleased a man. He wanted to give her another chance.
“So, Raisa Petrova asked your husband for money.”
“Ten thousand dollars,” she said, making the words sound like profanities.
“Whoa. They must be very close indeed.”
Behind Hannibal, a familiar voice said, “We are very old friends, and I promised Nikita that I would take care of her.”
Hannibal spun on his stool and stood to shake Yakov’s hand. “Sir, I’ve been waiting for you. I was hoping to learn a bit more about some of your old friends. I hope Mrs. Petrova told you…”
“Look at this photo,” Anastasiya said, interrupting Hannibal by thrusting the picture between the two men. “Do you remember those times?”
Yakov leaned back to focus on the picture. “Oh my. Look at that. There’s Boris and Renata Tolstaya. I haven’t thought of them in years.”
“You loved me then,” Anastasiya said. She stood quickly, but lost her balance and fell forward into her husband’s arms.
“Sir, if I could have just a couple of minutes,” Hannibal began.
“Did you give it to her?” Anastasiya asked. “Was she worth so much?”
“I think you started a little early today,” Yakov said. Then to Hannibal, “I’m sorry young man, but I think I need to get my wife home now. Raisa seemed to have more to tell you, though. Perhaps you should speak with her again. I will be happy to meet with you another time.”
“You could probably find him at her house,” Anastasiya said as Yakov began easing her toward the staircase. “But you would not. You are a gentleman.”
16
Hannibal let the Black Beauty wander the Dupont Circle area for a while before he set a solid course for the Petrova house. He knew he wanted to talk to Raisa, but was not sure what he wanted to ask her about. It seemed clear now that she knew more about Dani Gana than she was telling, and the truth about Gana was his primary objective. On the other hand, the mystery surrounding Nikita Petrova’s death was calling to him. His first impression was that Nikita was universally respected and liked
within his little criminal universe. But the deeper Hannibal dug, the more people turned out to have a motive for killing Nikita, including Raisa if Mrs. Sidorov’s suspicions were accurate.
He parked across the street from Raisa’s house and got out of his car with one thought at the top of his mind. No one he had met on this case was stupid, and even the women seemed well practiced in duplicity and capable of anything.
A tap at the door yielded silence for a good thirty seconds. When he heard movement, it was a shuffling gait, not the energetic steps he expected. When she opened the door, Raisa was in heels and a tasteful gown. He assumed she had not changed from what she wore to the Russia House that morning.
Invited into the house for the first time, Hannibal was struck by how much the decor reminded him of the Russia House. Not just the paintings but the frames too gave the impression that this woman longed to go back in time and live in tsarist Russia. She seated him at the kitchen table and poured for them both from a china teapot. After taking a long drink, she looked at Hannibal as if anticipating an inquisition and not really caring to avoid it. At that moment, Hannibal had no desire to play the game.
“Mrs. Petrova, are you all right?”
“I am fine,” she said into her teacup. “It is just that, well, she’s gone.”
“Viktoriya?” Hannibal asked. When she gave a sullen nod, he asked, “Gone where?”
“Gone with Dani. Gone from my life.”
Raisa Petrova had the furnace running and kept the house quite warm. That didn’t stop Hannibal from feeling a chill run down his spine. Had she expected them to stay there with her? Was she counting on Gana’s money to support her, or was she simply missing her little girl?
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