Sergey Baksheev
Dangerous Evidence
Fonts by «ParaType»
Translator Boris Smirnov
© Sergey Baksheev, 2019
© Boris Smirnov, translation, 2019
A young woman’s suicide sets off a whole chain of mysterious crimes. Detective Petelina is being blackmailed to destroy a vital piece of evidence. Her former husband has been ruined by a conman, and her close friend is accused of a crime he did not commit. Only a rapid and effective investigation can restore her normal life. And Petelina decides to take a risk. She befriends the killer in order to expose him — but the cunning and respectable criminal figures out her plan.
ISBN 978-5-4496-1551-0
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
Contents
53
10
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50
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17
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13
57
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1
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Translated from the Russian
by Boris Smirnov
Annotation
The Noose is a series of detective novels about a woman detective. Protagonist Elena Petelina is a tenacious, creative and decisive woman with an unsettled personal life. Besides investigating crimes, she must solve the problems afflicting her loved ones and delve into the secrets of the past — all while she strives to love and be loved.
Book1: Secret Target
Book2: Dangerous Evidence
Dangerous Evidence. A young woman’s suicide sets off a whole chain of mysterious crimes. Detective Petelina is being blackmailed to destroy a vital piece of evidence. Her former husband has been ruined by a conman, and her close friend is accused of a crime he did not commit. Only a rapid and effective investigation can restore her normal life. And Petelina decides to take a risk. She befriends the killer in order to expose him — but the cunning and respectable criminal figures out her plan.
Copyright © Sergey Baksheev, 2019
1
The dirty snowbanks at the entrance to the apartment building were melting into puddles. Igor Vasilevich Grebenkin double-checked the address on the piece of paper in his hand. The feckless 50-year-old father had come to Moscow for the first time in his life to see his grown daughter. A faded ushanka hat — made of muskrat fur and long since unfashionable — betrayed his provincialism. Seeing that he was at the right place, Grebenkin began waiting patiently in front of his daughter’s apartment building as they had agreed on the phone earlier.
The entrance door slammed and a young woman with a black mane of finely-curled hair flitted out of the building. Grebenkin gasped to himself: How pretty she is! An unzipped red jacket with a fox-fur lining, a white blouse revealing ample cleavage, a black leather skirt and maroon boots with high heels all underscored the girl’s sex appeal.
“Katya!” exhaled Grebenkin, moving toward the girl.
Noticing the crimson welt on her cheekbone, he knit his brows.
“Who did that?”
“I got into a fight with Boris. Nothing is ever enough for that bastard.”
“Look, I know all about the line of work you’ve been forced into. I’ve come to put an end to all that. Just wait till I get ahold of him!”
“You don’t know the first thing about what’s going on. This is my life.”
“To hell with a life like that! Everything’s going to be different now.” Grebenkin rummaged in his pockets and produced a small box with a worn lid. “Here — this is the ring I wanted to give to your mother. It’s yours, Katya.”
“That’s a lie! You never had any ring for her. Otherwise, why’d you run off as soon as I was born?”
“I was transferred to a different unit. As an officer I couldn’t — ”
“You men always seem to have some excuse handy.” Katya slipped on the ring with the blue stone and twirled her hand. Her face softened a little. “Alright, forget it. Women are no angels either. Wait till I tell you this one thing…”
The girl tipped her head back. She craned her neck and squinted, trying to make out something on the roof above them.
“What’s wrong?” Grebenkin asked anxiously.
“I have a surprise for you! A major surprise!” the girl babbled. “Wait here and you’ll see in a second… Dad.”
Katya held out her arm to keep her father from following her and darted back into the building. Left alone, Grebenkin began stamping between the puddles. He recalled that it was April Fools’ Day. What kind of a surprise had Katya prepared for him? It had been many years since he had found any joy in silly pranks.
Nearby, two middle-aged men stood smoking beside a spotless silver Skoda. The proud owner was lovingly showing off the car’s polished paint job.
“Check it out, neighbor. Look how perfectly they smoothed out the roof. I had to change all the windows, had it painted in a paint-shop and then polished. All of it on my dime!”
“Sure. Can’t get much from a suicide girl.”
“From the goddamn sixteenth floor, the bitch. Couldn’t be bothered to fall even a foot to the side.”
“At least the car looks brand new now. Aren’t you afraid to park it in the same spot?”
The Skoda owner smirked.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Lightning doesn’t strike in the same place — ”
But here, a woman’s scream — high-pitched and strident like the sound of shattering glass — forced both men to look up. Seeing the unimaginable, they staggered back. A second elapsed — and a female body slammed flush onto the newly repaired car right before their eyes. The glass crunched, the alarm went off, the men’s jaws dropped. A smoldering cigarette tumbled from the neighbor’s lip. The owner went weak in his knees and lowered himself onto the snow.
Igor Grebenkin dashed up to the car. His gaping eyes instantly recognized the maroon boots and red jacket. The woman’s rear had landed on the seam between the windshield and the roof; the back of her head had struck the hood. Though her curls covered her face, a puddle of blood was already beginning to seep from beneath her head. On her limp hanging hand, Grebenkin recognized his topaz ring. Unwilling to believe his own eyes, he pushed the black curls from the girl’s lusterless face — and howled in agony.
His daughter Katya lay lifeless on the dented car.
2
The first day back at work after a vacation feels like the first day on the job — everything seems somewhat familiar, but you don’t feel like it belongs to you and so you’re compelled to acclimate yourself to your surroundings all over again. And then sometimes you get a feeling like you’ve just emerged from the sleeping car of a high-speed train which has traversed half the planet while you were inside lounging. Or you feel like a Formula One rookie, in a car that hasn’t warmed up enough, pulling out onto the racetrack where your fellow drivers are already counting off laps at breakneck speeds.
This is approximately how Senior Detective Major Elena Pavlovna Petelina felt as she climbed the stairs up to her office. She had naïvely assumed that her coworkers would be happy to see her — that they would at least mention her Thai suntan. As if..! A preoccupied lieutenant colonel brushed past her. “Hello.” “Good day.” It was as though they had seen each other just yesterday and she hadn’t been gone for two weeks. And people considered him a meticulous detective!
By lunchtime, however, her work started falling in its groove. The mail had been checked, the documents had been arranged and organized, all the necessary calls had been made. During a water break, the girls had apprised her of all the new office gossip. They had, naturally, asked her all about her vacation — especially since Elena had spent the two weeks on sunny Phuket Island not just with her daughter Nastya, but with operative Marat Valeyev as well. Accordingly, she was now forced to entertain the girls’ “And so how is he?” and “You don’t say!” as well as come to grips with the officious-sounding “your common-law husband.”
“Lenok, finally you’re back!” Elena’s ex-husband Sergey Petelin burst into her office.
Elena had divorced the businessman five years ago, unable to cope with his constant cheating and his constant accusations that she put work ahead of her family. Thirteen-year-old Nastya remained the only link between the former spouses.
“Who let you in, Petelin?”
“Why, they’re about to open a criminal investigation into me! I’ve been coming and going here at the Investigative Committee like I work here.”
“What criminal investigation? Can you speak more calmly?”
Sergey Petelin was the owner of a trucking company. Like any other businessman, sometimes he encountered problems and would therefore turn to his ex-wife for consultation. Besides having plenty of experience, a senior detective also has some pull, after all.
“I’ve put my foot in it this time. But for real!” Sergey Petelin plunked himself into a chair and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Are you going to explain what’s going on or not?”
“A while back, I got an order to deliver a large batch of pharmaceuticals from Moscow to Volgograd — from the vendor to a buyer. Your ordinary, everyday job. Loaded up two trucks and sent them on their way. In the documents, the delivery address was a warehouse lot called The Southern at 15 Industrial Street. Here’s the paperwork.”
Elena glanced over the paper certifying that the goods had been received.
“Why are you showing me this?”
“Hang on. So my drivers get to Volgograd late in the evening. They drive up to the warehouse lot and see some people waiting for them, so they unload the trucks!”
“I can see that. What then?”
“This! The buyer is a company called ‘Pharma-Prod.’ But they handed the freight over to a warehouse called ‘Pharma-Prof!’ Check out the seal!”
Elena could see that the last letter in the buyer’s information indeed did not match the last letter of the receiver’s seal. It followed that the two were utterly different legal entities.
“The drivers didn’t notice a damn thing and went back to Moscow. And here, at this point, I start getting complaints — where’s the cargo? We started to look into it. The warehouse where they unloaded is empty! ‘Pharma-prof’ doesn’t even exist! Whereas ‘Pharma-prod’ is right there next door, as it has been for a hundred years!”
“And? What now?”
Sergey sighed heavily.
“It’s curtains for me. I accepted the goods as an issuing carrier and then delivered them to god-knows-who. The buyer and the vendor want money from me — but it’s three million dollars!”
“Legally they’re in the right.”
“But this is highway robbery, Lenok!”
“Any way you can take care of it under the table?”
“Those days are long gone. They’re going to take me to court and they’re going to win.”
“Feeling nostalgic for the protection rackets of old? The mobsters would’ve straightened it out.”
“It’s no laughing matter, Lenok. Better tell me what I should do.”
“You need to file a fraud and grand larceny complaint. They’ll start a criminal investigation. Assuming you get a solid investigator — ”
“Well you’re an investigator!”
“Petelin, I deal with completely different cases in a completely different city.”
“The vendor is from Moscow — he’s in cahoots with the buyer, I’m sure of it!”
“Good for you, but you’ll need to prove the criminal conspiracy, in addition to the fraud and the grand larceny.”
“So help me, Lena.”
“You don’t get it, Petelin.” Elena placed her hand onto the stack of folders on her desk. “I only work the criminal cases that the brass assigns me. In your case, the investigation will be assigned to the detectives in Volgograd.”
“So you’re refusing to help the father of your child?” Petelin asked, offended.
“I can make a call, lodge a request. No more.”
“No more,” Sergey aped. “Did you have fun vacationing in Thailand with your lover on my dime? No doubt you and Marat had a good laugh at my expense. Sure. I mean, why not? You have a nice patsy to pay for your little trysts.”
Elena stood up.
“Alright, here’s the deal, Petelin. You gave me money for our daughter’s vacation. Marat and I paid for our trip with our own money. And he’s not my lover, just like you’re not my husband!”
“So then who is he? A male specimen reserved for casual encounters? When the female feels like it, she just raises her tail and — ”
“Get out!” Elena boiled over.
Sergey Petelin stood up and gathered his papers.
“Three million bucks is a big sum for me. If I lose it, you can consider me ruined. Neither you nor Nastya will see another dime from me. At least think about that.”
Sergey Petelin was no penny pincher. He had provided a nice apartment for his daughter and ex-wife. He paid the monthly alimony regularly and frequently treated Nastya to various presents. He hadn’t scrimped on his daughter’s vacation either and Elena knew it.
But money doesn’t give him the right to insult me!
“You’d better leave, Petelin,” Elena ordered, reining in her anger.
Her phone rang loudly on her desk. Based on the ringtone — The Beatles’ “Love Me Do” — Elena knew that it was Marat Valeyev. Sergey recognized the photo on the screen and muttered a curse. Elena did not hurry to cover the photo which she had taken on a Thai beach when Marat, tanned and with a lusty look on his face, was making his way towards her.
“Both of you can go to hell!” Her ex-husband walked out, slamming the door.
Elena calmed herself before answering the song’s cloying lyrics:
Love, love me do…
You know I love you…
I’ll always be true…
So please, love me do.
Whoa, oh, love me do!
Marat had purposely set this ringtone on her phone. He frequently whispered similar sweet nothings into her ear during their closest, most intimate moments.
This time, however, his voice sounded anxious.
“Welcome back, Lena. We’ve got a suspicious suicide on our hands here. A young woman. Can you come out here?”
3
General Konstantin Viktorovich Bayukin had not seen his son Aleksey for almost five years. The initial rift between father and son happened because the general had divorced Aleksey’s mother for putting on too much weight. The rift was exacerbated when, not long thereafter, a frenetic and enticing hussy — about Aleksey’s age — moved into the general’s apartment. The final straw came when the father refused to help his officer-son move ahead in the service. While Bayukin Sr. luxuriated in the air-conditioned climate of his comfortable office in the Main Housing Department of the Ministry of Defense, Aleksey Bayukin — attached to a motorized rifle brigade — choked on dust and grit in restive Dagestan.
How hard was it for a father to arrange for his son’s transfer to a good post in Moscow? Many other fathers would do so without a second thought. But General Bayukin was a self-made man who believed that the exigencies of service in a combat zone would be edifying to his sole offspring. Such assumptions enraged Aleksey to no end. He was already thirty and still a captain — a captain with a general for a father. Hearing the stories of his “proper Pops,” Aleksey’s brothers-in-arms twirled their index fingers next to their temples and screwed up their eyes.
The dominant aspect of General Bayukin’s character, however, was not so much his sense of duty as his a natural proclivity to caution. Working towards his goals, he was simply terrified of losing it all over nothing. The general had learned his lessons from those of his colleagues who had “flown too high”: Affecting humility was quite profitable — until the right time. Take care of your business and don’t stick your neck out. Eventually, the right moment will come, and you will reap the fruits of your caution.
The doorbell sounded from the entryway and the general, already expecting it, hurried to get the door. His son had arrived in a weathered pilot’s jacket with a ripped-off badge and a traveling bag over his shoulder. His wind-blown eyes groped at his father with a wary sullenness.
“Come in, come in,” fussed Bayukin Sr., slapping his son on the shoulder. “Straight to the kitchen. We’ll have a drink to celebrate.”
He sat Aleksey at the kitchen table, decked with a bottle of vodka and some light snacks. The general poured some shots.
“It’s good that you’ve come. To our meeting — cheers!”
Aleksey looked around.
“Where’s your — ”
“Forget it,” the general anticipated the rest of the question. “I kicked out that tease a long time ago. The young lady turned out to be a proper bitch. Wasted my money and cheated on me. Eh, you know what they say: ‘It is what it is!’”
General Bayukin swallowed his shot and took a bite of a pickle.
“I live alone now. When it comes to the deed… Well, I don’t really get the itch very often. Once a week, I have a call girl come over. She’s younger and doesn’t get on my nerves — it’s cheaper in the end too. What are you staring at me like that for? These days, it’s simple to arrange — not like years ago with party committees and all the other Soviet claptrap. Drink up, Aleksey.”
Bayukin Jr. took his shot and wiped his lips with the back of his fist.
“So basically, you’ve traded mom for a whore.”
“Don’t start, Aleksey.”
“You kicked her out and didn’t help me a damn either. I’m fighting in hell itself down there, while back home I’ve got neither an apartment nor a future. I don’t even have a place to invite a girl to — and yet here’s my Pops, bragging about how he bangs hookers in his palatial chambers.”
“What’s done is done! I didn’t help you for your own good.”
“Really?” Aleksey flapped his eyelids sarcastically. “Could you elaborate, general, sir, for the benefit of this stupid captain?”
“Come on, let’s just have a drink like we used to. Remember how we got you your lieutenant’s epaulets?”
“I couldn’t give a damn about your remembrances!”
“Stop yelling at your father and let me finish!” The general took another drink and so did his son. “Do you watch TV? Do you understand what the situation is these days? Did you forget what my position is? Claims, verifications, comparisons of income and expenditures — eh, it is what it is! You think I can’t spare an apartment for my son? No! But I’m under constant watch. The slightest inconsistency and they’ll charge me with corruption and lock me up — and take your apartment away to boot.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re the only honest person in the Ministry of Defense?”
“I’m the most cautious.”
“Let’s drink then to the ostrich’s caution!” Aleksey raised his glass. “See no evil, hear no evil — but whoever comes along may treat my backside as he pleases.”
“What a fool you are, Aleksey!” The general drank again. His face was beginning to flush. “I haven’t been sitting on my ass here, you know. I got some irons in the fire. Do you know how one may misappropriate housing intended for service members who’ve been transferred to the reserves? It’s a nice con! The directives for issuing state housing to these soldiers are incredibly long documents. It’s normal to simply draw up authorized extracts from them. What I do is make up a fictitious extract authorizing the issue of housing. Another person forges a rental agreement with the district public housing office. As you probably know, according to Russian law, a tenant renting from the government can apply to privatize their apartment. So we have a lawyer petition a court for the right to privatize the real estate in question. The judge, who’s also with us, rubber stamps the petition. A title is issued and that’s that — go ahead and list your new apartment on the market.”
“And so then where does your caution lie?”
“In that I forge my supervisor’s signature but don’t get any money in return.”
“There it is — your saintly charity! You angling to become Pope or something?”
“In return, I get something else entirely — something no less valuable.”
“Gold and diamonds?”
“Nope. Just a slender little envelope that’s easy to slip across the border.”
Bayukin Jr. took another drink, poked around the salad with a fork, chewed the greens with one side of his mouth and glanced at his father askance.
“What’d you call me up here for? I can munch on vodka down there just as well.”
“They’ve launched an investigation into the embezzled apartments — and it’s looking serious.”
“‘They’ll put you away — that’ll teach you not to steal!’” Aleksey parried with a famous quote from Beware of the Car, a classic Soviet movie.
“Don’t talk to your father like that, Aleksey!”
“I prefer it when people call me Alex.”
The general took another shot, chased it with a bite and studied his son from under his brow.
“In two weeks I’ll be fifty-five, in case you remember. A good age to get out of dodge, before it’s too late. I’ve already submitted the paperwork for my discharge. I’ll retire on my pension, buy a house in Lithuania and apply for citizenship. I won’t be taking anything with me. You’ll get this apartment which, may I remind you, is in a prestigious generals’ building. I’ve already hired a lawyer to deal with any problems that may crop up. His name is Denis Gomelsky. He’s preparing the documents as we speak. All you have to do is sign them and the apartment is yours! I’ll also see to it that you’re transferred to a post here in the city. There are two options — ”
“What options! Are you even aware that I was concussed in a blast? That I have PTSD? I spent two months lying around the hospital; then, a week ago, I got a medical discharge!”
“It’s that serious?”
“There are times when it all comes rushing back and…” Alex glared and knocked on his head bitterly. “It’s like there’s a worm in my head. And then I’m ready to tear everyone apart!”
“Alright, alright. There are good positions available in civilian life too. We’ll think of something.”
The general poured some water in his glass and drank it slowly, furrowing his eyebrows.
“One more thing.” Bayukin Sr. looked up at his son. “I’ll be honest with you. Gomelsky, the lawyer, warned me that if the investigation turns towards me, they may search the place. I need to get rid of any incriminating evidence. I don’t keep any money or valuables around here; however, the envelope… It’d be better if you take it and stay with your mother for a bit.”
“What envelope?”
“The one I mentioned. The one that’s better than money. I got rid of two others — but this third one is the most valuable.”
“I don’t understand a damn thing.”
The general smiled slyly.
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
Father and son entered the spacious living room. The general approached the bookshelf. He pushed apart two books, froze for a second, and then began to frantically riffle through the neighboring volumes.
“What the hell? Where is it?” he exclaimed. “It was here just yesterday!”
Books began tumbling from the shelves onto the floor. Once the bookshelf was empty, Bayukin Sr. dropped his arms.
“The envelope isn’t here. It’s vanished.” He thought for a moment. “Katya! It couldn’t have been anybody else.”
“Who’s Katya?” Seeing the state his father was in, Alex became worried himself.
“The prostitute. She was here last night and left this morning. She was the only one who could have taken the envelope!” The general grabbed his son pleadingly. “Alex, you have to find the envelope and get it back. This is insanely important! No one knows who you are. You can act freely. I can’t stand out.”
“What do you mean by ‘freely?’”
“Kill the bitch, if you have to — just get that envelope!”
“It’s that valuable?”
“I’ll pay you half-a-million rubles.”
“What about the apartment? Is it mine too?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, alright then. How can I find her?”
“Okay, remember this: She’s young — about twenty-something. She has a nice figure: tits, waist, ass — everything’s in the right place and in proper proportion too. She’s about up to your nose in height. She’s got wavy black hair that reaches below her shoulders. Dark, hazel eyes. Puffy lips and a straight nose. On the whole, she’s a sultry little piece. She was wearing a red jacket with fox fur last night — and knee-high boots.”
“Better tell me where the hell I’m going to find her!”
“Right.” The general grabbed his phone. “There’s a surefire way to locate her. I can find out where she went after she left.”
4
It was not difficult to locate the scene of the incident amid the residential block of cookie-cutter apartment buildings. Elena Petelina parked her car and made her way to the onlookers gathered at the police tape. The police tape had been stretched in a square plot abutting the wall of the sixteen-story building. Zooming off on his motorcycle, Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Ustinov, the forensic expert, had of course beaten the detective to the scene. His large curly head could be seen fussing over a silver Skoda, upon which lay the body of a young woman.
Homicide had christened Mikhail Ustinov with the nickname “the Tadpole.” He was now occupied with taking photographs and dictating his observations to a detective named Egorov, who had arrived to the scene of the incident from the local police precinct.
“Deceased is a young female, aged 20–23. Height approximately 5’5”. Hair color is black, wavy and shoulder-length.” The expert’s fingers, sheathed in latex gloves, pried open the eyelids of the dead woman. “Eye color is hazel, nose is straight, mouth is medium-sized, lips are puffy. The deceased is wearing a leather jacket with a fox-fur lining. I’m not going too fast, am I?”
Egorov placed the folder with the report on the car’s trunk so he could write better and nodded for the Tadpole to go on.
Elena Petelina examined the dead woman. Having a teenage daughter of her own, she always reacted emotionally to the deaths of young women. The outer garments concealed the inevitable internal damage, but the deathblow had most likely been the back of the woman’s head striking the hood. It had been so violent that bruising had formed on the girl’s face.
Elena looked up to the edge of the roof and tried to imagine the horrid fall. Doing so was vital. Indulging her emotions at the scene of the crime — before anything of substance had been established and any evidence had been gathered — stimulated Elena’s intuition. More than once, the detective had found that her initial impressions served as a constructive impetus to her subsequent investigation. Being able to picture the scene of the crime, remember its attendant smells and sounds, would help her later as she sat working in her office.
Having made a note of her impressions, Petelina stepped away from the car and looked around for Captain Marat Valeyev. Following her recent fight with her ex-husband, she wanted a reliable man by her side. Before she could catch sight of Valeyev, however, she came across his partner Ivan Mayorov. The tall and powerfully-built senior lieutenant was doing his best to restrain a gaunt and irate man of fifty in a polyester jacket and an old-fashioned ushanka hat.
“Detective Petelina!” the operative called to her. “Here is an eyewitness.”
Encountering a strict look from the detective, the man settled down enough for Vanya to release him.
“Who are you?” asked Petelina.
“I am the father. That’s my daughter, Katya Grebenkina.”
Elena’s felt her chest constrict. Interviewing a parent beside the body of their child was a sadistic undertaking. However, as the case in question could be a murder, these first few hours would be invaluable to catching the perpetrator. Consequently, tact was not something she could afford.
“I can understand your present state of mind, but if you would like to help us…” It occurred to Elena that she could channel the man’s wrath to a productive purpose. “If someone murdered her, we have to catch the criminal immediately. Could you tell me how this happened?”
“We met here. Katya ran back into the lobby and then — ”
“Please state your name and try to be more detailed in your account.”
“My name is Igor Vasilevich Grebenkin. I came to Moscow just today from Saratov. I called Katya the moment I got off the train. She gave me this address, so I came here.”
“Did Katya reside in this building?”
“I believe so.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
“I separated from her mother when Katya was just a newborn,” Grebenkin explained. “We were living in the town of Grayvoron back then, not far from the military base. I was in the army. Then they transferred me to Transbaikal. We weren’t married, so I had to go on my own. I was young and stupid — I didn’t even write. Ended up married to someone else, just not for long. We didn’t have kids. After I got out of the army, I settled down in Saratov. This past year, Katya found me herself — over the Internet somehow.”
“She wrote to you?”
“She came and visited! From then on I became a different person. I started to feel like I wasn’t alone in the world. We made plans to meet in Moscow today. I arrived and… well…”
“What did you talk about when you saw her today?”
“We didn’t have time to talk about anything at all. I gave her a ring with a topaz. Katya put it on, smiled and told me that she had a surprise for me. Then she ran back into the building and then…”
“A surprise? That’s the word she used?”
“Yes, ‘a major surprise.’” Grebenkin sunk into himself even further. “I don’t understand a single thing. Could she really have meant..? Tell me, damn it, what the hell happened here?!”
“Calm down please. We will figure everything out. Did Katya harbor any grudge against you?”
“Grudge?”
“As I understood it, you abandoned her when she was still little and never once tried to find out anything about her.”
“What are you implying? You think she did this because of me? I came here to help her!”
“How much time, would you say, elapsed between her running into the building and her fall?”
“How would I know?” Grebenkin snapped. “I didn’t have my stopwatch out!”
“Alright, we’ll come back to that later. Where is her mother at the moment?”
“As soon as Katya graduated, her mom found some Greek guy on the Internet and ran off with him. I guess she reckoned that her parental duties had come to an end.”
“You did the same quite a bit earlier,” the detective couldn’t help needle Grebenkin.
She had decided that she had asked enough questions for their first interview. It would be better to give the witness some time to calm down.
Marat Valeyev emerged from the building’s entrance and noticed the delicate figure of the woman he loved.
“It’s good of you to come, Lena.”
“If this is a suicide, I won’t be much help.”
“Well, listen to this: Exactly forty days ago another woman jumped off that same roof onto this same exact car. That was written off as a suicide, but here we have an identical incident. One and the same. What are the chances? I called you because I know how much you enjoy puzzling cases like this.”
“At the moment, I wish it was cake that I enjoyed so much,” Petelina said pensively, mulling over the unexpected news.
“Sweets are the nemesis of a shapely waist. You know how I love to embrace you there — ”
“Will you cut that out!” Elena slapped away Marat’s impertinent hand. “We’re at a possible crime scene. What did you find out anyway?”
“I went up to the roof. Found a purse up there and a bottle.”
Valeyev held up two evidence bags containing a little black purse and a half-drunk bottle of brandy.
“Have you studied them closely?”
“No.”
“Give them to the Tadpole.”
The senior detective and the operative returned to Misha Ustinov, the forensic expert. The medical technicians had just taken the body away. A glossy puddle of blood remained on the dented hood of the silver car. The color of blood depends on the surface it’s on. On the ground it looks brown. Here, however, it had the same scarlet color that older women, in search of a partner, apply to their lips.
“Find anything, Misha?” asked Petelina.
“Nothing major at the moment, Detective Petelina. I did gather some materials for further tests though.” The Tadpole deposited several evidence bags into his backpack. “I discovered this photo in the pocket of the deceased.”
Elena took the photograph. Incessant reminders of the frailty of life were yet another hidden cost in her line of work. An hour ago this young woman had her entire life ahead of her — and looked like this. An hour later, her tepid broken body lay ensconced in a plastic body bag on its way to the morgue.
The photograph, taken in the winter, showed Katya Grebenkina with her father. The wind had picked up the girl’s hair and she, a prudent smile on her face, was trying to tuck one of the unruly locks back under her knit hat. Igor Grebenkin, whose receding hairline had abandoned parts of his scalp to glint in the sunlight, was half-turned, watching his daughter intently.
“This is for you, Tadpole — a present from the roof.” Marat Valeyev placed the evidence bags containing the purse and the bottle of brandy onto the trunk of the Skoda.
“You went up there without me?” the forensic expert became annoyed. “If you wiped out any shoeprints — ”
“What shoeprints? The roof’s covered in puddles. Anyway, a couple local cops went up there with me and witnessed me gather this evidence.”
Peeking into the purse, Petelina noticed a passport.
“Grebenkina, Ekaterina. Twenty-one years old. Registered resident of the town of Grayvoron in Belgorod Region,” the detective read turning through the passport pages. “At least there’s no question about her identity.”
“No question about our main suspect either.” Misha Ustinov fished out a pack of cigarettes and flashed the warning label with a large bold inscription. “‘SMOKING KILLS!’ Looks like this case is closed, Detective Petelina.”
“What a clown you are,” Valeyev shook his head.
Petelina spied a folded piece of paper tucked inside the passport’s dust jacket. She pulled it out but didn’t find the time to unfold it because, at that very moment, an enraged man began trying to make his way to the car, pushing and squeezing through the throng of police in his way.
“Owner of the car,” clarified Egorov in reply to the detective’s questioning glance.
“Let him through,” Petelina ordered.
“Who’s going to pay for this? I just had her fixed!” the man clamored. “A month ago it was another bitch. They want to drive me into the poorhouse!”
“Calm down please. Have you seen this woman before?”
“I’ve seen this whore here a billion times! They’ve got a whorehouse up there in the fourth unit.”
“What whorehouse? Are you saying the dead girl was a prostitute?”
“Of course! That other one last month was her friend. What do they have against my car?”
“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare insult my Katya!” Igor Grebenkin began trying to get at the car’s owner. Vanya Mayorov, who was about ready to knock the irate man flat on his back, held him back by his jacket’s hem.
“Ah! So she was yours! You can pay then!”
From personal experience, Elena Petelina knew that men, like children, could be jolted from their tantrums by an abrupt change of topic.
“When is the last time it rained here?” she asked the wranglers in a very serious tone.
“I just got here from Saratov,” Grebenkin remembered after a short pause.
“Rain? It was snowing here a week ago,” mumbled the Skoda’s owner.
“Excellent,” Petelina praised the two stumped men. “Could you recall now please which one of you approached the girl first?”
“I did,” said Grebenkin dully.
“Misha, deal with him. And you, sir plaintiff,” Petelina took the car owner by the elbow, “show us where the girl’s apartment is please.”
“It’s the entrance to the fourth unit over there, apartment number 180. I already tried to get damages from them. Waste of time!” The unhappy man jerked his arm away.
“A police officer will take your statement.”
Petelina handed the auto enthusiast over to Detective Egorov. She and the operatives headed for the fourth entrance. As they were entering the building, she remembered the paper she had found in the passport. She unfolded it. The page, which looked to have been ripped out of a notebook, was covered with uneven lines of the same sentence: “Boris is a jerk. Boris is a jerk. Boris is a jerk…”
A banal suicide caused by unrequited love, flashed through the detective’s mind.
In the meantime, back at the scene of the incident, Mikhail Ustinov had offered Grebenkin some chewing gum.
“For the nerves. It’s supposed to help.” He waited until Grebenkin stated chewing mechanically and asked, “Could you recall please what position you found the body in?”
“The head was here. Katya had long hair. I pushed it back to make sure that…” Grebenkin frowned as he looked at the bloody spot, then spit out the gum and pleaded, “I’ll show you on another car.”
“As you wish,” Ustinov agreed and, once the man had turned his back, retrieved the discarded gum.
5
Marat Valeyev was about to ring the doorbell to apartment No. 180.
“Hold on!” Petelina stopped him. She flashed the keys she had found in the girl’s purse. “Let’s see if these work.”
The key slid smoothly into the lock and turned twice. The detective opened the door and hung back while the operatives, guns drawn, entered before her.
“Katya, is that you?” A woman’s voice came from a nearby room.
Valeyev pushed its door, scanned the room through his iron sights and lowered his sidearm.
“Whoa,” came the silent exclamation.
A young woman in a satin gown with a dragon print was sitting on an ample bed which took up most of the room. She had been painting her nails. Her eyes and mouth gaped in surprise, while her splayed fingers remained suspended before her chest. Elena Petelina was compelled to agree with the bit of male wisdom that observed that the most helpless moments in a woman’s life occur while her nail polish is drying.
Elena flashed her badge and introduced herself.
“Senior Detective Elena Pavlovna Petelina, Investigative Committee. Anyone else in the apartment?”
The girl shook her head. While the operatives began looking over the apartment, Petelina decided to have a seat beside the woman.
“You like bright colors?”
“The clients do.”
“So you admit that you’re engaged in prostitution here?”
“Oh please. I just fall in love easily.” The woman smiled sardonically having recovered from her initial shock.
“Today it’s one, tomorrow it’s another.”
“I’m a hopeless romantic.” The woman fanned her wrists to dry the nails faster.
“Prostitution does not concern me.”
“Awesome. “Cause you cops have screwed me half to death with all your raids. So what do you want?”
“What’s your name?”
“Lisa. Elizaveta Malyshko.”
“When’s the last time you saw Katya Grebenkina?”
“Why, she’s upstairs on the roof waiting for me this very moment.”
Petelina walked over to the window and peeked through the stiff curtain. The window looked out on the street instead of the courtyard where Katya Grebenkina had fallen. Lisa got up as well. Elena looked her over: black spiraling hair tucked into a bun, black eyes, alluring lips, a nice figure, a naïve face but a certain sexuality in her movements that would have no trouble lighting the fuse of male desire.
“What’s happening on the roof?”
“We’re going to commemorate our girlfriend. It’s been forty days since Stella threw herself off the roof. The three of us lived together.”
“How did you get roof access?”
“We got the engineer to give us a key. It’s a good place to have a smoke. And if some stalker starts creeping around, you can go down another stairwell and out another entrance.”
“Do the creeps often stalk you?”
“It happens. Birdless Boris takes care of those.”
“Boris?” Petelina recalled the dead woman’s note cursing a Boris. “Is that your pimp?”
“He prefers the term ‘manager,’ the goat!”
“What’s with the ‘Birdless’ part? Does he have a last name?”
“He’s called ‘Birdless’ because he’s missing his middle finger. His last name is Manuylov, I think. He’s the manager of a modeling agency called Gentle Lily. It’s just a front that brings in a stream of dumb girls for him to work over.”
“Was he here today?”
“So it’s him you’re looking for? Why didn’t you say so? I can give you his number.” Lisa reached for the pink cell phone on the dresser and looked up the number. “Boris was here earlier. Paranoid as ever — afraid that we’ll hide his cut from him. After last night, I was only half-awake, but I heard him cussing up a storm, the goat. It was Katya’s turn to deal with him.”
“And? What happened after that?”
“Katya reminded me that it was time to commemorate Stella. We spent almost a year living together.”
“Stella is the woman who jumped off the roof?”
“Yup. Forty days today. Katya went to get some brandy and told me that she’d wait for me at the same spot, up there on the roof.”
“Did Stella jump off on her own?”
“Stella was from Moldova. She had a funny last name. Stella Sosuksu. So we messed with her: ‘Sucking off men is in your blood,’ we’d tell her. She’d get upset. She fell in love with a grad student from Moscow State University, but he found out about her occupation and told her to get — well — to keep doing what she had been, I guess. Aren’t men assholes?”
“You get all kinds,” replied Petelina noncommittally. “So what happened with Stella?”
“Stella got depressed. The clients started complaining. Boris got pissed. And me and Katya… eh, we should’ve kept a closer eye on her. In this line of work, you’ve got to be a cynical bitch — like Katya.” Lisa blew on her fingers. “Dry enough, I think. It’s time I got dressed. Katya’s waiting.”
Marat Valeyev peeked into the room.
“Lena, there are two more bedrooms here, just like this one. There’s no one here.”
Lisa Malyshko untied her sash dramatically and stuck out her breasts. Only a G-string and sheer stockings covered her naked body.
“Shut the door, you pig! I’m changing in here.”
Elena intercepted Marat’s curious gaze as it slipped down the young woman’s body. How incorrigible were men! Never happy with what they had! Petelina stepped in between Marat and the sassy girl.
“There’s no hurry, Lisa. Katya Grebenkina isn’t waiting for you any longer. She’s dead.”
“What? How?” exclaimed the startled girl.
“The same as Stella Sosuksu. Jumped off the roof.”
“Well, geez!” Lisa sank back onto the bed.
“I’m investigating these incidents. Which of these was Katya’s room? We need to examine her belongings.”
“The door on the right.”
Lisa’s rudeness had melted instantaneously. She remained sitting on her bed, blinking vacantly and looking forlorn, while the operatives worked over the apartment. She answered their questions passively and promised to go to the detective’s office as soon as she was called in. And yet, as soon as the operatives shut the front door behind them, the girl perked up, dashed over to the dresser and began to feverishly gather her things. An escape plan was forming in her mind.
Nothing bright. To hell with the miniskirt. No pins or boots! I have to melt into the crowd. Hair up in a ponytail, no makeup, no trace of sex appeal. What do we have here? Jeans, though embroidered along the back pockets. It’ll have to do. A white sweater with a lips print across the entire front. No matter — no one will see it under the jacket. I’ll throw on this blue down jacket over it — it’ll sparkle in the headlights but ordinary students wear these too. These simple shoes will do for footwear. And remember to grab the knit cap — I can use it to hide my long hair. How do I look? Lisa looked at herself in the mirror on the wall and came away satisfied. No mud duck, but no slut either.
Having finished dressing herself, Lisa grabbed her phone, dialed the number that she had just recently given to the detective, waited for an answer and then quickly blurted, “Boris, Katya’s dead. Jumped off the roof just like Stella. The cops came by, along with a detective. They’re looking for you. Get out!”
Lisa hung up. The pimp instantly called her back, but Lisa popped off the lid, dumped the phone battery and fished out the SIM card. She got a new SIM card from her purse and put it into the phone. The girl cocked her head and shut her eyes.
“What else? What else?” she whispered to herself.
Her memory gave her a hint. She darted to the dresser and found a photo album. She ran to the bathroom. Her little fingers with the newly-painted nails began pulling out photo after photo and flicking the lighter. As the fire consumed the girls’ faces — Katya Grebenkina, Lisa Malyshko and Stella Sosuksu’s — the photos’ singed corners tumbled into the toilet bowl. Having dealt with the last snapshot, Lisa flushed the toilet.
It was time for her to vanish too.
The girl peered into the front door’s eyehole to make sure that no one was waiting outside. Then, she slipped out of the apartment. Instead of calling the elevator, she decided to play it safe and began to descend the stairs as quietly as she could. After she had descended three floors, Lisa stopped and listened. No one. The young woman lifted a loose windowsill and extracted an ordinary envelope from the hiding place underneath it. Having made sure that its contents were in place, she put it in her purse and — now throwing caution to the wind — took off running down the stairs at full speed.
The police had left the courtyard, but the buildings’ residents were still discussing the unhappy event around the damaged car. Lisa paused for a moment and hesitantly glanced at the spot where her two friends had encountered their terrible ends. She did not want to pass near the bloody car. The girl pulled the jacket’s hood tighter over her head and hurried into the opposite direction.
As soon as she turned the corner and felt safer, someone grabbed her from behind. One arm wrapped itself around her belly, while the other painfully compressed her throat in the crook of its elbow. The girl flailed helplessly, unable to scream.
6
The taxi stopped at the gates to the hospital.
“Here you are. They won’t let me onto the premises,” the taxi driver warned the sullen passenger in the army field jacket.
Alex Bayukin thrust another thousand-ruble bill to the driver.
“Wait here,” he ordered.
The ex-captain pushed his insulated cap down onto his forehead, walked up to the security booth beside the boom gate and asked how to get to the morgue. The haggard guard took a slurp of tea from his large mug and pointed in the needed direction without betraying the slightest bit of courtesy. Alex stomped off into the depths of the fenced-off area.
Bayukin Sr. had propitiously remembered that Katya, the prostitute who had pilfered the envelope, always used the same taxi service. Sometimes the general would watch from his window as the girl got into a car with an easy-to-remember phone number on its door. The general knew that anytime the dispatchers took a request, they would ask for the destination address. Having called the dispatcher, he announced his address and requested that he be taken to the same destination where his “daughter” had been taken that same morning.
This was how Alex Bayukin found himself in front of the same sixteen-story building where the tragedy had occurred. He instantly noticed the car with the dented roof. The girl’s body had already been taken away, but the impressionable housewives were happy to describe the deceased and even provided her name — Katya!
Alex called his father. The general spent a long time swearing, then ordered Alex to make sure that this was the same thief who had robbed him. To this end, he revealed a distinguishing feature of the girl to his son.
One call to the emergency services and Alex Bayukin found himself at the doors of the morgue he needed.
Alex felt his anger roiling inside of him, and he didn’t feel it necessary to hide his mood from the lanky orderly in the blue scrub cap and the bespattered oilcloth apron.
“My girlfriend was brought here today. She fell off a roof.”
The lanky orderly perked up.
“For sure. Do you want to arrange a funeral? I know a great funeral parlor — here’s their business card!” He offered Alex a black card embossed in gold.
“I’d like to see her,” Alex squeezed through clenched teeth.
“For sure. We can arrange that. How do you want her prepared? You want the premium job or the regular?”
“What?”
“Premium costs more, but the client will look like a perfect peach. As for regular… well, regular is more like a carrot from the vegetable patch.”
“I want to see Katya right now!” Alex could barely contain himself.
“For sure,” shrugged the orderly. It seemed that this phrase suited anything that happened in his life. “Go on through. Though keep in mind that before we’ve had a chance to work on “em, the clients, they don’t look so great.”
The mortuary cold chamber — with once-white tiled walls, drains in the floor and dim dome lights on the painted ceiling — exuded a suffocating smell of formaldehyde. The orderly pulled on rubber gloves as he led Alex over to a metal gurney on which rested the body. He pulled the sheet from the head of the corpse. The girl’s lusterless face revealed a swollen eye and a dried trail of blood emanating from her contorted mouth.
“I warned you,” the orderly apologized, noticing the visitor’s initial reaction.
Alex suppressed the spasm in his stomach and ripped the entire sheet from the body. Despite the internal fractures and the splotches of hematoma, he could appreciate the girl’s body. Dad’s bouncing around with young girls — the dog — while I’m forced to hit on some fat-ass sales girl.
“Flip her,” Alex nodded to the orderly.
“For… are you sure..?”
“Flip her, I said!” Malice flashed in the visitor’s eyes.
The orderly groaned a bit but did as he was told. Alex was trying to avoid looking at the fractured head and the legs which were positioned unnaturally relative to the torso. His eyes fixed on the tattoo on the girl’s lower back. He aimed his phone and took a large photo of the butterfly.
“Where’s her clothes?” Alex asked, once they had emerged from the cold chamber.
“She’s not going to catch a cold in there, you know,” scoffed the lanky orderly, unhappy with having had to flip the bag of bones.
His abrasive reply, however, was the final straw for the already-irate Alex. He punched the orderly in the stomach. The orderly sighed and doubled over and Alex brought his joined hands down on the back of the poor man’s head. The orderly collapsed. Alex began to kick the fallen man, demanding he show him the girl’s clothes.
An unshaven and muscle-bound orderly came running in response to the racket. Striking Alex from behind, he knocked him off his feet and twisted his arm, stiffly pinning him with a knee to the back.
“Keep it up and we’ll find a berth for you too,” threatened the stubbly orderly and turned to his injured colleague, “What does he want?”
The lanky orderly got up from the floor and wiped some blood from his lip.
“I don’t know! He’s a psycho!” Outraged, he kicked his assailant as hard as he could. “He wanted to see the stuff of the girl that came in today.”
“A psycho, eh?” The unshaven orderly looked Alex in the eyes.
“For sure!”
“Better let him see it then.” Before releasing the violent visitor, however, the beefy orderly twisted Alex’s arm to its limit and warned him, “You get one look and then you get the hell out.”
The lanky orderly tossed Alex a large black bag. Alex looked through the jacket pockets, went through the rest of the clothes and even stuck his hand into the boots. The envelope was nowhere to be found. Alex cast a glance at the orderlies who had remained standing over him.
“Where’s her purse?”
“Will you just look at this guy? Bud, that dead hooker there is the subject of a criminal investigation. You should ask the detective — or the pimp. Leave us alone. We work here, man.”
Recognizing that any further fight would not be a fair one, Alex made his way out. When he emerged into fresh air, he sent his father a message with a photo of the tattoo. His dad called him back almost instantly.
“That’s her, that’s Katya!” the father grew animated. “I remember the butterfly on her waist pretty well. Was the envelope on her?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“It’s not among her clothes. But she had a purse too. Ask your lawyer who the detective in charge of the case is.”
“You think that they already got the purse?”
“Either the detective has it or the pimp does. I’ll try to find the pimp. What do you know about him?”
“The girl mentioned some kind of Birdless Boris. But I’ve never seen him.”
“Well, how’d you find her?”
“I came across that damned thief through the Gentle Lily modeling agency. They offer either modeling services or escort services or some other kind of services — but, hey, either way, they have grade-A whores. I found them on the Internet.”
“Then I’ll find them too,” Alex reassured his father.
7
In the bar located on the 31st floor of the Radisson Royal Hotel, formerly known as Hotel Ukraine, a sixty-year-old gentleman sat at a glass table situated beside a panoramic window. His rare, obviously dyed hair was slicked back on his head. His lengthy sideburns, thin mustache, tweed jacket, satin neckerchief and delicate white cane, which stood leaned against his armchair, all endowed him with an old-fashioned but elegant look. The man was the holder of an Estonian passport and his name was Tarmo Keelp.
At the moment, Keelp was agitated. The Estonian was sick to death of looking at the steely surface of the Moscow River, the Russian White House and the giant Gazprom sign crowning the neighboring building. The armchair across from him was empty. He was waiting for Katya the prostitute. As per custom, they would not go to his room right away. They would first have a cocktail. Keelp would take a Viagra and wait a little until the stimulant began to take effect. At his advanced age it was better not to experiment and deal with one and the same girl, who knew how to produce the required result.
Keelp had not chosen this bar because of its vista onto the Russian capital. The drinks menu here included the “Green Fairy,” a 140-proof absinthe served the way tradition prescribed: A special perforated spoon is placed on the rim of the empty glass along with a sugar cube. Drop by drop, the absinthe is slowly poured over the sugar cube. Then, the cube is set alight. The sugar turns to caramel and streams down into the strong spirit.
Tarmo Keelp had made sure beforehand that if enough of the liquor was in the glass, one could accidentally set it on fire. His current calculations were based precisely on this effect. It would be in this green flame, as if by accident, that the invaluable envelope brought to him by the girl would ignite.
The Estonian checked his watch. Katya was running very late. Where was she, goddamn it!
Keelp retrieved his cell phone and dialed the girl’s number, but the call went straight to voicemail, just as it had been doing for the past hour. What was going on? Where was the envelope that the girl was supposed to bring? They had had an agreement after all!
The Estonian swiped his fingers along the phone’s screen. He looked up the Gentle Lily website and dialed the phone number in its contacts section. The secretary, upon hearing Keelp’s request, transferred him to Boris, the agency’s manager.
“I am a longtime customer,” Keelp explained. “I am waiting for Katya, but she is very late and isn’t answering her phone. What is the meaning of this? When will she be here?”
“Katya jumped off a roof, the dumbass,” interrupted the man on the other end of the line.
“What?” the Estonian asked startled. “How?”
“She fell from the sixteenth floor. To her death.”
“I am expecting her and she… Where did this take place? I must see her.”
“What do you care, you old stump? Just go to the site and pick out some other girl.”
“But I want — ”
“Oh, get lost!”
Boris Manuylov, alias Birdless, flung aside his phone. God, how sick he was of these stupid clients. He wished he had their problems! If you can’t have one girl, just grab some other! That’s what whores were for — to foster diversity!
Boris angrily crushed his cigarette butt in the overflowing ashtray, tousled his long hair and jumped up off the couch. Once upon a time, he had banged Katya real good on this very couch. She had just come to Moscow, hoping to become a model. It took him a long time to impress on her stupid ass what position one needed to assume to make decent dough in the capital. But finally he had broken her down. Then, he had set her up in heavenly conditions and sent her around to the richest clients — and then today the ungrateful skank pulled all this!
And on top of it all, this was the second such incident! One bad apple spoils its fellows, as they say. Thankfully, everything had worked out with the first suicide, but he knew that it would be much harder to get the fuzz off his back this time around. Someone had already called his personal phone and he had been forced to turn it off. But if the cops didn’t catch up with him today, it’d be tomorrow. Then he’d have to face all sorts of unpleasant questions.
Birdless started: The video intercom to the agency’s front entrance buzzed annoyingly. He glanced at the screen. Well, speak of the devils…
Waiting at the door were too men. He had no doubt that they were operatives. The pimp had often tangled with law enforcement and had learned through hard experience to recognize cops by their shifty looks, their splayed arms with the pieces underarm and their postures which reminded him of hunters. Say what you like, but a government issue piece sitting snug in a shoulder holster sure does change a person.
“Captain Valeyev,” the visitor introduced himself. “Open up, we need to talk with Boris Manuylov.”
How quickly they’d put it together!
Birdless quickly threw on his leather jacket and checked the inside pocket — the envelope was still there. His salvation lay enclosed within. He pulled a colorful scarf in a tight noose around his neck, grabbed his car keys and darted out to the hallway.
On the way to the rear exit, he ran into the girls.
“You haven’t seen me!” hissed Boris. “Keep your lips sealed, you bitches!”
8
The young woman in the blue jacket and the lilac cap pulled snuggly on her forehead emerged from the subway station near Kazan Train Station. As she walked, she kept glancing around herself fearfully. The square was full of people, which both worried and reassured her. On the one hand, the scary man could be watching her even now. On the other hand, he wouldn’t dare attack her here, the way he had near her house. Back there, he had grabbed her from behind and strangled her, demonstrating that her fragile life lay utterly at his mercy.
Then, he had hissed in her ear, demanding that she give up the pimp. She had figured out who the assailant was quickly enough and was happy to tell him everything she knew about Birdless Boris. She told him about Gentle Lily and about Wild Kitties, the strip club where that four-fingered jerk liked to hang out. She had also mentioned his white Honda and given the man Boris’s phone number. Having obtained the required information, her assailant vanished. The girl felt her throat. She had survived. Now all she could do was hope that the cruel man would channel his wrath against Birdless and leave her alone.
Soon enough she would go far away. Then, she would become wealthy and start a completely new life!
The girl entered the train station and headed for the ticket counter. This station had service to Sochi and in Sochi there was a gentle sea and pretty mountains and also true honest-to-god spring. There, she could spend a wonderful summer in the lovely resort city — far, far away from the preoccupied clients, the bastard pimp and the greedy Moscow cops.
To hell with the past! I want the good life! I want others to serve me for a change!
On her way to the ticket counter, the girl took her passport from her purse. She opened it and read the name — Elizaveta Malyshko. Ooof! After all her recent close calls and narrow escapes, it was small wonder that she had momentarily forgotten her own name.
“How much does a ticket to Sochi cost?” Lisa asked the ticketing agent after waiting briefly in line.
“Would you like a seat, a berth in a compartment, or a sleeping car? We have different types of trains as well.”
“What’s the very best?”
“Sochi Premium Express. Leaves tomorrow morning. A sleeping car ticket costs…”
Lisa was surprised by the amount. That was almost all the money she had! She thrust her hand in her purse. Her manicured fingers stubbed against the thick envelope. There it was — her new estate!
“Miss? Would you like to purchase a ticket?”
“I’ll come back later,” the girl promised. “Are there any computers with Internet access around here?”
“This isn’t the information desk,” the ticketing agent said through her teeth. “Next!”
Lisa wandered around the station until she found some kiosks with paid Internet access. The girl liked the fact that each computer was separated from its neighbors with a divider. She scooted her chair as closely as she could to her desk, made sure that no one was around and carefully opened the envelope.
Her first few searches on Yandex were fruitless. Nope! Nope! Was it really all in vain? After a few minutes, though, she got a hang of what she was looking for and found the site she needed. Her eyes bored into the screen. Would you look at that!
Lisa carefully studied several niche sites, tucked the envelope back in her purse and pressed the purse itself tightly to her chest. Now she needed to carefully consider how she would manage the wealth that had so suddenly come to her. Soon enough, she had made her decision.
She wasn’t going to pinch pennies shirking comfort and would travel to the sea in the best train available! She had earned this new life with suffering from the very day she had been born. If she managed this business carefully, she’d have enough money for anything she desired. But first, she had to arrange a safety net. She knew better than to go wandering around Moscow with an priceless purse on her shoulder.
Lisa found the station’s post office and bought an ordinary letter-sized envelope. As surreptitiously as she could, the girl transferred all the contents of the old envelope to the new one, sealed it and began thinking about a good address to send her treasure to.
Her wandering gaze alighted on the number of the post office she was in. Lisa wrote it on the new envelope and added her name with “care of” before it.
The envelope, with its new precious weight, slipped into the slot and dropped to the bottom of a blue mailbox affixed to a column.
9
A mid-luxury sedan rolled up to the gates of the hospital. Sitting at the wheel, Tarmo Keelp lowered the window and waved a bill at the security guard. The guard brushed some crumbs off his whiskers and slunk over to the visitor. The bill changed hands, the boom gate swung up and the expensive car drove off in the direction of the morgue.
The sixty-year-old gentleman was shaking with grim anxiety. Boris, the manager-pimp, had told him about the tragedy — Katya had died. The best thing to do was to forget, put the girl out of mind and switch her for some other young slut. But not everything in life was that simple.
The Estonian liked Katya. She provided quality services to him in bed, didn’t fail to praise him when everything went the way it needed to go and paid little attention to male foibles. Paid sex, however, was not the most important thing in their relationship. Keelp had brought Katya into his confidence and entrusted her with an important assignment. The day for her to fulfill her assignment had come. Today, Katya was supposed to bring him a certain envelope and receive an ample reward in return. For an uneducated girl, the envelope’s contents could not have meant very much, but for him, they were extremely valuable.
Tarmo Keelp parked the car beside the morgue van and made his way to the two-story nondescript building. In the hallway of the smelly facility, the Estonian beckoned with his finger to a lanky orderly with a busted lip.
“Tell me, my friend,” Keelp opened his wallet, demonstrating his readiness to share its contents with the orderly, “you had a girl delivered here this morning, a suicide, isn’t that so? She is my favorite niece.”
“Yeah?” the orderly agreed reticently. After the rambunctious Alex, he was assessing this new visitor with suspicion.
“I’d like to say farewell to her.” Keelp twirled a couple thousand-ruble notes in his fingers. “Unfortunately, I am due to fly out of the country soon and won’t be able to attend the funeral.”
“For sure,” nodded the orderly.
He lifted his oilcloth apron and pointed to the pocket of his blue jacket. The money was deposited in the indicated place. Not much later, Keelp was standing over the body of the girl who was supposed to be appeasing him in bed that very moment. Her face was battered. The exquisite lips which the girl had so expertly used to raise both his member and his spirits had transformed into a dried bloody scowl. Only her dense black hair retained its former attractiveness.
Covering his nose with a handkerchief, Keelp scrupulously examined the body. He was particularly interested in the girl’s hips. The visitor kept frowning, either from dissatisfaction or the unpleasant atmosphere.
Straightening out, Keelp asked the orderly to flip the body. The orderly eloquently lifted his apron again and indicated the pocket-depository. Keelp nodded his assent and gestured the lanky orderly to hurry up.
The butterfly tattoo was quite familiar to Keelp. In his youth, tattoos were a testament to one’s membership in the criminal underworld. These days, they had become an industry for decorating the bodies of the unfettered youth. The Estonian was a conservative in many ways; however, he quite enjoyed tattoos — so long as they adored young nubile bodies. He had therefore remembered Katya’s ethereal “butterfly” in detail.
Back in the hallway, Keelp recalled the main thing and reached back into his pocket for the wallet.
“I would also like to examine my niece’s belongings.”
“For sure.” After his brawl with the psycho, the orderly was happy to do business with an understanding person.
The girl’s clothes revealed nothing new. Keelp became downcast.
“What about the purse? Did she have a purse? You see, Katya had in her possession a private letter of mine. I am prepared to pay good money to see it returned.”
The orderly’s greedy mind stumbled across an entrepreneurial inspiration — why not bring this old geezer someone else’s purse? Surely, he won’t figure it out! Yet, remembering that the visitor had referred to a specific letter, the orderly had to confess, “That’s all she had with her, mister. Or — on her, rather.”
Back in his car, Keelp fell deep in thought. He was tormented by well-substantiated doubts. His life experience — replete with plenty of risky situations — spoke to him unequivocally: An unexpected death at the most critical moment cannot be an accident! In any affair, there is always some interested third party. If that is the case, then he must wait for the next move — and assume it would be the least pleasant one when it came.
The Estonian got out his phone and made a call.
“Benjamin, hello. This is Tarmo. I have a favor to ask. If in the next few days someone brings you anything out of the ordinary, give me a call. And try to arrange matters so that the persona in question and I can cross paths — What are you looking for? Well, you’ve got a trained eye, Benjamin. Believe me, when you see it, you’ll understand. And be assured that I will express my gratitude not merely in words.”
10
The workday had long since drawn to a close, yet in Detective Petelina’s office, all the lights remained on. Elena was sitting behind her desk, her back to the darkened window. The wall clock that her irritated husband had given her as a present many years ago lay in a box on the bottom shelf of her bookcase. This is how she created the illusion that the day was still alive and she could go on working as calmly as ever.
Petelina was examining the unpleasant photographs on her laptop that Mikhail Ustinov had taken at the scene of the incident. Or, was it the scene of the crime after all? Had the girl jumped off the roof on her own or had someone been there to help her? Who could profit by her death? Inevitably, Elena felt a certain professional anger whenever a young girl was killed.
The detective opened the passport of Ekaterina Igorevna Grebenkina. It had been issued in the district center of Grayvoron, in Belgorod Region. The girl in the photo was only fourteen, one year older than Nastya. The shy teenager did not much resemble the twenty-year-old woman who had met her demise on the hood of a car. Despite her battered face, it was clear that she had been attractive. It was unfortunate that she had made such a poor professional choice, but this could be written down to her parents’ lack of oversight just as well. Her dad had only recalled her existence when he was fifty, while her mother eloped to seek her fortune abroad.
The door cracked open and the gaunt and, as per usual, disheveled Mikhail Ustinov slipped into the office. They had agreed that Petelina would stay late and await his preliminary findings.
“What do you think, Misha?” asked Detective Petelina and instantly went on to share all the doubts she had accumulated. “For a suicide, this girl acted much too quickly and decisively. She met her dad, promised some mysterious surprise, climbed to the roof and… If she had wanted to hurt her father, then she would have at least yelled something from the roof — forced him to feel guilty and to try to talk her down. Young women, as a rule, spend a long time deciding to take that final step. It’s not only the end result that’s important to them: They care about how they’ll look after the fact… But in this case — well, it’s just a nightmare and no more.”
“Are you considering the murder option?” the Tadpole entered the conversation, taking a seat across from the detective.
“It could be an accident. Maybe she bent over to shout something to her father, slipped and — ”
“That, I completely agree with,” the forensic expert asserted decisively.
Petelina interlocked her fingers and looked the self-sure expert directly in the eyes. The Tadpole had a tendency to speak in riddles, expecting his interlocutor to figure things out.
“Alright, let’s have it,” the detective said impatiently.
“Let me explain,” the expert began with his favorite phrase. “I did not uncover any evident traces of a struggle either on the body of the deceased or on the roof — torn clothes or missing buttons, for instance.”
“So it was an accident then. The girl bent over and lost her balance.”
“I didn’t finish.” Mikhail Ustinov produced a plastic doll from a bag.
“What is this now?”
The forensic expert stood the doll on the edge of the table.
“We shall conduct an investigative experiment. Let us assume that the young woman is bending over, losing her balance and plummeting down.” Mikhail illustrated his narrative with the doll. “As she falls, she flips and as a result lands either onto her stomach or onto her back, but with her legs pointing away from the building. Correct?”
Elena got up and circled the desk to see the doll on the floor.
“But the girl was lying — » the detective began to grasp what the expert was getting at.
“Absolutely! Face-up, with her head away from the building. This could only happen if she had originally fallen backwards.” The expert demonstrated his version of the fall with the doll. “What’s our conclusion then?”
“She was pushed.” Petelina grew pensive and then shook her head doubtfully. “Push me.”
“You?”
“Go on and push, Misha. This an investigative experiment, remember?”
The flustered expert raised his hands so as not to press against the detective’s breasts and gave her shoulders a sharp shove. Elena started back but managed to grab the Tadpole by the cuff.
“The survival instinct,” she explained. “You proved yourself the Grebenkina fell backwards, so she could have been pushed only against her chest. The girl had long nails. There must be at least a few fibers caught in them. Did you check under her nails?”
“I’m sorry, Detective Petelina. The incident took place in a residential area. There were kids gawking from the windows — I wanted to be done with the body as quickly as possible.”
“We need to warn the medical examiner.”
“I do have some findings about the brandy.”
“The bottle from the roof?”
“Yup. The bottle was opened immediately before being drunk from. I established this through the absence of oxidization on the lid’s threading. The only fingerprints I found on the bottle belong to Ekaterina Grebenkina, the deceased. I measured the brandy’s temperature when I found the bottle. It was five degrees warmer than the outside temperature. You may recall it was 41 degrees out today.”
The expert paused, awaiting an answer to his unasked question.
“If Grebenkina took the bottle up there in her purse,” Petelina began to think out loud, “then the brandy couldn’t’ve cooled so quickly. If the brandy had been brought to the roof earlier, its temperature would have matched the air temperature. And yet, when we found it, the temperature was still falling to match the ambient temperature. This means that someone was waiting for Katya Grebenkina on the roof with the brandy.”
“The note about the pimp,” the expert reminded. “‘Boris is a jerk,’ remember..?”
“Okay. What do we have?” Petelina sat back down at her desk. The thin pencil in her hand began to produce arrows, circles and question marks on a blank sheet of paper. “Katya meets her father and suddenly runs off to get up on the roof. But why? Boris Manuylov, her pimp, is waiting for her up there to commemorate the suicide of Stella Sosuksu. However, Katya has decided to kill her pimp in front of her father.”
“I don’t think that pimps are so sentimental,” remarked Misha. “He couldn’t care less about commemorating a dead girl.”
“Let’s say you’re right. Then here’s another possible version. What if the father had come to loathe his prostitute-daughter? We only have Grebenkin’s words for what happened. The car owner and his friend saw him with his daughter. But they have absolutely no sense of how much time passed. For instance, how many minutes passed between the girl entering the building and falling? And what was Grebenkin doing in this interval? They don’t even remember whether he remained in the courtyard. Then, after the body hits the car, they’re in utter shock and remember nothing whatsoever. Like, for example, how quickly did Grebenkin appear? What if he pushed Katya off the roof and then took the elevator down?”
“Not to mention that Grebenkin was heard threatening the pimp.”
“This fits the theory of blind revenge. Both the debased daughter and her seducer.”
“Grebenkin seems more like a simpleton than some adroit revenger.”
Elena Petelina nodded, glanced over the doodle she had made and sighed.
“Nothing but questions.”
“Wouldn’t be much fun if there weren’t any.”
Before leaving, the Tadpole nodded toward the framed photograph on the detective’s desk.
“Shall I leave you the doll? For your daughter?”
Elena looked at the photo of Nastya on her first day of first grade, holding a bouquet of flowers and wearing a great big bow in her hair.
“Oh, Misha,” she smiled. “She’s given up dolls and taken up curling. She prefers 40 pound granite rocks to dolls these days.”
As soon as the forensic expert had left, the office phone rang. The detective picked up the receiver and heard a polite question.
“Detective Petelina?”
Petelina was happy to hear the voice of Ivan Ivanovich Lopakhin, the medical examiner. She did not know exactly how old he was but was sure that he had performed autopsies and written up findings for detectives who had long since retired. As Lopakhin liked to quip, “The best surgeon in the world hasn’t got a thing on me. Not one of my patients has ever complained.”
“I was just thinking of you, Dr. Lopakhin.”
“Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Sometimes I get the impression that I’m working in his waiting room.”
“That would make me the travel agent who books your patients.”
“One-way tickets only — no round trips.”
Elena liked to chat with the medical examiner and assumed that it was only thanks to his self-effacing irony that Lopakhin had managed to hold out at his job for so long. However, it was time to get down to business.
“Dr. Lopakhin, I have arranged for the body of Ekaterina Grebenkin to be delivered to you. Please pay special attention to her epithelial tissue as well as any fibers under her nails.”
“Actually, I called you precisely because I am so attentive. The poor girl’s body was first delivered to the nearest morgue. We were forced to arrange for her to be delivered here, to the police morgue. And here is what the orderlies told me…”
“I’m all ears.”
“Imagine this, Detective Petelina, there were already two men who came to visit the girl at the hospital morgue today. One said he was her friend, the other her uncle. They came separately. The common thread was that each one wanted to look at her belongings, especially her purse.”
Elena frowned and looked over at the couch. There, in a plastic bag, lay the dead girl’s purse. Elena had automatically dropped it there upon entering her office and turning on the light. Here was the price you paid on the first day of work after a vacation!
“Thank you, Dr. Lopakhin. As soon as you find anything…”
“By all means.”
The detective said farewell to the medical examiner and retrieved the purse. The latch clicked. Elena’s gloved fingers carefully unzipped the zipper. Petelina dumped the contents of the purse onto her empty desk. Her eyes instantly fixed on the most important item.
She couldn’t believe it!
11
Elena’s dissatisfied mother was waiting for her when she got home that night. Olga Ivanovna Gracheva lived in the building next door. She would meet Nastya as the girl came back from school and take her to curling practice. The sixty-year-old woman was not much for diplomacy and spoke whatever was on her mind.
“Normal people miss their homes when they go away on vacation. Un-normal people miss their work.”
“I had to stay late, mom. There was business to take care of.”
“Criminals, eh? How about sparing a thought for your family? The apartment is dusty. The fridge is empty. I had to haul the groceries from the store all on my own to make dinner.”
“What dust? We were gone for two weeks.”
“Dust doesn’t vacation in Thailand. Dust stays here and looks for ways to get into the house. If there’s no one around to clean, then just like those lazy Romans in Pompeii, dust will bury our entire city.”
“Pompeii was buried by Vesuvius erupting, mom.”
“Vesuvius-Shmesuvius. If you can’t find the time for it, find a maid. Cleaning your apartment gives me a backache.”
Nastya emerged from her bedroom. Elena noticed a pent-up sadness in the thirteen-year-old’s eyes.
“What happened, Nastya?”
“While I was off riding that cute elephant in Thailand, I missed the Moscow curling tournament.”
“Big deal. There’ll be other tournaments.”
“The coach got angry and made Vera the skip. Now she’s the team captain. The girls are saying that I’m going to be vice skip now. It’s not fair.”
Elena hugged her daughter.
“At least we had a good time on the beach.”
“You and Valeyev had a good time. Locking yourself away from me every day.”
Elena became embarrassed. Wearing light clothes on the warm beach, she and Valeyev could barely keep their hands off each other like insatiable a pair of newlyweds on their honeymoon.
“You left the girl on her own?” Mrs. Gracheva perked up. “In a strange and savage country with elephants and jungles?”
The front door opened. Marat Valeyev had returned from work. A month before their vacation, Police Captain Valeyev had moved in with Major of Justice Petelina. The two did not feel it necessary to keep their relationship from their coworkers.
“Still a captain?” Mrs. Gracheva greeted her “sonny-in-law.”
“Mom, it’s time for you to go home,” Elena instantly jumped in. “I’ll do the cleaning Saturday and thanks for the dinner.”
“Saturday is still a whiles away,” burbled Mrs. Gracheva, getting her things together in the entryway.
Initially, she had objected to her “smart, successful and beautiful” daughter’s relationship with “an ordinary captain, and a Tatar to boot — God help him.” But once she saw that Lena was not going to change her mind, the mother began to push her agenda in other ways. Accordingly, Mrs. Gracheva used every possible opportunity to barb her “sonny’ with a look or a word.
“Are you planning on formalizing your relationship? Or is the plan simply to have a fling and then move on?”
“Let’s talk about that later, mother. Here is your scarf.”
“The scarf, of course! We wouldn’t want me to catch a cold! After all, who would make the soup and look after little Nastya if I did?”
Elena bore this reproach calmly, figuring that it was best to keep quiet. Her mother, however, did not share the same virtue.
“Since you’re already living together, you should at least help the bonehead get promoted or something. You hear me, Valeyev?” Mrs. Gracheva raised her voice. “I won’t give you my blessing to get married until you’re at least a major!”
“Oh Lord!” sighed Elena as she shut the door behind her mother. “Don’t pay her any attention, Marat. She wants what’s best for us.”
“I can only imagine what would happen if she starts wanting what’s worst for us…”
Two hours later, by the light of the bedside lamp, Elena was sitting on the edge of her bed, applying nourishing lotion to her dry skin, bronzed from the two-week tan. Marat rolled up to her from behind and reached his hand under her nightgown.
“Argh! Watch your ice claws!” Elena tensed and slapped at the pushy man’s hand. “What happened with the pimp? Why couldn’t you locate him?”
Marat was used to the fact that Lena always talked about her work and was happy to talk business even in bed.
“Boris Manuylov wasn’t at the modeling agency, but we found out a lot about him.”
“Anything interesting?”
“He’s thirty-four. He used to play guitar in a popular rock band when he was twenty. Supposedly, he was really good. The band toured around the country and acted like real rockers — you know, drinking, groupies, orgies. Then one day, in one of the towns they were playing in, a crook burst into Manuylov’s room — Manuylov was in there with his girl. The crook did the wise thing. He didn’t kill anyone and didn’t even beat the boy up. Instead, he stuck Manuylov’s left hand between the door and the jamb and rocked the door back several times across his fingers.”
“That’s horrible!”
“As a result, they had to amputate his middle finger — the other ones are just mangled. That’s how Manuylov got the name Birdless. He’ll never play guitar again. It’s worth noting that all of this happened because of the girl.”
“Got it. Since that time he didn’t hold women in much esteem, so he became a pimp.”
“That’s it.”
Elena finished massaging the lotion into her legs and feet. Her hands moved up to her lower back.
“Want me to help?” Marat offered.
The woman lay down on her stomach. Marat happily rolled her nightgown up to her shoulders. His eyes sparkled.
“Why just look at you!”
“Don’t get distracted. Why didn’t you catch up with Manuylov at his apartment?”
“It was empty, but he won’t get very far. I know his type. He’s hiding out somewhere this very moment, drinking no doubt. He may try to go back home in the morning. We put a mark on the door and warned the beat cop. As soon as old Birdless turns up, the local cops will detain him. Then we’ll put the squeeze on him and get him to talk.”
“A mark? What kind of mark?”
“A thief’s mark. A piece of transparent plastic from a bottle. We wedged it into the door crack. Burglars use this trick to case apartments — to make sure the owners are out of town. We just adapted it for our own ends. If the mark falls out, then Manuylov came back. The beat cop will check it in the morning and call a patrol car.”
“Learning from the burglars.”
“They learn from us, we learn from them. Symbiosis.”
“That same beat cop knows very well that Boris Manuylov is a pimp. Why didn’t he arrest him earlier?”
“Female instinct is incorrigible.”
“What instinct?”
“To have men take care of them.”
“It’s the male instinct that’s incorrigible — hey there, the deal was you rub my back, not my butt. I already did that part, thank you very much.”
“You’re tanned all over, except here. And your skin is all soft…”
“What are your fingers doing? Oh you animal!”
Elena tried to slap him away, but Marat grabbed her arm and flipped the woman onto her back. Elena encountered a pair of clouded eyes which left no doubts about his intentions.
“Who’s a slave to his instincts now? You male anima — ”
She did not get a chance to finish her thought. Marat sealed her mouth with a long kiss. His fingers wandered along the most intimate parts of her body, encountering no resistance. Responding to his attention, the woman relaxed and at some point herself guided her lover between her legs.
With growing passion, Elena replied to the man’s thrusts. Her arousal grew. Suddenly she recalled the birth control pills that had fallen out of Katya Grebenkina’s purse. It was time for her to think about some birth control as well. It was so difficult to control Marat when he was unbridled like this. Or was it better to have some faith in God’s plan? What would her mother say if—
“Oh Marat,” the woman’s lips whispered, as a series of shuddering thrusts culminated in a deep burst of delight.
12
Dirty white letters and the silhouette of a cat with a raised tail glowed in the red storefront. Alex Bayukin checked the tattered note in his hand: Wild Kitties, a strip club. He was at the right place.
Following his severe concussion in combat, Alex did not put much stock in his memory. He had gotten the strip club’s address — where the pimp might be — from the floozies at the modeling agency. Initially, the proud little bitches had refused to tell him anything. But their silence lasted exactly up until the moment that the bimbos realized who was more of a threat to them — the runaway pimp or the unwanted guest with the crazed look in his eyes.
While they were at it, the long-legged fillies also provided a nice description of Birdless Boris and even threw in an image of his insolent mug on one of their cell phones. It wouldn’t be hard to spot a goon like him: Birdless, who was of average height and a little older than thirty, sported a shoulder-length rocker’s mane and wore a guitar-shaped pendant around his neck. For clothes, he seemed to prefer dress-shirts with unbuttoned collars, vests, and leather jackets adorned with multiple zippers. The greatest distinguishing mark, however, was the absent middle finger on his left hand.
A 240 lbs. mountain of a bouncer towered before the entrance to the strip club. Alex could barely keep himself from kicking the man in the apex of his wide stance. For his part, the bouncer looked askance at the Alex’s dirty shoes and standard-issue pilot’s jacket that Alex’s friend, a helicopter pilot, had give him.
“I’m fresh out of the army, brother. It’s my first day in the capital,” explained ex-Captain Bayukin.
The bouncer smirked and told Alex to buy a ticket for a thousand rubles. Then, he scanned Alex with a handheld metal detector. When the metal detector squealed, the bouncer’s eyebrow rose inquisitively.
“If it ain’t these,” grinned Alex, demonstrating his keys and phone, “maybe I’m just too eager to get in.” He made sure to hold his hands at the level of his waist to screen the Yarygin Pistol tucked in his belt.
The bouncer reciprocated the grin.
“Go nuts, bud. It’s a white party in there tonight.”
The most conspicuous part of the semi-dark, music-filled hall was a catwalk that terminated in a pole. Girls in snow-white lingerie that resembled bridal wear would appeared on the catwalk. As they danced, “the brides” parted with their inhibition and their clothes, which were evidently supposed to symbolize innocence. The simple conceit was aimed squarely below the belts of the male onlookers. By the end of the striptease, the former “prudes” were left with only their shoes, thongs and garters. At this point, the now “mature” women would descend and walk along the snug alcoves of the club’s floor, searching for a customer’s lap among the alcoves’ plush seats.
Alex sidled up to the bar and ordered a whiskey. It was a good thing that his general-father had outfitted him with money to carry on his search. The action around the pole was bedazzling. Having taken in several dances and three servings of booze, Alex recalled his reason for coming here in the first place.
The fingerless pimp! Where was that gimp, anyway?
There were no mangled hands to be seen along the bar, so Alex turned and began walking along the plush alcoves. The dim lighting concealed the customers’ faces, but thankfully current hairstyles prescribed short haircuts, whereas the pimp wore his long.
And there he was, a solitary figure with a shoulder-length mane sitting in a corner booth — and he had on a vest!
Alex bent down and coughed politely.
“Excuse me, you haven’t seen…”
A pendant with a guitar glinted on the man’s chest. The hand holding the glass looked more like a cleft claw, with a gap where the middle finger should have been.
Alex plunked down beside him.
“What’s up, Birdless. I’ve come here for you.”
“I don’t believe we’ve — » The pimp was peering into Alex’s face trying to remember him.
“Relax. My memory’s no good either anymore. But I do know one thing for certain. You’re going to give me Katya’s purse as well as the envelope.”
“What envelope?” the pimp tensed up.
“Well at least you didn’t ask who Katya was.” Alex grabbed Birdless’s balls and twisted his fist. “Your whore took an envelope that didn’t belong to her. You’re going to return it.”
“I don’t know a damn thing,” the pimp whimpered.
Alex tightened his grip.
“Hand over the envelope,” he whispered ominously, “or you’ll lose something a bit more vital than your middle finger.”
“I don’t have anything.”
“Why don’t you think a little harder. Maybe you’ll recall after all…”
“Yes, yes!” begged Boris.
Alex relaxed his hand.
“Where’s the envelope?”
“It’s downstairs. Hang on, I’ll go get it.”
The pimp signaled and a nude beauty appeared across from Alex. Spreading her legs, she straddled Alex’s knees; then, wrapping her fingers around his neck she began to gyrate her head and rear to the music’s rhythm. Startled, Alex found a pair of plump, stiff nipples tittering inches away from his lips. He wanted to bite them and, unwittingly, squeezed the dancer’s waist with his arms.
“You gotta pay extra for that, friend!” the girl warned.
Alex removed his hands and suddenly noticed that Boris had vanished.
“Where’d he go?”
“No third wheels. He ordered you a private dance, handsome.”
“Where’s Birdless?” Pushing away the stripper, Alex jumped up from the sofa.
“Easy!” the stripper became upset. “You won’t even thank me?”
Alex grasped her implication and stuck two thousand-ruble bills into the garter on the girl’s thigh.
“Where did Boris run off to?”
“He went downstairs, I think. We have a sauna down there.” The girl pointed and licked her finger suggestively with her extended tongue. “Wish I had someone with your energy — just maybe in a more capable body, bunny.”
Downstairs, Alex found himself in a lounge dimly illuminated in red light. A door led to a VIP-only sauna from which wafted the scent of dry lavender and music filled with female moans. Standing next to a small but well-stocked bar, a cute, plump girl in a skintight black leotard smiled at him politely. She was wearing riding boots, leather shorts and a vest that was doing its utmost to rein in the silicone implants struggling to get out.
“You are expected,” the little donut cooed through puffy lips, pouring a glass of champagne.
Alex thirstily gulped down the cold drink and opened the door to the indicated room. Here, he found two bronze-skinned girls in white bras and stockings, writhing alluringly from a giant bed with a coffee-colored cover. Various animal skins and rugs lay covering the floor. Like a cat, one of the bronze-skinned girls began crawling towards Alex. She rubbed herself playfully against his leg and began to unfasten his belt. As the female fingers slipped beneath his clothes, Alex’s breathing became halting. As if by miracle, the bachelor’s most improbable fantasies were coming true.
At this moment, something fell softly onto the bearskin rug. Terror distorted the girl’s dark face. Alex turned around and saw his fallen gun. Like a frothy wave against a cliff face, his reveries came shattering against reality.
Zipping his zipper, Alex darted out of the room and stuck his gun into the silicone implants of the donut in black.
“Where’s Birdless at? Start talking, bitch!”
“He ran out!” The girl glanced at the emergency exit at the end of the hallway.
“Did he tell you to distract me?”
“A customary surprise for our favorite customers.”
Enraged, Alex headed for the emergency exit. His mind was having difficulty coming to terms with the realities of living in the city. Everything here is so goddamn customary. He wished he could shoot holes in the girl’s over-inflated balloons and shout “Surprise!”
In the meantime, outside in the parking lot, Boris Manuylov had reached his white Honda. He plunked down behind the wheel and checked to see if the psycho from the club was still chasing him. Seeing no one, he took two deep breaths to calm himself and slid the key into the ignition. The psycho had been diverted, while he had managed to keep his envelope. It was time to get the hell out of dodge.
At this moment, a dark figure rose from behind the driver’s seat. A garrote fashioned from a rope slipped around the pimp’s throat and pulled tight, binding him tight to the headrest.
“Here we are then,” a sinister voice whispered in his ear.
13
Lisa Malyshko had made up her mind. Her new life was going to be beautiful. She would go to Sochi in the nicest train available. But first, she would dress herself up in the best boutiques. Money she would have aplenty. But, to actually get her hands on it, she would have to remain in Moscow a day or two longer.
Lisa returned to the computers at the station. It was stuffy here, in the corner under the low ceiling. Lisa pulled off her hat and unbuttoned her jacket. The guy in charge of the Internet kiosks smiled upon seeing the bright-red lips plastered across the girl’s sweater. The girl instinctively turned in profile and opened her mouth a little. She knew this posture embellished her sexiness.
But, damn! This wasn’t one of her clients. It was about time she started dropping this stupid habit.
Both her reflexive reaction to the guy’s wolfish look as well as the sweater that triggered it — which she had often shared with her now-dead friend — all reminded her of her former occupation. Both girls had been brunettes. Both had similar bodies. Even their past lives resembled each other.
Katya Grebenkina had been born in the small town of Grayvoron. Her mother had conceived her as a result of a fling with an officer stationed at a nearby base. She had given the girl her father’s last name in the hopes of collecting alimony. Half a year later, the officer was transferred to Transbaikal. He vanished without a trace. Katya thought her mother unlucky. She cursed her provincial little town and dreamed of becoming a famous model. Her mother never missed a chance to rebuke her and blamed her daughter for her inability to find a new husband.
Having barely graduated, Katya went to Moscow and applied at a modeling agency. The agency’s handsome manager, who later turned out to be a pimp, filled her head with a bunch of nonsense. He seduced the ignorant and provincial girl and convinced her that without a portfolio, makeup, a first-rate hairstylist, brand-name clothes and shoes, no one would take her on as a model. Of course there was only one way to earn the money she needed and, luckily, it wasn’t even very tedious work — one could say, it was even pleasant. That was how seventeen-year-old Katya became a prostitute.
Meanwhile, back home, Katya’s mother met a foreign gentleman on the Internet and eloped to Greece. From her first letter, Katya figured out that her mom had traded the backwoods of Russia for the backwoods of Greece, where she was forced to dote over a Greek retiree and beg him for money to go see a dentist. Katya did not write back.
Lisa Malyshko had been born in Voronezh Region — in a village beside the Don federal highway. The entire life of the village revolved around serving truckers at the motel, the café and the sauna. Lisa never knew her father. Her mother would concoct a different story about him every day. Most likely, she had become pregnant by a random driver, whom she could no longer recall. The good-looking woman liked to have a drink and had a mischievous laugh. The neighbors would quietly remark that she “put her balls before her brains.” She was constantly hanging around the roadside café where little Lisa was allowed to take whatever she liked from the kitchen.
Lisa’s mother died between the wheels of a truck when she tried to cross the highway drunk one night. Lisa was sixteen at the time. The café’s owner seized his opportunity at the wake: He plied the girl with alcohol and then raped her.
“Now you’re going to serve me instead of your mom,” he told the shattered Lisa the next morning. “What, you thought I was going to feed you out of the good of my heart?”
Lisa endured the rape for two weeks, until the owner of the cafe decided to let one of his relatives have a go. The relative — who had just been released from prison and who, besides being starved for women, turned out to be somewhat of a sadist — did quite a number on the girl. After that, Lisa made her decision. She cleaned out the café’s register and hitched a ride to Moscow. She had no illusions about who she was going to be. It was better to work as a prostitute and get paid for it than endure being raped over a bowl of soup for the rest of her life.
Lisa Malyshko was certain that if she had had a father, he would have defended her and her life would have turned out otherwise. However, finding her mythical father seemed impossible. Katya Grebenkina’s situation was not even worth comparing: At least she knew the exact age of officer Igor Vasilevich Grebenkin — and where he worked.
“What if he’s a general by now?” Lisa would goad her friend. But Katya would simply wave her off. Finally, Lisa took the initiative herself and located Igor Grebenkin on the web.
This was how the newly-uncovered father came to Moscow to see his daughter. Their long-expected reunion, however, had turned into a horrific tragedy.
Recalling these things, Lisa also remembered that it was forty days since the death of Stella, with the funny last name of Sosuksu. Stella had only been eighteen and never laughed at anything. The first time Lisa saw Stella smile was when — having told Birdless Boris and his preoccupied clients to go to hell one evening — all three girls had gone to Sparrow Hills to see a grandiose fireworks show.
A crowd had gathered. In the sky overhead, bright flashes burst and broke into thousands of shimmering fires. Katya and Lisa were warming themselves with gulps of brandy and yelling, “Because we feel like it and not because it’s what the client wants.” They kept prickling Stella, trying to get their impassive friend to loosen up. Stella tripped, flailed her arms and struck a skinny young man, knocking off his glasses. Mumbling an apology, she replaced the broken glasses onto his flummoxed face and could not contain her smile. The young man replied in kind.
His name was Oleg Deryabin. He was a PhD student — a botanist — who was doing his research right there in Moscow State University’s Botanical Garden in Sparrow Hills. He was the kind of guy who got mocked in school, but Stella fell for him. After that, she would take any opportunity she could to run off and spend time with Oleg.
One day in the fall, Stella showed her girlfriends their humble little lovers’ retreat in the botanical garden — a derelict conservatory nestled among ancient apple trees. The girls munched on apples they found on the ground and fantasized about all kind of impossible nonsense that only happens in romantic comedies. The naïve rustic girl from sunny Moldova was the most vocal of the three. She went on in detail about her future plans for her future happy life.
And yet dreams come true much more often in the movies than in real life. Birdless Boris located Oleg Deryabin and showed him photos of Stella participating in orgies. “Professionals don’t spread their legs pro bono,” the pimp told the botanist — mostly to scare him. “You owe me, fellah.” The young man, who hailed from an intellectual family, could not forgive his girlfriend’s betrayal. When he saw her again, he called her words that Birdless himself would use in times of anger.
Overcome with grief, Stella stepped off the roof.
Lisa forced herself to forget her friends’ deaths and typed yet another query into Yandex. She had goals and she wasn’t about to abandon the path she’d settled on. Yandex returned the addresses of three specialized stores. Lisa chose the first one and wrote it down.
Her hand checked the envelope in her pocket. It was almost empty, and yet even these dregs would more than suffice for her immediate plans. Tomorrow she would be rich, but for now she needed to find a place to sleep. It would be too dangerous to go back to her apartment and the train station was patrolled by pushy cops who had a sixth sense when it came to prostitutes — they would find something to make a problem out of and then try to get a free ride.
Then it came to her. Not for nothing had Lisa recalled the pavilion in the botanical garden in Sparrow Hills.
“Thanks, Stella. Now I know where I can spend the night.”
14
Feeling fooled and seething with rage, Alex Bayukin stormed through the emergency exit and out of Wild Kitties.
Wait till I get my hands on you, Birdless.
The narrow parking lot and sidewalk were filled with cars. A solitary taxi stood waiting at the club’s entrance.
Damn it! If the pimp has a car, he’s long gone.
Alex tucked his gun behind his belt and ran up to the taxi.
“Did you see a guy with long hair? He’s a friend of mine. Did he get into a taxi?”
“I’ve been here ten minutes. There haven’t been any other taxis.” The taxi driver was smoking, flicking the ash out of his open window.
“Did you see any car leave at all?”
“All I know is I haven’t had to move for anyone,” the taxi driver shrugged. “You need a ride or what?”
Alex understood what the driver was getting at. The taxi was blocking the only way out of the strip club’s parking lot. All of a sudden, one of the cars standing off to the side honked and abruptly fell quiet.
“I’ll get a ride from my friend,” Bayukin muttered, turning in the direction of the sound.
Looking carefully, he saw a white Honda with someone inside. Alex crept up to the car from behind and squatted. Two men were conversing in raised voices. Judging by the rocker’s mane, Birdless Boris was behind the wheel. A tense man in a hat of reddish fur was sitting right behind him.
“Touch the wheel again and I’ll strangle you,” the man threatened.
The pimp, his head pressed to the headrest, was babbling excuses.
“I don’t know anything! I saw her this morning and that’s it. I took my cut and left.”
“That’s a lie. Katya could not have jumped on her own.”
“She’s not the first. Who knows how a whore’s mind works?”
“You piece of shit!” The man in the hat tightened the garrote over the pimp’s throat.
“Let me go…” Birdless’s voice grew hoarse and faint as he tried to break free.
After a short struggle, the passenger eased the tension. The pimp began to cough.
“Look, you’re right,” Boris agreed after regaining his breath. “The whole thing doesn’t seem like Katya. She wasn’t the type to start drama like that. If anything, she was more liable to off me first — and then maybe do herself in too. But be that as it may, I have no idea what happened back at the apartment. Like I told you, I wasn’t there!”
“What are you hiding from then?”
“Who likes talking to the cops?”
“Far as I’m concerned, you’re guilty either way. You turned my daughter into a prostitute. I was going to kill you either way.”
“For what? She agreed of her own — ”
The pimp’s frightened explanation was cut off by more croaking and the sound of a body thrashing.
This crazed pops is going to end him, Alex began fretting. Then I won’t find out anything about the envelope at all.
He rose, tore the rear door open and struck the passenger on the temple with the butt of his gun. The blow didn’t land perfectly flush, but it was enough to tear the skin and knock the man unconscious. Grebenkin’s hands relaxed, loosening the garrote.
Alex pushed him to the other side, sat down in his former place and shut the door. The pimp was sputtering and rubbing his throat. His teary, agitated eyes were trying to make out his unexpected savior in the rearview mirror.
“Don’t get your hope up, creep. It’s me again,” explained Alex and stuck the gun’s barrel into Birdless’s back. “Where’s the envelope?”
The pimp began thrashing hysterically.
“What’s is with you people?” he screamed. “Leave me alone!”
“The envelope, you goon.”
“The envelope! The envelope! What is your fixation with the envelope?”
“Looks like I shoulda let this other guy finish his job. Are you going to give me the envelope or not?”
“You’re all crazy!”
“You’re not going to trick me this time. Do you have the envelope on you or not?”
Boris’s hand unwittingly touched the shirt pocket under his vest. Alex noticed this gesture and broke into a crooked grin.
“Don’t bother. I’ll just help myself.”
Alex’s right hand pressed the barrel to the pimp’s temple, while with his left he reached over Boris’s shoulder. Alex had been so focused on his interrogation that he had failed to notice Grebenkin open his eyes. Realizing the delicacy of the situation, Grebenkin decided that he too must act. Surreptitiously, he drew a nonlethal pistol that had been modified to shoot live rounds, pointed it at Alex and pulled the trigger.
Two gunshots sounded mere hundredths of a second apart. The bullet from the nonlethal gun struck Alex in his shoulder, causing his trigger finger to slip — and nine grams of lead propelled Boris Manuylov’s brains out of his head. Dirty blood splattered the window pane, greasily rimming the hole the bullet had left.
Grebenkin pulled the door handle, tumbled out of the car and took off running. In his haste, he failed to notice that he had lost his ushanka hat.
Finding himself wounded, Alex Bayukin also realized that it was time to flee. He got out of the car and felt the wound. The bullet had glanced his shoulder, tearing off a clump of skin. The shock drowned out his pain.
The envelope! The scorching thought pulsed through Alex’s mind. I came here for the envelope.
He opened the driver’s side door and, restraining his disgust, reached toward the dead pimp. His hand fished out a clean envelope with something flat in it from the dead man’s pocket. Alex stuck his prize in his pants’ rear pocket and hurried away down the dark street.
The road led him to the subway station. The pain, awaking in his shoulder, almost paralyzed his right arm. Alex sat down on the edge of a ventilation hatch and gritted his teeth. He needed to think. He was without his jacket, which he had left in the club, and his shirt arm was soaked with blood. Someone would definitely notice a passenger like him on the subway. It was dangerous to take a taxi too, since taxi drivers were a naturally observant lot. Plus, he needed medical attention and it was unlikely that his general-father would be willing to risk his dodgy reputation to ask around for a surgeon.
Alex got out his phone. His left thumb poked at the buttons and found a number in the brief address book. Luckily, Alex had a friend in Moscow who would come to his aid under any and all circumstances.
He pressed the call button and waited for the familiar voice to answer.
“It’s me.” Alex confessed relieved. “I’m wounded and can’t call an ambulance.”
For a moment, the phone was silent.
“Where are you?” came the curt question at last. “I’m on my way.”
15
The next morning, Operatives Marat Valeyev and Ivan Mayorov were walking down a hallway of the Investigative Committee building. Even their gaits suggested their different personalities. Fit and charming, Valeyev held himself upright and took precise, measured steps. His eyes, however, automatically darted to every pair of passing legs belonging to his female coworkers. On the other hand, tall and dirty-blond Vanya Mayorov wavered constantly between a long stride and a short one. He kept trying to get his partner’s attention.
“Marat, Galya insists that we give you some money for your apartment.” When Ivan spoke, his powerful arms seemed to aid him in finding the necessary words.
“It’s your apartment, Vanya. You’re living in it. Anyway, you’re paying to feed that insatiable feline specimen — that’s enough for me.”
Twenty-eight-year-old Ivan Mayorov had found true love for the first time in his life. His beloved was Police Lieutenant Galya Nesterova, who worked the passport desk in the same building. Vanya was prepared to propose formally, but Galya kept trying to put it off: “Let’s at least wait until you make captain, Mayorov. Then we can commit to a mortgage.” Initially, Vanya and Galya had been renting an apartment on the outskirts of Moscow, but then they quarreled with the landlord after he raised the rent unexpectedly. Valeyev came to their aid, offering them his tiny studio. By that time, Marat had already basically moved in with Elena Petelina and would only stop by his apartment to feed Genghis, his tomcat.
“It’s just too awkward, Marat. We’ve been living there a month already and haven’t given you a dime.”
“Forget it! I was on vacation for two weeks. Someone would’ve had to take care of that cat anyway. How’s old Genghis doing without me?”
“Can’t say he’s had the time to give you much thought. I now understand what the expression ‘as anxious as a tomcat in March’ means. Genghis slips out of the window every night to go prowling. He can’t get enough. You know how fiercely he looks at Galya when she does her morning exercises?”
“Be vigilant, Vanya. Don’t leave your woman in such a situation. Genghis is a real dog!”
“Get out of here!” Vanya noticed the glint of mockery in Valeyev’s eyes and pushed his partner in the shoulder. “Watching Genghis, I start feeling a little like an animal myself.”
“Just a little? Certain women are convinced that men are pure animals and nothing more,” Marat recalled a recent barb of Elena’s. “The only difference is that we’ve learned how to dress ourselves.”
As he related this to his partner, Marat opened the door with a stencil that announced “Senior Detective E.P. Petelina.”
The mistress of the office overheard the last phrase, nodded to the operatives and, without interrupting her work, remarked, “A famous scientist claims that a lion’s behavior and a man’s behavior have much more in common than that of a man and a woman.”
“At least he chose to illustrate his comparison with the noble lion,” muttered Valeyev.
“He was just flattering you guys.”
“We should also establish whether this supposed scientist is a man himself or one of those…” Vanya pursed his lips effeminately in imitation of a homosexual applying makeup.
“Here, I’ll give you his address,” Petelina reached for her address book with a very serious face.
“Why?”
“So you can check out your theory. You can meet him mano-a-mano and conduct an investigative experiment, as it were. Make sure to videotape it, so we can all be sure.”
“I’m certain you’ll take a liking to him,” Valeyev piled on.
Vanya widened his eyes, noticed his partner’s barely-restrained laughter and frowned.
“Detective Petelina…”
“Alright, you have learned to dress yourself!” Petelina flashed a smile and looked up strictly. “I hope that in this case, you’ve come to pay me a visit in your capacity as operatives. What’s your report on that assignment I gave you? Where’s the pimp Boris Manuylov?”
“He didn’t come home last night,” replied Valeyev. “The insert in the door was there this morning.”
“You think he’s panicked?” the detective mused, twirling the pencil in her hand. “I swung by the morgue that they took Ekaterina Grebenkina to. Interviewed the orderlies. Two men came by to see the deceased; neither of them resembled Manuylov. The first was aged about thirty with a prickly look and short hair. He said he was her friend. The second one was about sixty with a cane — a real, old-fashioned aesthete.”
“The murderer is unlikely to show up at the morgue.”
“Unless he needs to get some vital clue. Both of these guys were interested in the girl’s belongings, particularly her purse. It’s a good thing we have it. I checked its contents but didn’t see anything very interesting.”
“Perhaps the murderer’s fingerprints?”
“I already submitted it for tests.”
“Detective Petelina, are you certain that this is a murder case?” Mayorov asked doubtfully. “After all, there was a similar suicide earlier. The second girl could have just jumped out of desperation.”
“She didn’t jump. She fell backwards.”
The desk phone rang. Petelina picked it up, recognized the caller and put him on speakerphone.
“It’s Dr. Lopakhin, the medical examiner,” she explained to the operatives.
“I completed the autopsy. You’ll have the full report within the hour. For now, I can tell you the following,” reported Lopakhin. “The blood alcohol level correlates to one hundred grams of strong liquor, no more. There are multiple internal fractures that are indicative of the fall she suffered. Cause of death was a severe blood hemorrhage in the brain and was basically instantaneous. I also examined her fingernails as you requested. I found nothing that suggested that the girl struggled for her life. And another thing: I found particles of what looks like cement among the hairs on her nape. I collected them so that your Tadpole, as you call him, can run tests on them.”
“Thank you, Dr. Lopakhin.”
“Don’t thank me for my infernal work. The older I get, the younger become those who end up on my table. There’s no justice in it,” Lopakhin sighed. “Am I showing my years?”
“You’re just reminding us that if a victim pays a visit to your table, then we must make sure that the guilty party pays a visit to the defendant’s bench.”
“Godspeed your search, Lenochka. Good luck.”
The medical examiner said his farewells.
“According to Ustinov’s findings,” Petelina explained to the operatives, “the bottle was first opened on the roof. It’s missing about three hundred grams of brandy, and the victim, as we just heard, only drank one hundred.”
“So someone else was definitely up there with her.”
“Someone prudent enough to keep their fingerprints off the bottle. Find me that pimp, Valeyev.”
“To contend and to seek — to uncover and bring to justice,” Valeyev recited the operative’s motto and slapped his partner on the shoulder. “Alright, Vanya. Enough daydreaming about that scientist. Let’s go find us that Manuylov.”
At this moment, Colonel of Justice Yuri Grigorevich Kharchenko, Petelina’s boss, briskly entered the office.
“Lena, you never stopped by last night after your vacation. Now your poor old boss is forced to come down here to welcome you back.”
Petelina flushed.
“Colonel Kharchenko, I brought you a souvenir actually.” She waved to the operatives. “You guys can go.”
“No, no, let them stay — in case you’ve decided to bribe me and I need witnesses.”
From her desk’s top drawer, Petelina produced an elephant miniature carved from teak.
“This is the symbol of Thailand. They have more elephants there than anywhere else in the world.”
“Thank you. I have something for you too. I’m not sure it counts as a present but… Didn’t I hear you mention Manuylov just now?”
“Yes, we are looking for a Boris Manuylov alias Birdless. He’s the pimp and known associate of one Ekaterina Grebenkin, who died yesterday under mysterious circumstances.”
“Well, your Manuylov has turned up. He won’t be able to answer your questions, though. He’s missing more than just a finger these days: Part of his head is gone too. He was shot point blank while sitting in his car last night.”
“Last night?”
“Yes. I’m putting you on that case as well, Lena. The evidence gathered during the preliminary examination will be delivered promptly. I reckon that the pimp’s murder and the death of his, erm, employee are somehow related. It’s only logical you work both cases. What do you say? Is this a present or just the opposite?”
“Well, for Captain Valeyev and Senior Lieutenant Mayorov here this certainly is a present. There’s no need to go chasing after a dead man, after all.”
16
On the screen of his video intercom, General Konstantin Viktorovich Bayukin beheld a tall man of forty years in an unbuttoned car coat and long scarf. The man’s immaculate coif, his self-assured and somewhat insolent look, his excellent clothes — the high collar on his white dress shirt had been drawn tight around his throat by the necktie — and his leather briefcase, all contributed to the impression that this was a very successful man indeed. The general recognized lawyer Denis Gomelsky and opened his door.
“Mr. Gomelsky, at last!”
An exquisite fragrance of perfume sneaked into the apartment behind the lawyer.
“Good day to you, General Bayukin.” Gomelsky passed confidently into the living room, deposited his hefty, expensive briefcase onto the sofa and plunked down beside it. “I must admit that your request came as somewhat of a surprise.”
“Circumstances,” Bayukin spread his arms haplessly.
“I did the due diligence and found out who the detective in charge of the Ekaterina Grebenkina case is. The detective’s name is Elena Pavlovna Petelina. An intelligent, meticulous and beautiful woman they call ‘the Noose,’” said Gomelsky, referencing the nickname, a pun on petlya (Russian for “noose”) with which the felons had christened Petelina. “That is, if she pulls the case around your throat — you won’t squirm your way out.”
“You are familiar with her?”
“I’ve had the pleasure of meeting her, personally.” The lawyer smiled enigmatically, as though recalling some racy affair, but instantly regained his former composure. “I think however that, now, it is my turn to ask the questions. Why are you interested in the Grebenkina case? The girl either jumped off the roof or someone helped her. If I am not mistaken, the girl’s only gainful occupation was prostitution.”
“You are not mistaken. Moreover, I personally made use of her services. The day before her death, Katya was with me and…”
“Finish your thought, General Bayukin. One should keep no secrets from one’s doctor and from one’s lawyer. Sooner or later, your most secret sins, your most noisome ailments, will surface and if by then it is too late, then neither your lawyer nor your doctor will be able to help you.”
“Well, the issue is a bit delicate…”
“What are you afraid of? Did the prostitute have some kind of compromising information about you? Did you incite her to commit suicide? Were you perhaps on the roof with her when she did it?”
“I only spent time with her here. I was an ordinary client, as far as she went.”
“What is it that worries you then? Your colleagues’ whispering or the retribution of some former spouse?”
“I don’t even know how to begin to explain the matter.”
“I can see that you are agitated. Please start with the main problem that is tormenting you.”
“Well, alright,” the general said decisively and called to the closed door to the neighboring room. “Alex!”
Bayukin Jr. emerged into the living room.
“This is my son Aleksey. He is a captain in the armed forces,” the general introduced his son. “He came to Moscow yesterday and I asked him to find Katya’s pimp in order to resolve a certain little problem. He found him and…”
“Battered him?”
“An accidental gunshot, you understand… Basically, the pimp is dead and Aleksey is wounded in his shoulder.”
A wrinkle of displeasure cut through the lawyer’s face. Denis Gomelsky stood up and circled Alex Bayukin as if trying to commit his 3D image to memory.
“Recount to me in detail: where, when and how did this happen?” he asked.
Somewhat unwillingly, Alex related the incident outside of the Wild Kitties strip club.
“And you’re sure the pimp’s dead?” the lawyer inquired. When it came to common criminals — as opposed to his more vaunted, white-collar clients — Denis Gomelsky felt comfortable to speak informally and directly.
“The bullet went clean through his head. Instant death.”
“The gun. How’d you get it?”
“It’s from my unit. It’s a Yarygin Pistol. It was issued and registered to me, but I claimed that it had been lost in combat, so I could have a piece of my own.”
“A Yarygin Pistol? That’s a comparatively new model.”
“Yes, they’ve been issuing them for a few years now. Almost all of our officers has one.”
“Officers! Not criminals! Did the casing remain in the car?”
“I, uh, I didn’t really think at the time — ”
“They’ll find the casing. It’ll lead them to the gun and from the gun to you! It could have been possible to use the combat loss as an excuse, but you’ve already made a whole heap of mistakes! You publicized your pursuit of the pimp, you displayed the gun in the club, and you talked to the taxi driver. In other words, you left a trail of witnesses in your wake, who will all happily identify you!”
“I only wanted to scare him a little! Someone shot me and my finger twitched!”
“Who was the third person in the pimp’s car? Do you know him?”
“Some guy aged about fifty. I heard him refer to the whore as his daughter. He too had a gun on him. He shot me and wounded me in the shoulder.”
“Alright. Now let’s talk about your wound. Where were you treated?”
“You don’t have to worry about that. My mother came to pick me up. She is a doctor and she won’t say anything. The bullet merely grazed me. I feel better already.”
“Better,” the lawyer shook his head acerbically. “You’re in it now!”
“Mr. Gomelsky, will you be able to defend Aleksey?” asked the worried general. “He isn’t guilty. The whore’s father fired first.”
“If you are so certain about his innocence, you are welcome to file a confession.”
“Mr. Gomelsky, I am coming to you as a professional. This is all at least partially my fault. Please help us. I am ready to pay whatever you like.”
“Okay. I know a thing or two from taking on criminal cases in St. Petersburg. The lesson here is that, right after the accidental shooting, you should have called me! It’s far cheaper to solve the problem by dealing with the operatives when they’re first collecting evidence in the field. No evidence — no case — no problem! But now, much will depend on which detective is assigned to the case. Some of them are amenable, while others… But okay! First thing to do is find out who it is.”
The lawyer got his phone, stepped out into the kitchen and shut the door tightly behind him. He returned ten minutes later.
“I have good news and bad news. The murder investigation has been assigned to Elena Petelina — the same Noose I was telling you about earlier. That’s the bad news. Be assured that she will trace the gun and identify your son.”
“What’s the good news?” the general asked, refusing to give up hope.
“The good news is that I am acquainted with Lena Petelina. And our relationship was not limited to work.”
“Can she be bribed?”
“Don’t judge others’ standards by your own,” Gomelsky replied with sudden abruptness. “Money is not the only thing in life. Now, please clarify your intentions for me. What the hell did you need to find a prostitute and her pimp for? And don’t go spinning any tall tales.”
Bayukin the father and Bayukin the son exchanged glances. Alex spoke first:
“Dad wanted me to find an envelope.”
“The cheap bitch stole it.” Bayukin Sr. stepped over to the bookcase. “It was right here, tucked between the books like some trifle, when in fact…”
“I didn’t find it among the whore’s things. The pimp had it.” Alex nodded in the direction of the coffee table, in the center of which lay a blank, white envelope.
“You brought it home from the murder scene?” Gomelsky inquired and shook his head emphasizing the stupidity of such a deed.
He put on some gloves, picked up the envelope gingerly by its corner and shook out its contents. A maroon passport issued by the Republic of Bulgaria fell out onto the table. The lawyer opened it carefully. A man with an untamed mane of hair, reminiscent of the kind that rock musicians prefer, looked out from the photograph. Gomelsky read the Bulgarian name and surname. The lawyer’s grim eyes fixed themselves on Bayukin Jr.
“Whose passport is this?”
“The pimp’s. That’s his mug. The bastard bought it so he could go to Europe without a visa. Or maybe he decided to scram under some stranger’s name.”
“Congratulations! You’ve helped uncover an imposter!” Gomelsky praised Alex without bothering to hide his sarcasm. Am I to understand that you committed homicide over this envelope? And then brought the evidence home with you?”
“I’ll burn the passport.” General Bayukin tore the document in half. “It’s a blunder. This isn’t the envelope that Katya stole from me.”
17
Elena Petelina stapled the preliminary report on Boris Manuylov’s murder scene to her folder. Here were the first pages of her new murder case. Only the goddess of investigation could know how many volumes the folder would grow to — if, that is, the ancient Greeks had ever gotten around to inventing her.
Justice has a goddess: Themis. But who is responsible for bringing the evidence to her scales? There are goddesses of wisdom, memory and vengeance. The ancient Greeks even spared a thought for the criminals. Hermes is considered the patron of wanderers, craftsmen, merchants and thieves. Only the detectives who spend their lives rutting around in search of the truth were overlooked.
A phone call jolted Elena from her mythical musings. Marat Valeyev’s tanned torso appeared on the phone’s screen, while The Beatles’ love ditty filled the office. How far had their romance come! Nowadays, she couldn’t even guess what Marat would bring to her: either it’d be some new findings in the investigation or he’d say that he missed her and was hurrying over to lock the office and crush her in his embrace.
Oh Lord! That already happened — on that narrow couch and on this ample desk. I should change his screen photo, eradicate the temptation.
“Lena, I’m calling from the strip club,” Marat instantly put her at ease.
“What strip club?” It took Elena a second to switch her thoughts and remember that the pimp Boris Manuylov had been murdered outside of the Wild Kitties strip club.
“I’m interviewing the strippers, while Vanya searches them. He’s trying so hard that it’s making him blush.”
“Valeyev, can you be serious please?” demanded Elena, understanding that she was being toyed with.
“Well, speaking seriously, the strippers aren’t here yet. Actually, there’s no one here at all besides some cleaners and the day manager. Both the ladies and the bouncers are sleeping off a busy night. And yet, here I am — on the job, after the exhausting night you and I had — ”
“Oh sure, you worked so hard. Three minutes and he’s out.”
“What? I’m setting a timer next time.”
“Why don’t you reset your head, Marat? We’re at work here.”
“Well, okay. The situation here is looking as follows: There aren’t any cameras in the club or out front of it. Confidentiality and whatnot. But there’s a little park across the street. Vanya did his thing, went over there and chatted up the dog-owners. One unhappy lady, the owner of an old half-blind Cocker Spaniel, really hates the customers of this fine establishment. She doesn’t much take to the fact that men come here to stuff money into the girls’ unmentionables. She avers that all interested parties should be castrated.”
“That sure would lessen my caseload.”
“Her spaniel can’t see a damn thing, but the lady has senile hyperopia and a mean memory.”
“What do you mean by ‘mean?’”
“A mean memory is when you can’t remember the day of the week and yet you manage to record that at 1:25 in the morning, the upstairs neighbor was upbraiding his daughter for coming home too late. Among other things, the talkative lady remembered that the bouncers refused an irate man of about fifty entrance to the club. The man had almost stepped on Joe Cocker, you see.”
“The English singer? What was he doing there?”
“Hmm, how do I put this delicately. He was fertilizing the lawn with his natural emissions. Joe is the name of her Cocker Spaniel… He was wearing a faded ushanka hat of reddish fur.”
“Who? The singer or the spaniel?”
“I mean the guy that wasn’t allowed into the club.”
“Listen Marat, can you speak clearly please?” Petelina became irritated. “Stop distracting me with Joe Cocker.”
“Remember that song of his, the one that was playing when Kim Basinger did her striptease in Nine 1/2 Weeks?”
“Are you implying something? Men can do a striptease too you know.”
“I accept your challenge. First, you can startle me with your dance, and then it’ll be my turn.”
“You might need to work out a bit first.”
“Which muscle am I working out?”
“Marat — we’re pretty off-topic here…”
“Yeah, just like the witnesses. You can’t imagine what it’s like listening to them. The dog lady started telling me about her dead husband, who wore the same exact muskrat hat back in the eighties. Have you figured out who she was talking about yet?”
Hearing the word “husband,” Elena remembered Sergey Petelin, her ex-husband, and not at all Marat, with whom she was currently living. Sergey and she had had the Wedding March, a white dress with a bridal veil, two “I do’s,” and a kiss. He became her first husband, and she had given birth to her wonderful daughter thanks to him.
And yet yesterday Sergey came to me for help, thought Elena. He must be in real trouble to squash his pride and come begging for help.
But she had to work.
“The father of the prostitute,” Petelina answered Valeyev’s question.
“Exactly! The description is a little too close to Mr. Grebenkin, our peculiar eyewitness. Now, note that, in the dog lady’s account, he didn’t go away instantly but lingered, loitering around the club. His presence unsettled aging Joe to the point that the poor guy had to finish his business at home.”
“Enough already with the Cockers and the Spaniels!”
“I’m sorry. Joe is a witness too. The next morning he uncovered the ushanka hat in the little park. The same one that had formerly crowned the agitated patron, the presumable Grebenkin.”
“Are you sure?”
“Go ahead and try finding another one like it in Moscow. And let’s not forget Joe here, who, blind as he is, has preserved his keen sense of smell.”
“Did you write down the woman’s statement?”
“You’re insulting me, Len. I even took possession of the hat.”
“Have it checked for sweat and grease deposits.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about Grebenkin’s sweat and grease deposits. I’m afraid that they’ve been contaminated by Joe’s hair and slobber deposits. The dog, you see, felt it necessary to exact his revenge on the hat of his assailant.”
“Igor Vasilevich Grebenkin, the father of Ekaterina Grebenkina,” Elena Petelina checked her notes. “I recall that he mentioned the pimp and even threatened him.”
“There’s your motive — blood vengeance! Manuylov fell out with his ‘employee’ and pushed Katya off the roof. Then, her distraught father shot him dead.”
“Could be. Here’s what I want you to do. Find and bring Igor Grebenkin to me as quickly as you can.”
“I think the Tadpole took a photo of him. And you wrote down his number.”
“A call from us might scare him off.” As she spoke with Valeyev, the detective began searching the law enforcement databases on her computer. “In the meantime, get Grebenkin’s photo from Ustinov. Have him send it to your phone.”
Petelina could here Valeyev relay her order to Ivan Mayorov. A few minutes later, her computer displayed the results of her search on her screen. The detective’s face lit up.
“Okay. Found it! Last night, an I.V. Grebenkin registered himself into the Sayany Hotel. I sure do enjoy working with amateurs. Get over there, Marat, detain him and bring him to me!”
Having finished talking to Valeyev, Elena Petelina went down to the forensics lab. The first person she saw upon entering was Vasilich, crumpled in his armchair. The eternal habitant of the lab, Vasilich was a human-sized artificial skeleton with a natural human skull. This time, Vasilich was decked out in felt boots, an ushanka hat and mittens. As per custom, a sheet of paper hung from his ribs with a plaintive quip: “This winter is starting to get to me!”
This year’s winter really had distinguished itself with its snowfall and length.
“It’s the second month of spring,” remarked Petelina to Misha Ustinov, who had looked up from his electron microscope upon her entrance.
“Yet it’s summer eternal in Thailand.”
“Envy is one of the criminal motives, Misha. When you take your vacation, you’ll be able to visit the tropics too.”
“Masha is begging me to go to the mountains. She wants to put me on a snowboard.”
“You’re still dating that perky journalist? Your constancy is admirable. How is she doing?”
“She’s closer friends with Vasilich than with she is with me,” the expert nodded his curly head in the direction of the skeleton. “She’s started a blog for him on the Internet. Every week she posts a new photo.”
“You don’t say!”
“She’s gotten more than two thousand followers in two months.”
“But of course: In Russia, true fame comes only after death.”
Petelina glanced from Vasilich back to the Tadpole. People who spent their entire lives behind a computer had the worst posture. Soon enough the Tadpole would become a living copy of Vasilich. It was a good thing that her daughter Nastya didn’t spend her time hunched over the keyboard, preferring to pursue a sport. It was no big deal that she wasn’t a champion; at least her womanly stature was already manifesting itself.
“Listen, Misha, I got this issue for you. You got the evidence from Boris Manuylov’s murder scene?”
“I’m already working on it.”
“How did the night shift do?”
“Not bad. They found two empty casings in the car’s salon. One is eighteen millimeters, a Makarov caliber, and the other is a 9x19 ‘prepare for war.’”
“What war?”
“It’s a Parabellum cartridge. Si vis pacem, para bellum. It’s Latin for ‘If you wish for peace, prepare for war.’ Only Yarygin Pistols use these kinds of cartridges.”
“Two different guns,” mused Petelina. “According to the preliminary report, Manuylov died from a single gunshot to the head.”
“They only found one bullet — from the Makarov. It was in the car’s liner. We also have blood samples from the back seat. And fingerprints from the salon.”
“Hang on a second, how could there be blood in the back? Judging by the photographs, Manuylov fell face forward.”
“They’re not blood spatters. It’s pooled blood.” The Tadpole fell mysteriously silent. He liked to speak in riddles, awaiting the guesses of the person he was speaking with.
“Someone was sitting back there! And that someone was wounded.”
“All we have to figure out is who!”
“I have a suspect. Igor Grebenkin, the dead girl’s father. Once the operatives find him, you’ll get a sample of his DNA.”
“Why wait?” The expert shook a plastic bag containing a small white lump. “This is the chewing gum that Mr. Grebenkin spit out.”
“Why you trickster!”
Elena couldn’t contain herself. She tussled the already mussed hair of the expert: She recalled now how the Tadpole had given Grebenkin the gum, supposedly in order to steady the man’s nerves.
18
Lawyer Denis Gomelsky stared General Bayukin straight in his eyes, as if wishing to breach the man’s skull and read his thoughts.
“What kind of envelope did you send your son after? What was it that the prostitute stole from you?”
“You have to understand, Mr. Gomelsky, that I was not filing fictitious claims for government-issued apartments for nothing. I was being compensated for my services.”
“I would have never thought otherwise. Yet, you have no bank accounts and — judging by the fact that you seem unafraid of being searched — nor do you have valuables or large amounts of cash. What kind of compensation are we talking about then?”
“I received payment in the form of rare stamps.”
“What?” The lawyer’s eyebrows jerked an inch or so upward.
“I consider myself a circumspect person and I therefore wished to avoid any and all wheeling and dealing. It’s too easy to get pinched with a lot of money on hand. There are many examples of such a thing happening. The rank of general, after all, is a valuable post.”
“Sure!” Bayukin Jr. barged in resentfully. “It’s good post indeed if you’re looking to hire some deluxe sluts, while forgetting all about your own child!”
Gomelsky stepped in between father and son. It was clear that he wanted to hear more about the stamps.
“Tell me more about the deal you had. Remember, I am your lawyer.”
“Since initially I was reluctant to help, I was offered payment in stamps,” the general continued. “It was convenient and secure. One stamp may cost tens if not hundreds of thousands of dollars. The rarest go for millions! And there’s no need to hide them anywhere. No one these days knows the first thing about stamps — which also means that it’s easy as pie to smuggle them out of the country.”
“Millions of dollars?” Alex lunged at his father. “You were gonna give me 500,000 rubles!”
“Well, yes… but I was going to let you have this apartment too! Did you forget that part?”
“They only thing I can see in my future is a cell, not an apartment!”
“You’re the one who got yourself into this mess, you moron!”
“Because of you!”
Losing his temper, Alex raised his fist to strike his father, but the general beat him to the punch by jabbing his wounded shoulder. Alex clenched his teeth from the pain and whipped the gun out from his waist. The safety clicked. The cocked piece was aimed directly at the frightened general’s chest. For a few long seconds, a deadly silence descended on the living room.
Finally, Denis Gomelsky decided to defuse the situation.
“Why don’t you get a grip and save your nerves for some other time, fellow?” The lawyer pressed Alex’s gun hand downward. Alex dropped the gun to his side. “You’ve already done enough as it is.”
Alex put the gun away and pulled on the collar of his T-shirt to see if his wound was bleeding.
The lawyer led the general to the kitchen and forced him to burn the pimp’s passport in the sink. Bayukin Sr. was flicking the lighter and stirring the smoldering ashes, while Gomelsky went on asking the questions that interested him.
“How did you dispose of the stamps? I must know everything in order to provide you and your son with effective legal protection.”
“I flew to Hong Kong twice. There’s a special stamp auction there. These days, the wealthy Chinese are buying up any rare thing there is — wines, stamps, even tea. My stamps were snatched up instantly.”
“Did you do all this under your legal name?”
“God no! A crafty acquaintance of mine provided me with a so-called banking passport from Estonia. It’s printed on an authentic blank but is not officially registered anywhere. It’s not much good for crossing borders, but it also takes care of any problems if you want to open an offshore account — or take part in an auction.”
“Is this crafty acquaintance of yours the same person who is paying you in stamps?”
“Yes. He is the one who came up with the entire housing embezzlement scheme. I mean, it’s almost legal, isn’t it?”
“Sure, if we discount the initial authorized extract that you are forging. Are you not worried, my dear general, that this crafty friend of yours might place all the blame on you? Who is he anyway?”
“It doesn’t matter.” The question made the general bristle internally.
“Who delivers the stamps to you?”
“They are placed in my mailbox. That’s all I know!” Bayukin replied abruptly, averting his eyes.
He’s lying about the mailbox, Denis Gomelsky decided to himself. The lawyer tempered his desire to press his client further and get to the truth of the matter. Now is not the time, he calmed himself.
“Well, okay. What stamps were in the stolen envelope.”
“Are you familiar with stamps?”
Denis Gomelsky shrugged.
“It was a childhood hobby, though, in general, a lawyer has to know a lot of different things.”
“I’m not much of an expert either. Even when I was a kid, I never collected stamps. However, this was the most valuable collection. I was told that it would fetch no less than two million dollars at auction. I figured that if the envelope wasn’t on Katya, then either the pimp or the detective must have it. If the pimp doesn’t have it, then it can only be in the detective’s possession. What’s her name — Petelina. She hasn’t figured out the true value of the stamps yet, so — ”
“That’s unlikely. If she even has them. But you forgot the most important thing. Each hooker has a friend. And they trust their friends much more than their pimp.”
“Really? So what should I do?”
“Nothing. It’s my turn now.” Gomelsky stepped aside to the window. As he thought, he looked out at the cars zooming along Leningradsky Avenue. “I can see that you and your son are not getting along.”
“Aleksey was shell-shocked in combat and later failed the medical board examination. I introduced him to you as a captain, but to be perfectly honest the army’s already discharged him.”
“Well, as it happens, I am in need of an assistant, someone mean and decisive — like your son.” The lawyer turned to the general and clapped him on the shoulder amicably. “Here’s what we’ll do, General Bayukin. I will take Alex with me. And you will command him — as his father or as his general — to follow my orders from now on. And to do so unquestioningly.”
19
Benjamin Romanovich Lisitsyn, the proprietor of The Philatelist, was over sixty. His age matched the average age of his clientele, typical stamp collectors. Consequently, Mr. Lisitsyn was somewhat surprised when the little bell over his front door tinkled and a young woman descended into the basement-shop of the old townhouse on Taganskaya Street. Peering over the thick glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, Lisitsyn’s farsighted eyes assessed the patron with some skepticism. The heavy glasses seemed in constant peril of falling and breaking — were it not for an elastic strap that secured them at their earpieces.
The girl in the blue down jacket looked around the shop, ascertained that there were no other customers and approached Lisitsyn.
“I’d like to sell some stamps, please.”
Here it comes, thought Lisitsyn. A thick album stuffed chockfull of Soviet stamps. They’re a ruble a pop on a good day, but that never stops these lazy youth from trying to make a quick buck on their fathers’ hobbies.
“I am compelled to disenchant you, my dear. We do not purchase…” Mr. Lisitsyn trailed off, realizing what it was that the girl had retrieved from the thin envelope — and how she had done so.
The visitor was pinching a block of four, small, greenish stamps between her fingers. The philatelist latched his eyes onto the goods and raised his eyebrows. He had immediately identified the stamps as dating from the Russian Empire and even began to feel a degree of outrage. How dare she handle old stamps like that! She could at least put on some gloves.
“Place them here.” Lisitsyn quickly slid over a clean sheet of paper, sat down and began to study the stamps through his glasses. “Interesting…”
They were rural stamps from the Okhtyrka district of the Kharkiv government. The first issue from 1872 had a nominal value of five kopeks. Individual specimens would show up on the market from time to time and there were still some surviving envelopes that had stamps from this series pasted on, but this was an entire, unbroken block in mint condition…
But then, Lisitsyn’s breath was really taken away — the digit “5” was noticeably wider and set lower than the “kop.” This was the very same proof sheet that had never been put into circulation. A true rarity! The experienced philatelist knew of only one collector who owned such an item.
“Where did you get that?” Lisitsyn blurted out.
“From my grandpa.”
“What is your grandpa’s name?”
“Are you interested or should I go somewhere else?” the girl raised her voice and placed her hand on the stamps.
“Hold on a second! I need to think. These stamps are old; however…” Lisitsyn was choosing his words as carefully as he could. “I can offer you… twenty thousand.”
The girl scowled as though she had taken a bite from a lemon and shook her head.
“I’m no dummy, mister.”
“Dollars!” the philatelist clarified quickly, offering a price three times lower than the stamps’ true value.
The girl’s eyes lit up; however, she managed to contain her smile.
“Well, what can I say… Alright, it’s a deal. Give me the money.”
“Oh, pardon me! I don’t have such an amount here on me. First I have to find a buyer, talk him into the purchase and only then — ”
“What about right this instant then? What’ll you give me here on the spot?”
“Well… I could probably scrape together five thousand.”
The girl hesitated but then sighed decisively.
“Ten grand and we’ll call it even.”
“If the lady can wait until this evening, I’ll be able to get ten. But that’s the maximum. If you want twenty, then I’ll have to take the stamps on commission and sign an official contract. Then I’d add my mark-up and start waiting for a wealthy collector.”
“Okay. We’ll meet this evening then.”
To the philatelist’s chagrin, the woman stuck the stamps back into the envelope and put it in her purse. Vexed, he glanced at the visitor over his glasses.
“Are you sure you will be back? Leave me your number at least.”
“I’ll be back after six. Just have the ten thousand dollars ready.”
“What’s your name?”
“Don’t pry, gramps.”
The snappy client walked out. Hardly had the bell ceased ringing, than Mr. Lisitsyn snatched up his phone. He could not wait to share the news.
“It’s mystifying — but someone just brought exactly the kind of thing you told me to look out for — ”
“Who?” the man on the other end asked impatiently.
“A woman. Real young — aged about twenty. Black whorled hair. Not bad looking. A little rude.”
“You didn’t scare her away, did you?”
“We came to an agreement. She didn’t leave the stamps, but she will come back this evening for the money. It’ll be after six.”
20
Igor Vasilevich Grebenkin was sitting on his unmade bed in the small single room of the two-star Sayany Hotel, looking at his phone. The phone was old and held only several pictures, two of which were of his daughter Katya.
Grebenkin had taken the first one a month back, at the beginning of January, when his daughter had first found him in Saratov. The second one had been taken yesterday. It was a terrible image — his daughter’s broken body splayed upon the dented car — and only a few minutes earlier she had smiled at him and she had turned and run back into the building and…
Grebenkin had taken this photo on purpose. He wanted to have something that would aggravate his wound, keep it festering, until the time came when he could avenge his daughter’s death. Katya could not have jumped off the roof of her own volition. She had promised him a surprise and the look in her eyes had borne in it no mortal aloofness as had done so. Instead, the only thing he perceived in it was the kind of sly cruelty that was common to cunning women.
Twenty years ago, when Senior Lieutenant Grebenkin first saw his newborn infant, he had experienced fear. The girl was swaddled in a receiving blanket and crying hysterically. He had recoiled and looked around himself. Was this really his fate that he was looking at? The childish squeal, the harried woman with sleepless eyes, the indelible smell of drying sheets permeating the squalid bedroom, a whole heap of new responsibilities. No! He was a young officer who would one day become a general. Grebenkin had always imagined family life as a comfy existence suffused with the aromas of tasty dishes and the caresses of a loving woman. Here, however, he had not even been offered dinner. It was a good thing then that their relationship was in no way official.
And so Igor Grebenkin, the young officer, wangled a transfer to Transbaikal. His departure resembled a panicked retreat. He left without warning his former girlfriend, the mother of little Katya, and without leaving her his new address.
Grebenkin, however, never did make general. Instead, four years later, he was demoted to a captain. His attempt to start his own business turned out unsuccessful. A carload of chicken legs — purchased from a Moscow company on borrowed funds — arrived to Barnaul in a trailer with a broken refrigerator. He barely managed to offload the fetid goods as livestock feed to a ranch. His payment came in the form of eight muskrat hats. Four of them he traded for a non-lethal Makarov that some hobbyist had modified to shoot live rounds. The remaining ushanka hats, he wore to this day.
The gun and his military training enabled Grebenkin to rid himself of the mobsters he owed money to. He left the vast and inhospitable Siberia and moved to the verdurous banks of the Volga — to a suburb of Saratov. But his life did not work out in this new place either. What does an ex-soldier know best? How to take orders and perform his duty. So Grebenkin got a job as a security guard at a shopping mall.
Katya found him on a social network that Grebenkin used to keep in touch with his former fellow service members. She sent him a letter. Shocked, Grebenkin instantly agreed to meet his grown-up daughter, and that was how Katya showed up in Saratov. The whiny infant had become a stunning woman. They only got to spend one evening together. Katya asked her father all kinds of questions. She didn’t tell him much about herself and kept smiling wistfully. In the morning she went back to Moscow, explaining that she had work that couldn’t wait.
Grebenkin discovered what kind of work this was when he came across his daughter in various sexy positions on an escort services website. Righteous wrath engulfed the former soldier. He now understood the cause of her wistfulness. His daughter had fallen in with a pimp’s cabal, and he, her father, had to rescue her from his sullied clutches and help her begin a new life.
This was the goal that Igor Grebenkin had in mind when he went to Moscow. But the meeting of father and daughter was cut short by an unexpected tragedy. Now the pimp was dead. Either way he had received his just deserts. But Grebenkin still remembered his words very clearly. The whole thing doesn’t seem like Katya. She was more liable to off me first — and then maybe do herself in too.
If the pimp had nothing to do with his daughter’s death, then who did? What was the surprise Katya had promised him? Who had been up there on the roof with her in those last few minutes?
Then it came to Grebenkin: her girlfriend!
He thought her name was Lisa. Yesterday, she had left the apartment quickly, but he had ambushed her beside the building. He had choked her a little and extracted some information about Birdless Boris. He had already dealt with him, but what about the girl, Lisa… What had she been running from? What had she not told him? What if she was involved in Katya’s death?
He had to see her again!
Grebenkin produced a note with the girls’ address. Apartment number 180. He would go back there and interrogate the harlot. And yet, yesterday, it was clear that Lisa had been fleeing somewhere. Why? Most likely she knew something and was afraid. If she had fled the apartment, where could she have gone?
Grebenkin recalled that Katya had shown him photos of her girlfriends, Lisa and Stella, on her phone. In one of the photos, the women were standing in a garden beside a conservatory. That particular photograph had been etched into his memory thanks to the main building of Moscow State University that could be seen in its background.
“What is this, a pastoral landscape of Sparrow Hills?” Grebenkin had asked back then, surprised.
Katya laughed and said that this was her friends’ secret spot that no one knew about.
A secret spot. This was where he could find Lisa.
Grebenkin dropped the paper with the address and checked his gun. Several rounds still remained from the rowdy “90s. Yesterday’s gunshot proved that the modified nonlethal piece was still in working condition. He had no other belongings. If you’re going to hunt a human, bring only your weapon — all other things are only a hindrance.
Igor Grebenkin threw on his jacket and left the hotel room. The creaky elevator at the end of the hallway took its time answering his call. Preoccupied with his vengeance, the father tired of waiting and ambled off down the stairs.
As soon as he had vanished, the elevator’s doors opened and operatives Marat Valeyev and Ivan Mayorov stepped out into the hallway. Approaching the room they were looking for, they took up positions on either side of the door and drew their service weapons.
21
Someone knocked on the office door. Elena Petelina looked up from her work. In the doorway stood a handsome forty-year-old man in a black car coat and a brilliantly white scarf. Though there was a seducer’s charm about him, he had none of the obsequy of bootlickers and other such sycophants. His manner suggested a willingness to step down from his pedestal of self-confidence, encouraging the woman at his feet with a gentle look: Yes, my dear, I am prepared to take you in my arms.
Elena recognized lawyer Denis Gomelsky.
“Hey Lena babe. This is for you.”
A luxuriant bouquet of flowers appeared from behind his back. Elena did not manage to stifle her smile yet was forced to spread her arms helplessly.
“Thanks, but I don’t have a…”
Elena imagined having to ask the secretary for a large vase, a request which would give rise to all kinds of gossip. Gomelsky was already a step ahead of her, however.
“I am aware of this fact.”
From his bag he produced a wide-mouthed vase that flared in resemblance of a tulip bulb. Acting as if he was at home, the lawyer approached the desk and cleared a spot for the vase. Suddenly, it was as though a thicket of flowers had sprouted up beside her laptop. The strange thing was that — even with winter still lingering outside — the flowers smelled of spring.
“What’s the occasion?” Petelina inquired.
“Spring — and a good mood, both of which I wish to share with a wonderful woman. Do you recall our dates in May three years ago? We were in an utterly different situation back then and — ”
“I remember,” Elena cut her guest short. “I have a good memory.”
Back then, it had been two years since her divorce. Exacerbated by loneliness, her foggy female longing suddenly focused itself on the young, elegantly dressed lawyer who had been assigned to her criminal case. Like any other woman, Elena wanted to be loved and desired. Her new acquaintance availed her in this regard. The intensity of her emotions drove her crazy. This was lust in its purest form. In three weeks, her body recouped what it had gone without for two years.
Later, however, it turned out that Gomelsky, the lawyer, had been merely using Petelina, the detective, in order to destroy a vital piece of evidence and subsequently undermine the case she had assembled. Their relationship had ended the very same day that he succeeded in having the case dismissed.
“I remember all of it,” repeated Elena. “So, why have you come, Gomelsky? Which one of my suspects is your client this time?”
The lawyer hung his overcoat on the coat rack, sat down across from the detective and gazed gently in her eyes.
“To be honest, I can’t help but recall our dates every time the weather gets warmer. We were good together.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Back then you dated a jilted woman — these days, I have plenty to gossip with my girlfriends about.”
“Did I miss something? You got back together with your husband?”
“Ah! You’ve gone to trial without doing your due diligence. That doesn’t sound much like Denis Gomelsky, the prudent defense lawyer. Let me take a guess! Someone has a fire burning somewhere and you’ve been hired to put it out.”
“You got it.” The lawyer reclined in his seat and jerked up his shirt cuff. He pointed to his wristwatch. “I signed a new client just a few hours ago.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Last night a certain Boris Manuylov was shot in his car. He was a worthless excuse for a human being, whose business was loose women and perhaps even narcotics. When people like he cease to exist, society becomes a little cleaner and life becomes a little better.”
“Are you practicing your opening statement on me? Who’s the defendant?”
“I don’t think I’ll have to defend anyone at all. That, however, depends on you, Lena.”
“I have a different view of the situation. A man was murdered and someone must answer for it.”
“Of course! The just vengeance of a father for his debased daughter. The impassioned manslaughter of a pimp rapist. The jury shall bathe in its own tears, the journalists shall erect the avenger upon a pedestal, the film studios will busy themselves with a new blockbuster: A Father’s Vengeance — coming to a theater near you. Under such circumstances, I will of course be honored to offer counsel to the hero, pro bono.”
“You have good information, Gomelsky, but you’re getting ahead of yourself when it comes to the incident. I haven’t established a suspect yet.”
“That’s why I’m here.” The lawyer scooted up to Petelina and lowered his voice. “Two casings were found at the murder scene. We need to eliminate one of these. Then, everyone will be happy. The case is closed as it is. The bastard pimp is dead. And the heroic avenger, thanks to my eloquence, will get off with a lightened sentence.”
“I can see that you’re no less familiar with the case than I am. Who gave you the information?”
“Lena, not everyone is as obstinate as Detective Petelina. Moreover, I’ll tell you honestly that if I had known earlier, the materials that you would have received from the preliminary examination would have included only one casing.”
“I’m curious, which one would have vanished?”
The lawyer leaned in to the detective and switched to a whisper.
“The one fired from the Yarygin Pistol. Return it to me.”
“Get the hell out of here, Gomelsky,” Petelina replied also in a whisper. “Don’t make me raise my voice.”
The lawyer leaned back, smiled condescendingly and propped up his chin with his left palm.
“What time is it?” Gomelsky asked unexpectedly. Unwittingly, Elena glanced at the dial of his watch. “Smile. You’re on camera.”
Elena tensed up, sensing that her guest was not kidding around.
“I like these little gadgets,” explained Gomelsky. “This watch comes equipped with a camera, a voice recorder and a voice activation sensor. The camera turns on as soon as someone starts speaking. It’s quite good and works even in the dark. Remember my habit of keeping my watch on — even in bed?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I guess I just wanted to save a good video for memory’s sake — you know, so I could recall from time to time the sweet caresses of a certain major of justice named Lena. Or were you still a captain back then?”
“That’s a lie. You had a different watch.”
“Technology is getting better daily, you’re right. The old one could only record short clips, but I compensated by getting the best angle possible.” Gomelsky stood up and tenderly adjusted the bouquet he had brought. “I have a second present for you as well, Lena babe.”
The lawyer placed a thumbdrive beside the vase. Petelina looked down and froze. What an idiot I am! What did he manage to record?
Gomelsky put on his car coat and returned to the detective’s desk as if nothing had happened.
“I hope you enjoy it. If the casing from the Yarygin Pistol remains among the evidence for the case, you may assume that I will upload this video on the Internet. Your bosses will see it, your colleagues will see it, and — most worryingly — your daughter will see it. D’you know that her curling team has announced a really cool contest? They’re taking submissions of photos and videos and rating each one. What do you think? Will this video get five stars?”
Gomelsky left. With shaking fingers, Elena slotted the thumbdrive into her laptop and launched the video. Her very worst fears appeared on the screen — a high-resolution recording of oral sex. The frame showed only her face, her working mouth, and a man’s hand, gently shifting her hair out of the way in order to get a better shot. His other hand was nowhere to be seen — around its wrist sat the watch with the camera’s secret eye under the digit six.
22
Tucking in the hem of his car coat, Denis Gomelsky got into his black Infiniti and tightened his tie knot.
“I too know how to draw nooses — tight enough to suffocate,” he muttered, mentally addressing the stubborn woman whose office he had just left.
The lawyer drove out of the Investigative Committee building and pulled over at the agreed-upon place beside the subway station. Alex Bayukin appeared shortly after. One could tell from the sickly grimace on the shell-shocked soldier’s face that he was dissatisfied. Alex got into the passenger seat and reached into his pocket for some pills.
“Is your wound bothering you? Chase it with some water.” Gomelsky nodded at the bottle in the door-side pocket.
“It’s not my shoulder. It’s my head. The people in the subway kept stepping on my feet. I almost lost it.”
“Try and keep ahold of your temper — until the right time comes. Now, tell me, did you locate the dead hooker’s friend or not?”
“I went by their apartment. There’s no one there. Looks like the girl ran off.”
“Why do you say so?”
“The door wasn’t locked. I went through the dresser and the closet. No envelope and no stamps.”
“That was to be expected.”
“Then why the hell did you send me in there?!” Alex flared up.
“To make sure!” Gomelsky barked. “And stop yelling at me. I’m doing this to help you.”
“Help me…” Alex winced painfully and took another pill. “Well, what about you? What’d you get? What’s it looking like for me?”
“The usual. Article 105, Section 1. Six to fifteen years.”
“But you said that you could — ”
“Yes, I can! And I am. But you, fool that you are, blew your cover everywhere you went while chasing that pimp. And then you offed him with the same gun that was issued to you. I mean, one would have to make a conscious effort to screw up so bad.”
“The gunshot was accidental. I had just been shot myself.”
“Negligent homicide won’t fly. You threatened him and held the gun to his head. The only way out is to make a deal to have the charges reclassified to Article 107—manslaughter in the heat of passion. That carries a maximum of three years.”
“Three years ain’t no joke either.”
“Don’t panic prematurely. Do you want me to tell you my guiding principles? A criminal is not the person who committed the crime, but the person who got locked away for it. If the crime is evident, running away is for fools. Those who have brains will set up another — someone dumb and weak-spirited. Are you a weak person, Alex?”
“I’ve seen action.”
“There you go then. You are strong and brave. As for our scapegoat, I already found someone nice and dumb. That role will be filled by Grebenkin — the father of the girl who pulled such a nice one over your father.”
“The guy in the dumb hat that was with me in the pimp’s car?”
“Yes.”
“But he’ll rat me out.”
“Words are nothing but vibrating air. Evidence is the thing to fear! That, by the way, is another one of my principles. A witness can be intimidated or killed. But evidence must be eradicated during the preliminary investigation. The earlier, the better. The cheapest way is to come to an agreement with the operatives. But that ship has sailed. So I was compelled to pull out my trump card. I have been saving it for just this kind of occasion.”
“What trump card?”
“The kind that you’ll owe me for, for the rest of your life. And you’ll spend all of it paying me back too.”
“I’m ready. What do you want me to do?”
“You’re going to go visit all the philatelists in Moscow. And you’re going grill them about a girl who brought by rare stamps recently. She’ll be looking to liquidate them, you see.”
“Exactly!”
“It’s not that simple. Collectors are a circumspect lot by nature. You’ll have to apply some pressure. I hope your shoulder won’t get in your way?”
“It’s nothing. I’m only angrier because of it.”
“That’s good, but don’t overdo it. Remember: philatelists are senior citizens and we don’t need any fresh corpses.”
“Where should I go?”
“There aren’t many places that buy stamps officially, and the girl’s an amateur. What do amateurs do?” The lawyer was poking his phone with his finger. “They ask Yandex. And then they pick the top link. Here it is! You can start by checking out this store on Taganskaya Street. Call me afterwards.”
Alex Bayukin memorized the address of The Philatelist and opened the car door.
“Wait!” Gomelsky arrested him. “I forgot to share with you my main principle: A good lawyer won’t let his client go to trial.”
Alex understood the lawyer’s hopeful implication and smiled crookedly in reply.
23
The pornographic video faded to black. Elena Petelina yanked the thumbdrive from her laptop and flung it on the floor. Her initial desire was to stomp and smash the filth to bits. But what would that do? This was just a copy after all. Gomelsky could upload the video at any moment. There was no doubt that he would also ensure that it would be seen by her coworkers in the Investigative Committee as well as judges, prosecutors, operatives… Even her culprits would see it. She had no trouble imagining the crude retorts that they would come up with during her interrogations. And then there was Marat — how hurt would he be.
Oh god, how ashamed she felt! There was no way to avoid the shame, but she could live through it. In the end, she could always get a different job. As for Marat — if he truly loved her, he would pay no mind to the video; he would forgive her.
Gomelsky, however, would not stop halfway. He had threatened something much worse. Her daughter! How would she explain to Nastya that this was simply sex? And what would happen if the video reached her school and her curling team? It was difficult to imagine her fellows making fun of her. A teenager’s psychology is very fragile, after all. What would happen if Nastya couldn’t cope with that sort of pressure?
Petelina unconsciously opened the case folder with the horrible photographs. The young woman was lying on the hood of the car. Three seconds — and her shapely beautiful body had become a bag of bones. Of course, the victim was older than her daughter and, more than likely, had been pushed off — and yet how many humiliated school girls jumped from windows every year? Could she really be sure that thirteen-year-old Nastya would be unaffected and that the terrible stress she would live through would not manifest itself on her subsequent life?
No! There could be no guarantees. What then could she do? There was only way out: She had to do everything she could to ensure that Nastya would not see the video.
With this thought in mind, the detective got up from her desk and picked up the thumbdrive before leaving her office. For the second time that day she descended down to the forensics lab.
Her reappearance surprised Mikhail Ustinov somewhat. Usually, it was the forensic expert who would go to the detective with his findings.
“I know why you’ve come, Detective Petelina. Last time you noticed my chocolate, and I forgot to offer you some.” The Tadpole rode his office chair from his computer to the coffee table situated precariously near the chemicals cabinet. “While you were on vacation and weren’t giving me extra work, I made an important discovery. Our Russian ‘Golden Brand’ chocolate is no worse than the acclaimed Swiss brands.”
Elena Petelina was happy to avoid discussing work. She sat down at the table with Ustinov.
“You know what they say: ‘Your mileage may vary — ’”
“That’s unfair!” interrupted Misha. He was unwrapping the gold foil encasing a bar of dark chocolate. “Gustatory impressions are subjective — a forensic analysis is not. I’d like to draw your attention to this 70% on the label. I ran some tests and established that the actual cocoa content in this product is 71.2%! In the Swiss brands however, there is a constant 2–3% cocoa deficit from the indicated amount. And ours is cheaper too.”
“All this means is that you’ve committed an error.”
“Me? An error in numbers? Never in my life!”
“The error doesn’t lie in the findings, but in your conclusions. You said that our chocolate is no worse than Swiss chocolate. And yet, it is better!”
“I see now how you catch out criminals at your interrogations. Here, have some chocolate.”
Elena did not decline the chocolate or the coffee, even though she normally preferred to limit the sweets she ate. Ever since she got back with Marat, Elena could not rid herself of the eternal female phobia in which she imagined that her blouse was getting tighter not solely because of it being washed. Accordingly, she weighed herself every morning.
“What’s new with our case?” asked Elena Petelina, taking a sip of coffee.
“We didn’t find anything under Ekaterina Grebenkina’s nails, but I did get a chance to examine her clothes. I found long hairs on the fur lining of her jacket. Would you like to guess whose it was?”
“Misha, I’m not in the right mood at the moment,” the detective admitted sincerely.
“Boris Manuylov’s!”
“The pimp. So he could have been up on the roof at the time of the incident…”
“Detective Petelina, the hair was inside the jacket. This corroborates the friend’s statement that the pimp got into a fight with Katya while they were in the apartment — before she put on the jacket. However!” The Tadpole raised his index finger meaningfully. “Recall that in his report, the medical examiner indicated that the girl’s blood alcohol level was insignificant, while the bottle retained less than half of its original volume of brandy. Furthermore, on the bottle’s neck I discovered saliva belonging to Ekaterina Grebenkina and another person.”
“The pimp again!”
“No,” the expert shook his head.
“Grebenkin,” speculated Petelina. “Could the father really have done it after all?”
“Another miss. The fact is I simply don’t know who, concretely, shared the bottle with the victim — however, I have established with good certainty that it was a woman.”
“Our saliva is that distinct?”
“With my equipment, spit reveals more about a person than their photograph.”
Petelina took a bite of chocolate and let the piece linger on her tongue. The chocolate took its time melting, filling her mouth with its thick, pleasant flavor.
“Another woman,” said the detective pensively. “What if her friend, Lisa Malyshko, was up on that roof with her?”
“I thought she had been sleeping..? And anyway, we would have sensed the alcohol on her breath.”
Petelina tried her hardest to resurrect her initial and most sensitive impressions at the scene of the tragedy.
“We entered; Lisa was painting her nails; the smell of nail polish would overwhelm any trace of alcohol. It instantly struck me as strange that she would be in her gown, as if she had just woken up. And yet she was wearing stockings too. That’s right, stockings! She could have returned and quickly taken off her clothes. There were puddles everywhere that day, including on the roof. When I entered the apartment, I wiped my shoes off on the mat… And you know, the mat was already wet! As if someone had recently wiped their shoes on it.”
“I would need a DNA sample to establish that Lisa Malyshko also drank from the bottle.”
“If she lied to us,” the detective decided, “we’ll have good reason to ask her some serious questions. I’ll send the operatives after her.”
Elena finished her coffee, praised the chocolate and, affecting disinterest, asked the main question that she had come to the lab to ask.
“By the way, Misha. You mentioned earlier that there were two empty casings found in Boris Manuylov’s car.”
“Yes, here they are.”
The expert indicated two plastic bags containing similar casings. One was a millimeter longer than the other. Petelina knew that this was the casing from the Yarygin Pistol. She took the evidence bag and gripped it in her fist. It was as if the casing had vanished. Here was the trifle that Gomelsky wanted from her.
“Have you done any work on it?” the detective inquired carefully.
“Of course. I took measurements, put together a photoboard and submitted some requests to the cartridge repositories. If the guns are government issue or have shown up elsewhere, we’ll have no trouble identifying them.”
“How do you find the time for it all?” A shade of a reproach slipped into Petelina’s voice. She was regretting the Tadpole’s astonishing diligence for the first time.
“I suppose there won’t be much problem tracking down the Yarygin Pistol,” the Tadpole went on boisterously. “There aren’t many of them and their issue is well documented. We’ll have a harder time with the 9x18 casing. It fits not only the Makarov, but the Stechkin as well — not to mention several submachine guns. The Makarov alone has been stamped out millions of times over the last half-century. Besides, there are signs that this casing was fired from an illegal firearm.”
“Here’s what I’m thinking. We only found one bullet — the one from the Makarov. And Manuylov was killed with a single gunshot. What if this second casing was already in the car before the incident. A pimp’s life isn’t all roses, after all. He could have fired at someone from his car at some other point in time.”
“Well, we should check the bulletins for any gunshot victims that had been shot with a Yarygin Pistol.”
“I’ll check. But Manuylov could have missed as well. In that case, this is simply a trifle that will only introduce doubt to the general body of evidence.” Petelina waved the bag containing the casing.
“Well, the casing does smell like gunpowder.”
“If it had been fired an hour before the murder, would it smell differently?”
“No.”
“See? Sometimes certain clues only obfuscate the investigation. Maybe — for now — we’ll leave it out of the report..?”
“But…” The Tadpole was looking at the detective with astonishment. Petelina had taught him herself to pay attention to the slightest detail.
“Alright!” Elena stood up, deciding that — at least for the first attempt — the slippery conversation had already gone too far. “I’m going to request some ballistics tests. We’ll figure out where the fatal shot came from and put the squeeze on the culprit. I already have a rock-solid suspect: Igor Vasilevich Grebenkin. He was seen that evening in the vicinity of the club. We even found his hat not far from the crime scene. We’ll detain him and ask him some questions…”
Petelina turned to go. Mikhail Ustinov followed right behind her, talking rapidly:
“I already isolated the DNA from Grebenkin’s gum. There’s also a tiny bloodstain on the back seat of the Honda. It’s not yet clear whose it is. But I’ll deal with that soon enough and as soon as I have something, I’ll give you a call… Detective Petelina!”
Petelina turned around in response to Ustinov’s sudden exclamation. The Tadpole bumped into her chest, apologized and blushed. Oh how she would blush in front of her coworkers if that lowlife Gomelsky published the raunchy video. It would be the demise of not only her career, but her relationship with her daughter as well. And no amount of apologies would save her.
I won’t allow it. I will act, Elena told herself.
“You forgot to return the casing, Detective Petelina.”
The detective unclenched her fist. Damn it! She really had wanted to take it with her. She had made the decision at a subconscious level, acting on her survival instinct.
Petelina handed the evidence bag back to the expert.
“Misha, I’m only asking you to do one thing. All the data that you get, send it to me first. To me and only me.”
“Did something happen, Detective Petelina?” asked the expert worriedly.
“Nope. For now, nothing.”
Dropping her gaze, the detective patted the expert’s shoulder mechanically and walked out of the laboratory.
24
Damn! Damn! Damn!
Elena Petelina was angry with the Tadpole for not allowing her to leave the lab with the casing she needed. She was angry with herself for being torn between her sense of professional duty and her duty to her family. And she utterly loathed Gomelsky who had made her feel like a passenger on a plummeting airliner.
The call from Marat Valeyev caught Elena Petelina on her way to the office. Just you dare make a single vulgar remark! the detective threatened the unsuspecting Valeyev as she answered the phone.
The operative, however, instantly got down to business.
“We went to the Sayany Hotel, where Grebenkin is staying. He wasn’t in his room.”
“Did you post a lookout?”
“Len, I don’t have ten people working for me. I only have Vanya. I asked the hotel management to call me if he shows up, but I think it’s hopeless.”
“Why?”
“Grebenkin isn’t that much of a simpleton. The phone number that he checked in under doesn’t exist. Judging by the fact that all his personal belongings are gone, he’s fled the hotel. Though we did find one thing.”
“The gun!” exclaimed the detective, still preoccupied with the casing.
“It ain’t Christmas for the criminals to start handing out presents. No, on the bed we found a piece of paper with the address of the prostitutes’ apartment. It seems like it was the last thing he was looking at.”
“We need to go over there and check.” Carrying on with the conversation, Petelina entered her office and sat down behind her desk.
“Mission accomplished, oh my major! We are already here. The apartment is unlocked and it’s a mess inside. He was looking for something.”
“Are you sure it was Grebenkin?”
“Who else? The pimp is dead and Lisa Malyshko isn’t going to start throwing expensive lingerie onto the floor. That leaves Grebenkin. By the way, the girl didn’t spend the night here. The nail polish is lying on her bed untouched.”
“Lisa Malyshko could be working late with a client.” As Petelina spoke, she held the phone in place with her shoulder and worked on her computer.
“Or she could have run off. So as not to end up like her friends.”
“Marat, check to see if there are toothbrushes in the bathroom.”
“Sure… Yup. There are two here standing in a glass.”
“Grab them for Ustinov.”
“Already on it.”
Petelina heard him place the phone on the glass shelf and crinkle the evidence bag. Then came a muted exchange of male voices and finally Marat’s distinct voice: “Tell her yourself — you’re the one who found it.”
Someone picked up the phone.
“Detective Petelina, this is Ivan Mayorov reporting. I found a bag here with a new SIM card. It was lying on top of the trash. It’s been opened recently.”
“Perfect! Read me the number.” Petelina wrote it down and went on, “And tell Valeyev that I found a phone number registered to an Igor Vasilevich Grebenkin in Saratov. If he uses it, we’ll find him. Wait for Misha Ustinov to call you with the coordinates.”
“We’ll drop in on him. We have to drop the toothbrushes off at the lab anyway,” Valeyev snatched the phone from his partner. Then, having stepped away, he added tenderly, “And then I’ll get to see you.”
“Wish I had your cares.”
The detective put down her cell phone and picked up the desk phone. This new information was allowing her to forget the lawyer’s visit and resume the fussiness of her customary working process.
“Misha, I need you to write down two cell phone numbers.”
“Why don’t you just shoot me an email?” The forensic expert preferred to receive information in the form of short electronic missives as opposed to by ear. It was more accurate that way and he could print it out in case of any misunderstandings.
“Already on it.” Petelina put the call on speakerphone and began entering Grebenkin’s number in Saratov as well as the one that had just been found in the prostitutes’ apartment. “I believe that both of these subscribers are in Moscow. As soon as you establish their location, notify Valeyev and me. And hurry, Misha.”
“Is there ever a time when I don’t need to hurry?”
“Misha, you’re the last person I need annoying me right now. By the way, the operatives are supposed to bring you the girls’ toothbrushes for tests.”
“Well, there’s another ASAP to deal with. We need to start differentiating between the levels of ASAP. Let’s say on a scale of 1 to 10: The smaller the number, the higher the priority. Your ASAP about the phone numbers: What’s the ASAP level?”
“How about ASAP 2..?”
“ASAP 2 means I have time to charge my brain a bit.”
Elena Petelina heard the crinkle of a chocolate wrapper.
“What a glutton you are!” she exclaimed and hung up the phone.
25
There are days when nothing works out. You reckon on one thing and get something entirely different. The only way to overcome such hardships is through tenacity and will. Stay the course. Let your progress be slow, let it be difficult, just be sure that you are moving in the right direction and, perhaps later than sooner, you will reach your goal.
And then there are days when the world as you know it crumbles all around you. The ground drops out from beneath your feet, you plunge tumbling into the abyss, lose all your bearings. The goal that you were formerly working towards becomes a trap. What can you do? How should you act? What direction should you head for now? And you understand that hiding and waiting won’t work. You realize that if you don’t make a critical decision here and now, things will only get worse.
Roughly these kinds of thoughts tormented Elena Petelina in the wake of Denis Gomelsky’s insolent blackmail. She was no longer a detective. She was a woman humiliated — her soul torn asunder with agony. The pencil in her hand produced mindless ornaments of jagged angles and ragged lines. And the thoughts in her mind cast about to and fro in a similar manner.
Someone gave her office door a rough shove. Elena flinched and snapped the pencil — her third in the past half hour.
Hardly had she looked up than her ex-husband, Sergey Petelin, appeared before her desk. He slapped down his hand, crumpled the paper on the desk and tossed it onto the floor.
“What are you, reliving your childhood? Doodling and noodling? You’re forgetting all about your own daughter! If I go broke, there won’t be any more vacations for Nastya. She won’t get any iPhones or iPads or even just a good education. Take a good look at yourself, Lenok. What have you become? You’re ready to kill yourself at work to help some whores, but you couldn’t care less about the happiness of your own family! Are you a mother or are you a social worker?”
Sergey hurled the case folders from her desk. Elena stood up and turned away to face the window. She leaned against the sill to steady her spinning head and clenched her eyelids in the hope that she wouldn’t have to wipe away any tears. In the main, Sergey was right. She had to decide whether she was a mother or a detective — and make her subsequent choices accordingly.
“Lenok, you could help me deal with the crooks. It would make things better for all of us. Nastya first of all! Instead, you’re helping some hooker and her pimp, who’s not even alive anymore. Is this what you call justice?”
Elena didn’t say anything. She was afraid her voice would betray her. And anyway, what could she say? He was right, after all, damn him!
“Why don’t you say anything? Why can’t you at least face me?” Sergey circled the desk and stopped behind Elena. “They stole millions from me — and you, with your rank and position, don’t want to get involved. That’s low of you — both towards me and towards Nastya.”
Petelin gripped the woman’s forearm and pulled her towards him.
“What are you daydreaming about?!”
“Leave me alone!” Elena tried to yank her arm away, but her ex-husband was holding it too tightly.
“I’ll do no such thing. I came here so we could talk this through.”
The woman noticed Marat Valeyev enter the office.
“Hey you, take it easy!” Marat sprang to Elena’s aid.
“Uh-huh. Here’s what you’re fantasizing about. Your sex-buddy. I bet you’re comparing him to me. Well, what do you say? Who’s the more-endowed? Let’s see it, Marat. Let’s see you flaunt it!”
“Go to hell!”
Marat yanked Sergey towards him and Sergey replied by way of his fist. Petelina watched her former classmates, now two grown men, go at each other like little boys, pulling and tearing at each other’s clothes.
The fight didn’t last too long. The operative beat the businessman and shoved him out of the office.
“What was that? What did he want?” asked Marat after catching his breath.
“You know, he’s right. I’m not thinking about work. All I can see before me is the stupid male — » Elena collapsed into the armchair and clasped her head in her hands, mussing her hair.
“Lena, what are you talking about?” Marat frowned and sat down across from her.
“Denis Gomelsky stopped by.”
“Ah, the slippery lawyer with the dyed hair,” the operative recalled.
Elena locked her fingers and looked Marat in the eyes. She had to share her problem with the person she cared about the most.
“Three years ago, Gomelsky and I had a fling. It was pretty tempestuous.”
“Well..? That’s in the past though, right?”
“It’s in the past. But not entirely.”
“I don’t understand, Lena.” Marat tensed up. “What do you mean by ‘not entirely?’”
“Gomelsky videotaped our encounters.”
“Videotaped? You mean…”
“Yes! While we were in bed.”
“Wait, did you know about this?”
“Of course not!”
“The bastard! I am going to — ”
“That’s not the main thing, Marat. Now he’s blackmailing me with the recordings. He wants me to tamper with some evidence. And if I don’t…”
“You’re an adult. You’re not even married anymore!”
“Back then, he used our relationship to swap out the main piece of evidence for the case I was working on. I didn’t figure it out right away. Then, he filed for the tests be redone and… Well, the criminals were set free right there in the courtroom. And I kept quiet.”
Valeyev gritted his teeth, clenched his fist and slammed it against the desk.
“I’m going to crush that creep. And I mean this instant. I’m going to go find him and turn him into chopped steak. He’ll come crawling back to you on his knees to beg forgiveness.”
“Wait!” Elena grabbed Marat’s arm, restraining him from running into his righteous battle. “Gomelsky is an experienced lawyer. He’s probably considered this option. He’s just waiting for exactly this kind of thing. If you go, both you and I will be doomed! Either he’ll have us charged or he’ll use the assault as further blackmail against us.”
“That son of a… Hold on, what if we arrange for some hooligans to jump him? I have a few meatheads who owe me. Besides teaching him a lesson, they can grab his laptop or whatever else.”
“And then the video will be in their hands. What an excellent solution!”
“Hmm,” Valeyev ruminated unhappily and struck the desk three times with his fist. He looked up and glanced at Elena askance. “What’s on there anyway? Did he show you the video?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Well, you know, the video compromises him too.”
“Not entirely.”
“Again with the ‘not entirely.’ Could you be more clear?”
“You can’t see really see him in there, only his…”
“And you?”
“There’s a close-up of my face.”
“So your face is clearly visible, but when it comes to him all you can see is his…” Valeyev mumbled.
“Yes, yes! I was doing what you and other men like! Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“What other men?”
“Why, the whole lot of them!”
“Lena, are you listening to the words coming out of your mouth?”
“Marat, do you understand that you’re tormenting me?”
“Show me the video,” Marat scowled.
“Why? Haven’t I told you enough?”
“Did your ex see it? Is that why you and Sergey were fighting? You showed him, but I can’t see it.”
“Get out of here, Valeyev,” whispered Petelina.
“I just wanted to make sure — ”
“Leave me alone!” Lena screamed and turned away.
Marat reached his hand out to her.
“Go away!” the woman reacted irately.
The operative stood up from his seat so slowly that it seemed as if an enormous weight had settled on his shoulders. He shuffled out sideways, without looking away from Elena, and paused as he reached the door, expecting her to call him back. But the woman didn’t say anything.
The door’s slam came as a blow against her chest, giving rise to yet another hurt.
26
Igor Vasilevich Grebenkin walked purposefully from the University subway station to the main campus of Moscow State University. He was glancing periodically at the spire of the famous Stalinist skyscraper, recalling his daughter’s photo on his phone and calculating what angle the bucolic picture with the blooming garden could have been taken from.
Grebenkin crossed Lebedev Street, passed the main MSU building and found himself on Mendeleyev Street. Ahead of him, tall firs arranged in files peeked over the iron fence. Beyond the firs, he could see rows of wide-branched bare trees. Grebenkin checked his map of Moscow. This was the MSU Botanical Garden.
Old apple trees! Grebenkin realized. In May, they’ll bloom and look just like the ones in my daughter’s photo.
He began to walk along the garden’s fence, away from the main part of the MSU campus. Every twenty yards or so, he would turn around and compare his perspective of the MSU spire with the one in the photo.
It’s somewhere around here, Grebenkin reassured himself. The photo was taken in the garden and beside that abandoned conservatory. That’s where the girls’ secret hangout spot is.
Finally, Grebenkin felt like he had gone far enough. He began to look for some way to get through the fence that encircled the botanical garden. It wasn’t likely that the girls used the main entrance. If they did, they wouldn’t be able to keep their secret spot a secret. He tried the fence posts. They were all sturdy and tall.
All of a sudden, he heard a soft sound — as if of someone jumping — behind his back. Grebenkin turned around. A girl had just crawled over the barrier within a hundred yards of him. She had used the slanted branches which were basically leaning against the fence. Even from a distance, Grebenkin recognized the bright blue jacket and violet knit hat of his daughter’s girlfriend.
That’s her! I got her. There’s luck for you!
Lisa, who had not noticed him, headed off in the direction of Mendeleyev Street. Grebenkin hurried after her. He didn’t want to run because he was afraid of scaring the girl off prematurely and, as a result, he was too late: By the time he reached the street, he could see Lisa already getting into a yellow taxicab.
She’ll get away!
Grebenkin began to wave his hand desperately, trying to flag down a ride. Soon enough, a driver moonlighting as a gypsy cab stopped next to him. Grebenkin gave him a thousand rubles right away.
“I need your help, friend!” he exclaimed. “See that taxi turning right? Follow him!” Encountering the Caucasian driver’s incredulous look, Grebenkin quickly concocted a reason. “My daughter’s lost it. She’s going to get drugs. I have to catch up to her — understand?”
“She don’t listen to her father,” the grizzled driver shook his head empathetically and hit the accelerator. He held up his clenched fist. “You gotta hold them firm — like so!”
27
General Konstantin Bayukin was impatiently flipping through the channels on his TV. The only thing that interested him was the news. He wondered what had happened to the defense minister and his “female battalion.” He was happy to see the journalists fanning the flames of that scandal. The longer they were occupied, the better. The general hoped that all the good investigators would be assigned to the minister’s case, leaving only the hapless hacks to work the one he was involved in.
That would be justice! After all, how could one compare a nationwide embezzlement scheme with a hundred or so misappropriated apartments outside of Moscow? The only thing he needed was for the investigation to get bogged down. Then, he would retrieve the pilfered stamps and retire to placid Latvia, where he would buy a beach house and luxuriate in the quiet life.
The general glanced at his watch. He was expecting a person who was never late. Naturally, Bayukin had lied to Gomelsky when he told him that the invaluable envelopes were dropped off in his mailbox. Tarmo Keelp, an Estonian, was the one who gave him his compensation in the form of rare stamps. This savvy businessman, who spoke Russian fluently, was the one who had concocted the cunning housing fraud and then convinced Bayukin to take part in it. The general had acquiesced only once he understood that there was little to no risk in participating. Cash, bank accounts, real estate and valuables were what would get you caught. Stamps, on the other hand, were easy to conceal from investigators.
The doorbell rang. Bayukin hurried to get the door. It was the person he was waiting for.
“Happy to see you, general,” Tarmo Keelp greeted Bayukin. “What’d you call me for? I thought we had agreed that these kinds of meetings could only happen in cases of emergency.”
Keelp passed into the living room without undressing. As usual, he neither took off his gloves nor put down his beloved white cane. The general offered him a seat, but Keelp, seemingly accidentally, peeked into the neighboring rooms and stopped in the middle of the living room.
“I can see that you are agitated. Is there a problem?”
“I haven’t been sleeping so well lately. I keep having nightmares about orders and apartments. We didn’t overextend ourselves, did we?”
“The government issues apartments to members of the armed services. Every homeless guy with epaulets gets housing. Is it your fault you already have a place to live?” The Estonian spread his arms as if demonstrating the general’s palatial chambers. “No! And yet you’ve served longer than some run-of-the-mill captain or major. How come they get an apartment and you get nothing? It’s unfair. As they say, ‘to each according to his desserts.’”
“Yes, I understand… But you assured me that the scheme was legal. Yet now there’s an investigation brewing.”
“Lawful and unlawful are two sides of the same coin. You can turn the law to face you. And that’s the way it was. But now, someone has turned it away from us.”
“That’s your blunder!”
“Well, they’re investigating you, not me. Which means…” Keelp paused significantly.
“But I am doing everything the way I have been!”
“Someone flipped the coin on us. Someone who can profit by doing so. Do you think I haven’t considered this? That I haven’t tried to identify the weak link? And how! I combed through everyone who’s working for us and came to a conclusion. If we are caught, each and every one of us will lose more than he stands to profit. Someone has spoiled our operation for the sake of some other gain — one that isn’t material.”
“A fighter for justice?”
“Don’t make me laugh. Those don’t exist. Besides boring old money, there are also those who fight for social position or for votes. But, again, this is isn’t it in this case.”
“Who is it then?”
“Someone is digging under us from your side. Think, general. Think!” Keelp was about to add, “Get out while you can!” But he was planning on being the first to do that. He only had to take care of one minor — but vital — piece of business.
“Well, I need to be on my way, general.” Keelp squeezed Bayukin’s shoulder tightly. The Estonian’s eyes were carefully studying the man’s face. “I can see that that bloodstained sweatshirt in the bedroom isn’t yours. Is it your son’s?”
“How did you know that I have a — ”
“I already told you: I’ve studied each and every one of us. I know all about your shell-shocked son too. Why did he show up in Moscow?”
“To help me.”
“Judging by that sweatshirt, he’s already done so,” said Keelp strictly. “What has he gotten himself into?”
“The stamps. Someone stole the last envelope with the stamps. It could only have been a prostitute. Aleksey is helping me get them back.”
“And? Did you get them back?”
“Not yet.”
“But he’s messed up in the head. Right?”
“Alex is doing better, though, yes, he did receive a medical discharge.”
“Have you mentioned me to your son?”
“No.”
“Have you mentioned me to anyone else?”
“I have been circumspect. Just as we agreed.”
“I can see what kind of circumspection that is. You’ve got bloodstained clothes lying around your house. Who wounded him? And where?”
“I can’t tell you that. That’s our problem.”
“Precisely! You’re the one who lost the stamps. And now you’ve brought a war vet with PTSD into this thing.”
Keelp turned to go. Before leaving, however, the Estonian turned around and raised his cane — pointing it as if it were a natural extension of his index finger.
“Here’s the deal, general. Don’t contact me from now on. Forget I ever existed. You and I have never met!”
28
Denis Gomelsky parked his Infiniti beside the Wild Kitties strip club. Two security guards stood smoking next to the entrance. They were dressed in identical dark suits with red ties. The ties had a silhouette of a mincing cat printed on them. It would be evening soon — their busiest time. Before then, the lawyer needed to pump the staff for some information about last night’s incident outside the club. He needed to figure out just how conspicuous his client had been in the run-up to the pimp’s murder.
Gomelsky was about to get out of his car when his phone went off. It was Alex Bayukin.
“You guessed right about the stamp collector, lawyer. The girl was there this morning.”
“And?”
“She showed him some rare stamps, offered to sell them.”
“Does he have the stamps?”
“No — the deal’s going down tonight at six.”
Gomelsky glanced at his watch. There was no time to spare — he had to go to Taganskaya Street this instant. The club could wait.
“Alex, are you sure that they were the stamps from the general’s envelope?”
“Where else could she get them from..? The girl was young, good-looking and pushy. She brought in a rare block containing four imperial stamps.”
“Sounds like the philatelist was quite eager to spill the beans.”
“He stonewalled at first. But found his tongue in good time.”
“You didn’t overdo it, did you?” the lawyer grew worried. “Is he still in one piece?”
“He’s alive. Not a scratch on his face. Don’t worry, I’m a fast learner.”
“Okay. Thank him, apologize if you need to and wait for me outside the store. I’m on my way.”
Denis Gomelsky turned on the car and suddenly noticed that someone was already talking to the security guards. By the man’s cocksure demeanor and oversized, expendable jacket, Gomelsky could tell that the newcomer was a seasoned operative. He had not however produced his badge and the conversation between the men grew tense quickly. Gomelsky lowered his window.
“You having girl troubles, man?” the burly guard was asking, “Can’t get it stiff..?”
“The hell you saying!” the newcomer growled.
“I see dozens of your type every night. Your girl dumped you — I can tell by your mug — and you’re here to take it out on our girls. Why don’t you let your nerves rest — guy — then try to get into a respectable establishment…”
“Why I’ll — » The operative grabbed the security guard by the tie and yanked him forward. The combatants squared up. Gomelsky saw the cop’s face and recognized Captain Marat Valeyev. The lawyer instantly began to record the men with his phone.
Guess I’m just lucky today, he gloated to himself.
After his audacious conversation with Elena Petelina but before leaving the Investigative Committee, Gomelsky had made sure to figure out who her boyfriend was. It hadn’t been difficult. The amorous intrigues of coworkers were a hot topic among the women working in administration — even more so when the person asking was a charming and dashing lawyer who knew how to offer his compliments.
Alright fellas, no half-measures now! the lawyer egged on the arguing men.
As if he had heard him, Valeyev struck the guard in his chest. The guard threw up his hands to protect himself. The combatants clinched, swayed and fell to the ground. The struggle continued on the wet pavement. Valeyev’s husky partner came running to his aid. The second security guard darted to intercept him. The fight continued two-on-two.
Denis Gomelsky smiled triumphantly and dialed the police.
“I’d like to report an affray underway outside of Wild Kitties!” he said. “The assailants are two thugs. Likely armed. Hurry!”
29
The office phone yanked Elena Petelina from her anxious thoughts. It was Mikhail Ustinov.
“Detective Petelina, it’s as I hypothesized: the Yarygin Pistol came up in no time. It’s registered to an army unit based in Dagestan. I’ve got the weapon’s personnel number; I just have to figure out who it was issued to. Only the army has that information though.”
“I’ll draft an official request. Read me the info.” The detective entered the number of the military unit and the gun’s serial number into a special request form and printed the form out on letterhead. “What do you have on the other shell casing, the one from the Makarov?”
“Nada. It’s not in the crime databases. And it’s not a Makarov either. There isn’t any fantail distortion on the lower part of the casing. It doesn’t resemble a Stechkin Pistol either — there’s no trace of the typical impression left by the magazine’s lip. Also, the casing did not expand during discharge, so it couldn’t be a more powerful weapon.”
“Can we do this without the technical details? What models does that leave us with?”
“Well, what would you say?” the forensic expert remembered his beloved guessing game.
“I bet some crafty civilian cobbled it together,” theorized Petelina.
“Exactly! Most likely, it’s a nonlethal gun that’s been modded. We won’t be able to identify it, until we have the piece itself.”
“Homebrew loses out in terms of spread and power.”
“That’s why we found the bullet in the lining.”
As opposed to the one that knocked a hole in the victim’s skull and flew off in an unknown direction, the detective thought involuntarily. This is why Gomelsky wants the shell casing from the Yarygin Pistol gone from the case. It’s the most important clue. But whom is the lawyer trying so hard for?
The phone began to blink, indicating an internal call.
Elena Petelina hurried to end her conversation with the expert.
“I think the brass is calling me. Misha, I want you to send me all the test results to me as soon as they come in,” the detective reminded and clicked over to the other line.
She had not been mistaken. Colonel Kharchenko’s voice was cold and officious, which did not bode well.
“Detective Petelina, could you come up to my office, please? And I mean immediately.”
He hung up the phone. The detective was now sure that something had happened.
When Petelina entered her boss’s office, Colonel Kharchenko did not offer her a seat as usual. To the contrary, the colonel stood up clasped his arms behind his back and, frowning, barked, “How is the investigation?”
The question was posed in a tone that could have just as easily been used to ask about the weather in the Arctic. Elena sensed that Kharchenko was not very interested in the details of the case.
“We are currently conducting a range of operational-investigative measures which will allow us to establish — » the detective began to report formally, but her boss cut her off.
“As it happens, it’s these operational measures that interest me! I would like to remind you that, as the supervising officer, you are accountable for the actions of your subordinates — even if they have been assigned to you from a different agency.”
“Yes sir, Colonel Kharchenko, sir.”
“Listen, Lena,” a paternal note surfaced in the boss’s voice, “doesn’t the fact that Valeyev is always around you get in your way? As I understand it, you have a long-standing relationship outside of work.”
“I have never concealed that fact.”
“I don’t like to get involved in the private lives of my agents. But Valeyev is a captain and you’re a major. You issue orders that he must follow. And, knowing your temper, this holds true outside of work too. Not every man can handle such pressure.”
“So that’s what you wanted to talk about. Well, fix the situation! Demote me and promote Valeyev. Naturally, men are smarter and should be supervising us stupid women. Especially those they have a personal relationship with!”
“See? This is exactly why I brought this up! You’re as wound up as he is. No one can do their job properly if there’re constant sparks between coworkers. And I can’t just sit calmly on a powder barrel.”
Petelina and Kharchenko looked at each other heavily. Elena was the first to look away.
“What are your orders, colonel, sir?”
“Is there something you wish to tell me about, Elena?”
The question scalded Petelina. What is he talking about? Did he find out about Gomelsky’s blackmail? Maybe I should tell him — share my problem. But then I’ll be forced to confess that I bungled that investigation three years ago and that the criminal walked free.
“Has Valeyev been following your orders as normal?” Kharchenko clarified his question.
“Yes, why?”
“Then, you can deal with his latest misadventure yourself.” The senior officer pushed some buttons on his desk phone and handed Elena the handset. “Chief of Police Petrov will explain to you why two members of your investigation unit have been placed under arrest.”
“This is Investigative Committee Senior Detective Major Petelina,” Elena announced into the phone formally.
On the other end of the line, Lieutenant Colonel Andrey Kuzmich Petrov introduced himself and curtly apprised Elena of the incident outside of the Wild Kitties strip club.
“Abuse of authority and engaging in affray with licensed security guards in public — I had to take action. You have to understand — those wild kitties cause nothing but headaches. There was a murder there last night.”
“As a matter of fact, that’s the exact case I’m currently working. I sent Captain Valeyev to the strip club in order to conduct interviews with witnesses.”
“Be that as it may, the fact is he knocked the victim’s tooth out and bruised his face. I’ve got the complaint right here in front of me. I haven’t the slightest idea of how I’m going to suppress this thing.”
“All kinds of things can happen when you’re out doing fieldwork. You know what I’m talking about.”
“Sure — things do happen,” agreed the lieutenant colonel and fell silent.
“We’re all on the same team here. Maybe we can put our heads together and figure something out..?”
“Sure — we should help each other. All sorts of things happen in life. I’ll tell you what: I’ll rack my noodle and see what I can come up with. As for you guys… well, I’m hoping you’ll meet me halfway here, Senior Detective.”
Petelina realized why the police chief had chosen to reach her through Col. Kharchenko’s office. Lieutenant Colonel Petrov would be sure to remind her about this favor in the future, if he or one of his subordinates encountered some “small problem.” It was the proverbial corporate solidarity in all its ugly glory.
“Thank you.” By expressing her gratitude, the detective was letting Petrov know that she agreed to his unspoken terms. “Is Valeyev around? You can pass him the phone now.”
“Yes, here he is. It’s not like we’d put a police captain in a holding cell. Though, perhaps we should start — as a preventative measure.”
A rustling could be heard as the phone passed from hand to hand. Elena heard the breathing change, followed by a familiar voice.
“It’s me.”
The first thing she wanted to do was ask Marat if he was alright, but the ice that had formed in her chest quickly squashed this momentary weakness.
“Valeyev, evidence obtained through coercion is of no use to the case. You’ve ruined everything!”
“Yeah? Well what about you? How are you any better?”
Elena cut herself short, ushering in a silence that lasted for several long minutes. Neither one was thinking about the stupid fight outside the strip club anymore.
Upon catching Kharchenko’s sympathetic look, however, Elena hung up the phone and walked out of the office without a further word.
As the door closed, Colonel Kharchenko felt sorry that he was not the supervisor of an assembly line, where he could change personnel at will. It was his lot — and the lot of all future chiefs of investigation — to forever witness the internal torments of not only the criminals, but also those whose job it was to hunt them.
30
As she walked up to the Philatelist, Lisa Malyshko felt her anxiety grow and slowed her step. At seven-thirty in the evening, Taganskaya Street was full of people. Someone entered a cafe, someone a theater. Multitudes streamed in and out of the subway station.
It’s the best of time of day for this kind of thing, Lisa reassured herself. She would descend into the basement store, swap the stamps for cold hard cash and then submerge herself in the torrents of passersby — to come up again on the shore of the Yauza, where a taxi stood waiting for her. After that, it’d be Kazan Station and a farewell to this dear but inconvenient city where everyone looked out only for themselves.
The little bell’s familiar tinkle announced the visitor to the store’s proprietor. This time around, Benjamin Romanovich Lisitsyn greeted the girl with a deferential smile.
“Good evening! I am glad to see you again.”
“Do you have the money?” Lisa asked from the threshold, gripping her purse tightly.
“My word as a collector!” Mr. Lisitsyn demonstrated his readiness to open the till. “Allow me to look over the goods just one more time.”
Lisa placed the envelope on the counter and pressed it down securely with her palm. On her way here, she had resolved to be as vigilant as possible to keep herself from being tricked.
“First the money!” the young woman demanded.
“Ahem… Excuse me, Miss — I don’t know your name.”
“Lisa!” The name was spoken by a gentleman with a thin mustache and ample sideburns, suddenly emerging from the store’s depths where the office was located.
It was Tarmo Keelp, whom the proprietor had notified about the sale of rare stamps. The Estonian pressed the girl’s hand to the envelope with the tip of his cane, which terminated in two sharpened steel prods, and looked her in the eyes.
“Or am I mistaken?”
Aghast, Lisa stared at the Estonian wordlessly. The Estonian, on the other hand, seemed to feel perfectly at ease.
“If I recall correctly, you once showed me a birthmark on your leg — right around the hem of your miniskirt. I remember it quite well.”
The Estonian stepped around the counter without removing the cane from the girl’s hand. Once he had stepped right up to her, however, his face turned cruel.
“You wanted to trick me, you pathetic floozy! You miscalculated. Now you’ll be getting zilch for these stamps.”
Just then, the front door opened and Denis Gomelsky walked in. Evidently, he had heard the last sentence because he fixed the Estonian with a stern look.
“I believe, I am not too late,” Gomelsky announced self-assured.
Tarmo Keelp instantly assessed this turn of events and looked askance at the store’s proprietor.
“This is not good, Benjamin.”
“He tortured me,” whined Lisitsyn shrinking into himself.
“Who are you?” Tarmo Keelp asked Gomelsky.
“A lawyer duly empowered to recover stolen property for its lawful owner.” He reached for the envelope. “Excuse me.”
“Store’s closed, mister lawyer. Kindly leave the premises,” parried the unshakeable Estonian.
“I can see that a voluntary surrender of the stolen property shall not be forthcoming.”
“Scram on out of here!”
“If you insist.”
Gomelsky stepped aside and dialed a number. Several seconds later, Alex Bayukin came tearing into the store. Gomelsky nodded at Keelp.
“This geezer’s interfering.”
Alex glanced at his sixty-year-old nemesis and smirked.
“Let me show you something, grandpa…”
He cocked back his arm, ready to drive his fist into the decrepit Estonian, when the unthinkable happened. Keelp’s eyes flashed with rage. His body adopted a fencer’s stance and, before anyone could understand what was happening, he had driven his cane tip into the lunatic’s chest. Alex began thrashing about and gurgling, as if he had been hit by lightning, and collapsed unconscious. The very next moment, the bifurcated cane tip was pressed up against Gomelsky’s Adam’s apple.
“Four million volts,” warned Keelp. “The leather jacket saved your attack dog here, but in your situation… well, don’t move and you’ll live — let’s leave it at that.”
Still threatening the lawyer with his stun-cane, the Estonian swiped the envelope off the counter and grabbed the hapless Lisa. Then, he began to retreat towards the door with the girl, as Lisitsyn, who had reckoned on a lucrative deal with the stamps, looked on with mounting horror.
Tarmo Keelp opened the door with his back and backed out of the store.
“And now,” he whispered into the girl’s ear, “we’re going to proceed back to my place and revisit that birthmark of yours.”
“Let her go!”
Keelp started from this unexpected command as much as from the feeling of something suddenly poking him in his side. The Estonian looked down and saw a hand with a gun. The barrel was digging in under his ribs.
“On your knees,” ordered the male voice behind him. “On your knees, I said!”
The murderous decisiveness in the stranger’s voice and the weapon’s burnished steel left Keelp no further options. Frowning from disappointment, he did as he was told. The man behind him jerked Lisa towards him and stepped back.
When Keelp finally dared turn around, he saw neither the girl nor his assailant. He still gripped the pilfered envelope in his hand. He gingerly smoothed it and peeled back the flap. The envelope was stuffed with ordinary postage stamps.
31
Elena Petelina was sitting at her desk depressed. Onerous thoughts about Gomelsky’s visit and Valeyev’s nervous breakdown kept her from focusing on her work. She kept doodling a geometric ornament on a sheet of paper and then crumpling the paper up and tossing it into the trash.
It’s my fault. Marat flew off his handle because I told him about the shameful video. He hadn’t even seen the extent of it! Was this anger or jealousy? Were the two one and the same? Jealousy is an emotional pain that bursts forth in flashes of anger. They say that jealousy can reinvigorate a relationship. How true that is! It reinvigorates about as much as a kick in the rear. No! This is more like being knocked off your feet by the force of a train hurtling past. This time it passed you by, but next time — it’ll flatten you to a pancake.
The desk phone brought Petelina out of her melancholy musings. She recognized Misha Ustinov’s rapid staccato.
“Detective Petelina, I ran a trace on Grebenkin’s phone, as well as the number that field ops discovered at the prostitutes’ apartment.”
The detective was happy to hear that at least someone on her team was working as if nothing had happened.
“Yes, Misha, what did you find out?”
“Both numbers are currently near Taganskaya Street.”
“Together?”
“Very close.”
“Send Vanya Mayorov the coordinates. We need to get our hands on Grebenkin first of all!”
“Already on it. The operatives are on their way as we speak.”
“Both of them?” Petelina inquired.
“I called Captain Valeyev. He’s the senior officer, after all…”
Police Chief Petrov sure did take care of matters quickly, thought the detective. And he probably made sure to get my contact info from Valeyev’s cell phone while he was at it.
“Alright. If Lisa Malyshko is using the new SIM card, then Grebenkin must have met up with his daughter’s friend.”
“That’s actually not the case.”
“Why? You said that both phones are at the same location. Oh! You mean, Grebenkin could have been following the girl,” the detective hypothesized.
“I wouldn’t know that either, but I can definitively say something else. Remember that chewing gum that Grebenkin spit out?”
“Yeah!”
“I isolated his DNA from it and established that the blood we discovered in the back seat of the pimp’s car is Grebenkin’s.”
“Looks like you’re the only one who’s going to cheer me up today.”
“That’s not the main thing, Detective Petelina.”
“What do you mean not the main thing? Your data proves that Grebenkin was in the car and could have killed Manuylov. He had both the motive and the opportunity! When we nab him, he’ll crack.”
“You just mentioned that Grebenkin met up with his daughter’s friend. It’s your use of the word ‘daughter’ that I take issue with.”
Petelina knit her brow, trying to understand the expert’s implication.
“Listen Misha, I don’t really feel like unraveling riddles today. Speak plainly, will you?”
“Ekaterina Grebenkina, the deceased, is not the daughter of Igor Grebenkin. Their DNA does not match!”
“You don’t say.” The detective quickly ran through the most likely scenarios. “So the girl was fathered by someone else and her mother lied to Grebenkin. Maybe she wanted to marry an officer. Well, it happens, I guess. Hardly an exceptional occurrence.”
“What about if Grebenkin initially bought Katya’s story,” the Tadpole softly suggested, “and later discovered that she wasn’t his daughter at all?”
Elena could tell that this was yet another one of those riddling questions that Ustinov liked to test her with. This time, she decided to play along.
“You are suggesting that to kill one’s daughter is one thing — but to exact vengeance on an impostor who conned her way into your confidence and has, perhaps, made claims to an inheritance is something else entirely…”
“You know yourself how muddled the criminal mind can be.”
“Grebenkin discovers the truth, quarrels with the con-woman and, in a moment of passion, pushes the girl off the roof!” The detective went with the new version of events. “Manuylov the pimp might have witnessed the murder and paid for it with his life. And now, Grebenkin’s found Lisa Malyshko…”
“…Who could have been up there on that roof too.”
“In that case, her life is in grave danger!”
32
Upon finding herself a captive of the gentleman with the cane, Lisa Malyshko became quite afraid. She knew Tarmo Keelp to be a generous but finicky client who required artificial stimulation. The conspicuous white cane was forever on him, but the girl had never suspected its secret function. Watching Keelp dispense mercilessly with his unexpected enemies, she was too afraid to even think about what awaited her.
She had, after all, double-crossed the Estonian in the brashest way possible.
When she was suddenly delivered from Keelp’s iron grip, the girl felt a sense of relief wash over her. The worst was behind her! She would find her way out of this scrape too!
But that same instant she found herself in someone else’s hands. The girl recognized her new captor. It was that goddamned Grebenkin! She had not reckoned on seeing him again, but she hoped that their ways would part just as quickly as after their first meeting outside of her building. Back then, he had demanded information about Birdless. She had spilled everything she knew about the pimp and Grebenkin, in turn, had let her go.
This time, however, Grebenkin was not asking any questions. He clenched her elbow painfully and dragged her behind himself toward the Yauza boardwalk. The girl did not resist. She wanted to get away from the ill-fated stamp store as quickly as possible.
To her question, “What do you want?” Grebenkin scowled back at her and said, “Be quiet!”
Lisa was shocked when he led her directly to her own waiting taxi, got into the back seat beside her and ordered the driver to take them back to MSU.
They got out in the same place — at the corner of Mendeleyev Street — where, an hour ago, she had gotten into this very same taxi. During the drive, Lisa had calmed down and decided that Grebenkin was really saving her by taking her as far as possible away from the irate and dangerous Tarmo Keelp.
“Thank you,” said Lisa, once the taxi had left.
She even smiled at him. Life had taught the girl how to demonstrate her gratitude to even her most repellent clients.
Grebenkin snatched the girl’s purse away from her without offering a reply. He dug up her phone and turned it off. Afterward, he did the same to his own cell phone.
“What are you doing?”
The man snorted unkindly and pushed the girl along the botanical garden fence, in the direction of a sign that read “Weather Station.”
What does he want? Where is he taking me? Lisa wondered anxiously. Does he — does he know about our secret spot? Geez, I’m really in it now!
Grebenkin stopped next to the tree that leaned onto the fence. One of the thicker branches had worked its feelers over the barrier.
“You go first. If you run, I’ll shoot you dead,” Grebenkin promised grimly and flashed his gun.
The girl looked around. There were no witnesses. It wasn’t common to see people around here anyway.
“Why are you after me?” Lisa implored, “What do you want?”
“The truth.”
This simple answer made the girl shrink into herself as if she had been plunged into a stream of ice-cold water.
It’s not hard to demand the truth. But what do you do when the truth is the most terrible thing!
Steeling herself, she climbed over the fence. In the same second, she had second thoughts and wanted to run, but the distinct knock of the weapon against the fence forced her to turn around. Lisa froze under Grebenkin’s hateful gaze.
“I’ll shoot. Don’t you doubt it.”
Her stomach sank to her knees. Lisa realized that she was utterly at the mercy of this armed bumpkin.
Grebenkin jumped down into the snowy sludge behind her.
“Lead on!” he ordered.
The girl began to obediently trudge on into the depths of the garden, comprehending perfectly well that she would soon find herself alone in the derelict conservatory with an armed man who seemed barely capable of keeping his wrath in check.
33
Whenever Elena Petelina tried to concentrate on the details of the investigation into the deaths of Boris Manuylov and Ekaterina Grebenkina, her thoughts would return to Gomelsky’s lowly blackmail. Constantly thinking about the filthy video was unbearable. And therefore, Elena consciously decided to submerge herself in her ex-husband’s problems.
Sergey was no angel of course — especially in the way he used their daughter’s future happiness to manipulate Lena into helping him. But he was asking for her professional help, and he had not demanded that she break the law. After all was said and done, when it came down to the legal brass tacks, Sergey Petelin was the victim of massive fraud and grand larceny, while she was a senior detective whose job it was to solve crimes.
The theft of goods by means of a phony warehouse was hardly a novel scheme, and those who ran it were likely to repeat it. As a result, the first thing Petelina needed to do was find similar cases. To do so, she enlisted the help of Astakhovskaya, the most experienced of the archivists working in the Investigative Committee archives.
Lyudmila Vladimirovna Astakhovskaya was almost sixty now, but at one point, years ago, she had also been an experienced detective. Aside from a piercing intellect, nature had endowed the woman with a striking appearance. The captivating, chesty brunette — with large eyes, a thin waist and elegant legs — possessed an excellent sense of style and could therefore not go overlooked by her uniformed colleagues. This fact had played a fateful role in the career of Detective Astakhovskaya.
Any independent and attractive woman with authority provokes the tired old question.
“Who’s that one with?” asked the high-ranking prosecutor, squinting.
“She’s by herself,” his clerk replied.
“Well, ho-hum.”
Finding an opportune moment, the prosecutor made a rather crude pass at the rather attractive detective.
Her first refusal in the prosecutor’s office left Lyudmila Astakhovskaya with a torn blouse. She began to encounter problems at work. The proud woman’s difficulties grew with every following “failure” on the part of the prosecutor. Sensing which way the wind was blowing, certain envious colleagues began to harass her as well. The errors of margin afforded to most men in uniform, were no longer forgiven to the woman, especially such an independent one. Lyudmila Astakhovskaya lost her detective’s badge as a consequence of a fabricated error in her work. The abasement was both figurative and literal: She was demoted and transferred to the basement — to be a clerk in the agency’s archives.
Everyone had been sure that the arrogant and stuck-up Astakhovskaya would slam the door on her way out. And yet she stayed. Her new position allowed her to stay abreast of everything going on above her. Astakhovskaya would read all the new cases and look over the old ones. Gradually, she became a living encyclopedia which, however, was accessible only to a select few detectives.
Lyudmila Astakhovskaya noticed Elena Petelina not long after Petelina first joined the Investigative Committee. The young, pretty woman reminded Lyudmila of herself. And so the world-weary Astakhovskaya tacitly took Elena Petelina under her wing. She wished Petelina success and helped her by offering her advice — both for Elena’s work and for her private life.
“Hi, Lena. I’ve already prepared everything for you.” Elegant as ever, Lyudmila Astakhovskaya entered the detective’s office and plunked a stack of archival folders onto the desk.
“I would have come down myself, Lyudmila Vladimirovna.”
“Fresh air is good for us cellar rats.”
“It’s evening already.”
“That’s exactly it: The archive has closed for the night. By the way, that tan looks good on you. Your sad face, on the other hand, would disfigure even the prettiest of women. Is it work or is it men?”
“Both,” confessed Elena.
“Remember the important thing: There’s a balance that exists in life. Women say foolish things more often, while men do foolish things more often. Every criminal case attests to this fact.”
“And sometimes, women say foolish things and men go and do them.”
“You’ve come to the correct conclusion.”
“So that’s your advice?”
“Oh, Lena. Ten or so years ago, the advice I’d give you would be direct. Now, however, I’m more interested in expanding your horizons. The broader your perspective, the more solutions you’ll be able to see. But if you wish to speak directly, I’ll go get the Kleenex ready.”
“Maybe you’d better do that, Lyudmila Vladimirovna — we may need them.”
Elena sighed and opened one of the folders from the archives.
“I bookmarked them for you,” said Astakhovskaya, leaving the office.
The bookmarks made the work move quickly, though it took Elena more than an hour anyway. Petelina was organizing her initial findings when her cell phone rang on her desk. Answering it, the detective glanced at her watch and realized suddenly how tired she was. The workday had long since ended.
“Detective Petelina, this is Senior Lieutenant Mayorov reporting.” The young operative still quailed before the senior detective and unwittingly sought refuge in a formal tone.
“Vanya, let’s keep it informal. What’d you guys find?”
“We found the location that Lisa Malyshko had visited. It’s a store called ‘The Philatelist.’ The proprietor identified her.”
“What was Malyshko doing there?”
“She was trying to offload some rare stamps.”
A causal chain began to instantly form in the senior detective’s mind. Rare stamps in the possession of a prostitute suggested theft. Had anyone filed a complaint about stolen stamps? She couldn’t recall anyone doing so. And her professional eye would have certainly paused over such an unusual crime in the incidents bulletin. Unless, that is, the theft of the stamps had taken place while she was away on vacation.
“But then, as she haggled with the store owner,” Mayorov went on, “someone burst in and attacked her.”
“Right there in the store?” the detective asked.
“That’s what the proprietor — a certain Benjamin Romanovich Lisitsyn — claimed. His store is located in a small semi-basement. He hardly ever gets any customers.”
“Who was it that attacked Lisa Malyshko?”
“Lisitsyn is still in shock. He keeps mixing up his story. We had to — ”
“Lean on him?” The detective guessed what was coming.
She was worried about Valeyev’s state of mind. He still refused to speak with her.
“Vanya, how’s Marat doing?” she asked. “He already lost it once today.”
“I’m perfectly calm!” the phone roared. Elena recognized Valeyev’s agitated voice. It turned out that he had been listening in on their conversation and now answered her question himself. “I have no reason to be worried! Not one.”
“We didn’t really do much, Detective Petelina,” Vanya offered. “We showed him Grebenkin’s photo and the proprietor confirmed that this same person had suddenly attacked the girl and dragged her away with him.”
“Excuse me, Vanya, I was hot-headed. All of us are a tad touchy today. We need to keep cool!” Elena raised her voice on purpose in the hopes that Marat would hear her. “Okay. So then, Grebenkin wasn’t there when you guys arrived.”
“Correct. We got in touch with the Tad — er, Ustinov, the expert, and asked him where their phones were located. But Mikhail said that the trace had vanished.”
“Hold on a minute, I want to check that.”
Petelina called Mikhail Ustinov on her desk phone.
“Detective Petelina, I am already at home,” Misha said apologetically, begging his girlfriend Masha, giggling beside him, to keep quiet.
Feeling a twinge of envy for the couple’s happiness, Petelina asked him to elaborate.
“Our couple crossed paths on Taganskaya Street,” the expert explained. “From there, they went together to Sparrow Hills — in a car, judging by their route. I kept track of them, but their signals vanished around the MSU campus.”
“What does that mean?”
“They turned off their phones — that’s the first possibility. Or they descended into a basement that’s deep underground — that’s another option. They could also have gotten into a car accident bad enough to destroy everything. But I checked that out. There’s been no mention of any severe traffic incidents in the vicinity.”
“We have to keep a look out for them in case they show up again.”
“I can do that from home. I’ve already launched the program, while we’ve been talking. There’s still no signal from their phones, though.”
Petelina heard the smacking of lips. The intrepid reporter had kissed Misha on the same cheek that he was holding the phone against. This was followed by the sounds of intimate breathing and rustling. Elena got the hint, thanked the expert and returned to her conversation with the operatives.
“The signal vanished near MSU.”
“We know. Do you want us to go there?” asked Mayorov.
His mopish tone of voice suggested that Vanya was thinking more about a warm date with his beloved Galya than a continuation of their field work. Elena considered Marat’s unsettled state and decided that he needed a good rest. When Marat would come home that night, they would come up with a solution to their problem. They were adults, after all, and should understand that a past sexual relationship should not spoil their current relations. When it came down to it, he too had been with other women, and it had never even crossed her mind to bring that up. Then, after they had had a serious talk, she would use her woman’s touch to relieve his male stress.
“I’m going to order the local police to start a search for Grebenkin and Lisa Malyshko,” Petelina decided. “I want you two to get the video recordings from the store.”
“The stamp collector doesn’t have any cameras in his store.”
“Again with this stupid customer confidentiality. Alright, here’s what we’ll do: Check to see where the cameras are installed in the surrounding stores. Maybe our store’s entrance will be visible in their recordings. If it is, I want a copy on my desk tomorrow.”
“We’ll take care of it.”
“And go home. You have people waiting for you,” Elena let slip unwittingly.
The operatives were sitting in Marat Valeyev’s car. Joyfully, Ivan Mayorov announced that it was closing time: All they had to do was check the neighboring cameras.
Marat lit a cigarette. Blowing the smoke out the window, he turned his head and indicated a camera to his partner.
“See that one by the bank? It’s got a view of The Philatelist. Can you handle it on your own?”
“Of course!”
“Then get on with it. I’m going to finish this cigarette.”
The senior lieutenant got out of the car and said goodbye to the captain.
“See you tomorrow, Marat. I’ll take the subway from here. It’ll be faster.”
“True, true,” Valeyev shrugged his shoulders.
A black Infiniti with tinted windows was parked not far behind the operatives’ car. The lawyer Denis Gomelsky and his henchman Alex Bayukin were sitting inside.
The lawyer pointed to Valeyev.
“Follow him. He’s a cop. I saw him outside of Wild Kitties. He’s on your trail.”
“How am I supposed to follow him? He’s in a car.”
“Just take this one. Keep me apprised of every move he makes. And remember: How well you do this, determines how quickly I get you off the hook for that murder.”
“You only want me to watch him?”
“Yes — act only when I tell you to. Just don’t be stupid about it, like back there in the store. It’s your fault the stamps are gone.”
34
The man’s hand flipped the bottle upside down. The last of the vodka splashed into the glass with a burble, spraying droplets across the desk. His lips felt the cool of the glass. The tepid spirit slipped burning down his distended throat. Marat Valeyev quacked into his clenched fist, tossed his leaden head and lit a new cigarette with the dying ember of the one still in his hand.
Captain Valeyev was sitting at his desk in the operatives’ office at the MVD — his home agency when he wasn’t on special assignment with the Investigative Committee. He was alone. Night had come. The desk lamp illuminated the empty vodka bottle and the smudged glass and the cigarette butts screwed into the cracked ashtray.
This is how happiness dies, Marat thought suddenly.
He recalled the long flight from Moscow to Phuket. In the morning Elena had raised the porthole shade on an emerald green island in the vast blue ocean.
“Look how beautiful it is,” she had whispered across Nastya, sleeping in the seat between them.
Elena had wanted to share with him the beauty of nature, but he was too enamored with her shining eyes.
“Take a look. Do you like it?” she insisted.
Marat looked. And he liked it.
In fact, this very morning, as he was leaving the house, he’d calculated the hours until he would return, throw off his clothes and slide into bed with the woman he loved.
Marat had been in love with Lena since their school days. But as they grew, their lives had split them asunder, granting them families and children and — at last — another chance at a life together at the age of thirty, when their paths crossed at work. Encouraged by the lucky coincidence, Marat won back the woman of his dreams: His spirit had soared joyfully. Today, however, a shadow from the past had blotted out the sun. His fall from the heights of happiness turned out to be painful.
Inflamed by the alcohol, his mind formulated a series of rebukes aimed at Lena. Why had she concealed her relationship with the lowlife lawyer? Why had she failed to control herself, allowing the bastard to record her in bed? Was that lawyer creep such a good lover that she had lost her wits? She must have been madly in love with him — whereas, when it came to him, Marat, all she wanted was to be beside him. And what in the hell business did she have anyway, forbidding him from dealing with that pushy ambulance-chaser properly, like a real man would and should?
Valeyev tossed the empty bottle and glass into the trash. The hefty ashtray smashed them a second later. He had nothing left to do here. The captain slammed the door and went downstairs.
As he was leaving the building, the duty officer called him.
“You alright, Valeyev? You want a ride?”
“It’s right nearby over there,” the operative waved him off.
“Alright, alright. Just keep it light on the accelerator.”
Marat sat down behind the wheel and turned the ignition. By “right nearby over there” he had meant the apartment — his apartment. No, no, he wouldn’t be going home to Lena tonight. Before he did something like that, they’d need to have a chat. The woman needed to answer some unpleasant questions!
Thinking this, Valeyev drove up to his house. His legs carried him up to the main entrance and up the stairs. His hands rattled the keys, unlocking the door. Valeyev opened the door to his apartment and stopped — facing him was a disheveled Vanya Mayorov — in his boxers and slippers — and with his gun.
“I thought you were a home invader.” Marat’s embarrassed partner tried to secure his weapon in the waistband of his boxers. The boxers had not been designed to such specifications.
It was about now that Valeyev realized that the apartment — his apartment — was now occupied by Vanya Mayorov and Galya Nesterova. And, if anything, this meant that there was nowhere to sleep. It had been his own idea to give them the apartment in exchange for their taking care of Genghis the Cat.
A jittery Galya popped out of the bedroom in nothing but a negligee.
“W – hat’s going on you guys?
“I need to get a lighter jacket. Spring’s here!” Valeyev snatched a windbreaker from a hanger in the entryway closet. “I was trying not to wake you, sorry. Okay bye now!”
Marat returned to the car and peeled out of the courtyard. Reproaching himself for his stupidity, the captain turned onto the nighttime street. Once again he failed to notice the black Infiniti behind him. The same one that had followed him into the courtyard.
If Valeyev had been in his right mind that day, he would have also recalled this same car parked outside of Wild Kitties, as he was squaring up with the security guard — as well as on Taganskaya Street not far from The Philatelist — and outside of the police department.
Marat Valeyev drove several blocks and pulled up to a cheap hotel, converted from a residential unit for a now shuttered factory. He paid for the night and got his room key.
On his way to the stairs, a fidgety young man with wandering eyes begged a moment.
“Lovely girls. Inexpensive. Wide selection. Anything the client wishes.”
Valeyev felt like throwing a hook at the pimp’s prying mug — but listened to his feelings and restrained himself. The hurt he had inside of him turned itself inside out.
She cheated on me, so I’m well within my rights… It’s not revenge — it’s field work. Investigatory infiltration.
“Get the ef outta here!”
Valeyev pushed the pimp out of his way but did not leave the hallway right away. He needed not just any slut — he needed one of the girls from the Gentle Lilly agency — the one that the now dead Katya Grebenkina and Stela Sosuksu had whored for. Valeyev looked up the agency’s site on his phone. Clicking the “Elite Comfort” link, brought him to a gallery of girls in provocative poses.
There was Katya Grebenkina — they hadn’t taken her down yet!
Valeyev picked her blonde neighbor and called the indicated number. He placed his order openly, without bothering to conceal it from the offended pimp, who would no doubt shoo any “enemy bitches away from his pasture.”
As he put away his phone, the operative pulled back his lapel so that the watchful eyes from down the hall could get a glance of the piece stuck snuggly in his shoulder holster.
He beckoned with his finger and warned the pimp grimly:
“If the girl doesn’t show — I’ll blow your balls off.”
Alex Bayukin returned to the black Infiniti and called Gomelsky.
“Valeyev found a place for the night. He got a room and called a hooker.”
“How do you know?”
“Heard him talking on the phone, ordering one.”
“Excellent. Stay there and wait for my orders.”
After he ended the call, Denis Gomelsky sat a moment in thought and then dialed Elena Petelina. He spoke quickly so she wouldn’t have time to hang up.
“Good evening, Lenochka. Did your macho boyfriend offer you his brawny shoulder to cry on? What’d he think of our home video? Did it make him randy? Or was your courageous cop upset that you don’t show him the same kind of gusto?”
Petelina hung up but Gomelsky was far from upset. He had the detective by her tail. She would dance to his tune of his pipe, he was sure of it. The thought of both pipe and tail forced the lawyer to crack a triumphant smile.
Elena Petelina stuck the phone under the pillow to muffle any further calls. She had gone to bed late and yet spent a long while tossing and turning, unable to find a comfortable position on her wide bed.
Marat won’t come back tonight — that’s obvious enough. He didn’t even call. Simply vanished — and that’s it! Why would he do such a thing?!
Three years ago, Gomelsky’s despicable betrayal had inflicted a deep wound. Gradually, it had healed. Lena had almost forgotten about it. And yet, today’s visit had slit her like a knife, reopening her wound. But the most frightening thing was that she was again alone — facing a terrible problem, alone.
Has Marat really abandoned me?
Elena stood up, walked to the kitchen and drank some valerian extract. It was her second one that evening. She thought she felt a little better. She returned to her bed and stared at the phone screen for a long while, before finally making up her mind and calling Marat.
I want to hear him say it. I need to know the truth.
She hit the call button. Elena put the phone against her ear. The call tones took their time and then she heard Marat’s heavy breathing and a woman’s giggle. The phone went flying back under the pillow. Lena threw herself face forward after it, grabbed the pillow with her fingers and began to bawl.
I’m alone. All alone.
35
Slanted morning sunlight blinded Mikhail Ustinov as he opened the narrow iron door and stepped out onto the roof of the sixteen-story apartment building. He stopped and blinked. A sharp-nosed girl with thin reddish dreads bumped into him from behind. Masha Lugantseva, Ustinov’s girlfriend, liked to experiment with her hair but maintained her loyalty to flare pants, thick-soled shoes and the tote slung over her shoulder. The girl worked as a journalist. Like bright lanterns, her eyes were always darting about in search of sensational material.
“Did it happen here?” Masha asked, reaching for her camera.
“Two identical incidents forty days apart.”
“What do you think of ‘Suicide roof’ for the article title?” The reporter squinted in search of a focal point for her photo.
The Tadpole had long since understood that he had to make up for his lack of biceps and stamina in bed by impressing his girlfriend with his talent for criminology and cracking various investigative riddles. The girl used this fact to churn out articles on the topic. Over the course of the six months that she and Ustinov had been dating, she had become an authority among her colleagues and often featured in their articles as “a source close to the investigation who wished to remain anonymous.”
Misha Ustinov checked his earlier photographs of the scene on his tablet and walked over to the cement barrier at the edge of the roof.
“She was here,” he announced, pointing at the barrier, which reached just above his knee.
Masha ran up to the indicated place and leaned out and over the edge.
“Whoa!” she exclaimed. “Imagine that!”
The camera in her hands began to click rapidly.
“Be careful!” The expert reminded her anxiously.
Masha straightened herself out and slyly tossed her dreads.
“Are you afraid for my life, Tadpole?” The girl used Ustinov’s nickname only when she was feeling particularly fond of him. Misha was not bothered.
“I’m more worried about the evidence. You could destroy it. Step aside, please.” The expert placed his forensic kit on the parapet and opened it.
“What are you talking about, ‘evidence?’”
“I read the medical examiner’s report yesterday. And noticed a few interesting details.” The expert got out a large magnifying glass, checked its transparency and stuck his head out over the edge of the barrier.
“What’s so interesting?”
Misha didn’t say anything. This was one of those moments that made the girl love him even more.
“Can you explain?” the reporter asked impatiently. “Did you find something?”
“Yup. Found it.” Misha smiled triumphantly, put away his magnifying glass and pulled on some latex gloves.
“Where?”
“Let me see your camera.”
“I want to take the picture myself. Just show me where.”
“Newspaper reporting and working a case are two completely different things, Masha.” Ustinov took the camera from the girl unceremoniously. “The main thing for you is the effect; for us, it’s accuracy.”
He took several pictures of the building’s wall from various distances.
“I can’t see a thing!” the reporter complained, peering around him.
Misha produced a knife and a plastic bag from his case.
“Hold on to me.” The expert stood up at the very edge of the roof, readying to bend down.
“How?”
“Squat down and wrap your arms around my legs.”
The girl did as she was told. Her nose poked into the posterior of the senior lieutenant.
“Hold on tightly!”
“If you let something slip right now, I can’t promise you I won’t let you slip in turn.”
Misha bent over. The journalist could hear the knife’s blade scraping the cement wall. After a minute, the expert proudly held up an evidence bag with something tiny inside.
“What’s the big deal about that?” The girl craned to get a better look.
“The big deal is that your title, ‘Suicide roof,’ turns out to be no good after all.”
“It’s not your job to teach me, ya know-it-all.”
“Well, one thing I know now is that this was no suicide. This was a murder.”
36
The only room that remained in decent condition in the otherwise derelict MSU conservatory was located at the northern end of the oblong structure. There were no windows in this room and its thick walls had been built from porous brick so as to maintain a constant temperature during winter and summer. Once upon a time, this room had served as a seed bank for flowers and vegetables, stored in controlled conditions. Later, the seeds had been moved to a storage facility underground and the now empty room had been refitted to suit the personal needs of Oleg Deryabin, a graduate student conducting botanical research. His dates with Stela Sosuksu would culminate here — to the steadily growing clamor of the wrought-iron bed.
At the moment, however, it was Lisa Malyshko who was lying on the old mattress. Her wrists and hands were bound with rope to the bed’s iron headboard. And her captor sat dozing in a chair against the wall.
Igor Grebenkin started from an unquiet dream and unstuck his eyelids. In the dark, he imagined the bed was empty. He dashed to the door, but when he opened it, the surging daylight illuminated his captive’s sleeping silhouette on the bed.
Grebenkin stretched and stepped out into the light. Ancient apple trees surrounded the half-shattered glass walls of the conservatory. Soon enough the apple tree’s branches would come alive and sheathe themselves in leafage. Then, it wouldn’t be long until the flowers came and draped the trees in ornamental shawls.
Exactly as they had looked in the photo that his dead daughter had shown him.
Grebenkin relieved himself in an old vegetable patch. The girl would probably need to do the same, he thought. This bit of consideration was, in the next moment, struck out by a withering rage — let the bitch soil herself, for all he cared!
He had spent last night vainly trying to pry some truth from Lisa. Katya could not have jumped off the roof. Her own pimp had said as much. His daughter had mentioned a surprise. The look in her eyes had suggested some miracle — not the horror that had come in its stead.
Grebenkin was prepared to get the truth out of his daughter’s friend by any means necessary. He had already applied force, beating the girl until the oncoming night had prevented him from seeing his prisoner’s eyes. Without that, he had no way to tell whether the whore was lying or coming clean. He had therefore decided to postpone the interrogation until this morning. Now the girl would know very well just how serious he was and their conversation would go more smoothly.
Grebenkin returned to the room. Lisa Malyshko, who had come to while he was out, watched his approach with a hounded look.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she said.
“And I need to know the truth.” Grebenkin took a seat on the bed and wrapped his right hand around the girl’s throat. “Were you on the roof with Katya? Were you?”
“Yes,” Lisa croaked.
“What happened there? Start talking you bitch!”
The girl began to struggle, but her taut bindings only allowed her to writhe. In a fit of anger, Grebenkin threw himself onto his captive and squeezed her throat with both hands. The girl straightened out and began gaping her mouth and eyes helplessly. Her tormentor waited half a minute and unclasped his fingers. Lisa began to cough painfully.
“Do you understand what’ll happen to you if you lie to me?”
Grebenkin took out his gun and thrust the barrel in the girl’s chest.
“Now, answer me. Who killed Katya? If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you. I’ll count to three. One, two — ”
“No one killed her.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Grebenkin struck the girl in the face. “Let’s try this one last time. Who killed my daughter? One… two — ”
“She is alive!” Lisa blurted out.
Her tormentor scowled and tightened his hand. His trigger finger bent ever so slightly. Grebenkin raised the gun and stuck it under the girl’s nose.
“Listen, I’m going to kill you slow. This is a nonlethal pistol, but the rounds in it are quite fatal. First, I’ll shoot you in the stomach. That’ll be very painful for you. Then I’ll shoot you in the breast and you’ll suffer some more. If you don’t start talking after that, I’ll put a bullet in your eye. That’s how I’m going to count now.” One after another, Grebenkin pointed the pistol at the indicated places on the girl’s body. “One. Two. Three.”
“Okay, okay. I confess,” Lisa whispered, terrified. “I confess to everything.”
“Who pushed her off the roof? I’m starting to count. One!”
“I did. It was me!”
Grebenkin’s eyes fogged over. He shut his eyelids and began shaking his head side to side. There it was then. He had what he wanted. He had found the killer. There wasn’t much left to do but punish the murderer.
When he looked back at Lisa, though, he saw her eyes looking at him dead cold.
Grebenkin spoke quietly.
“I’ll be fair. She died quickly. You will too.” He pointed the gun at the girl’s eye.
“Wait! You’ll never find out what the surprise was!”
The executioner and the victim looked at each other. Neither one was flinching.
37
Before he even had a chance to open his eyes, Marat Valeyev made out the smooth curve of a female body underneath his hand. His hand rested on a woman’s waist. He curled his fingers, succumbing to the softness.
“Lenochka…” he whispered through desiccated lips.
Instinctively, Marat moved himself closer to the woman. His hand traveled upward and grasped her breast greedily. The boob was large and heavy.
What is this nonsense? Marat started and opened his eyelids. A mop of bleached hair rocked towards him as a woman’s face came into focus.
“You want another go? It’ll be extra.” The girl yawned widely, smothering him with sour morning breath.
Marat’s memory clicked back on. She was the prostitute! What’s her name… Angela or Olesya? He had quarreled with his beloved Lena, had too much to drink and found a girl on the Gentle Lilly website. She had shown up high and giggled like an idiot the entire time she went down on him.
Damn it! What the hell had he called her for? Oh, yes. He had wanted to pump her for information about Katya Grebenkina and Lisa Malyshko. This had been no drunken debauch — this was undercover fieldwork. Undercover…
Marat tossed off the covers and swung his bare legs from the edge of the bed. His heel squished against the cold slime of a used condom. Well, at least, the slut had seen to that.
“Toss me another grand and we can resume where we left off. You’re so good at it.” The bleached blonde tried to instill care and tenderness into her voice and raised her ample breasts with her hands. “Touch them. Or have a nibble, if you like.”
“Go to hell!” Marat lost it. He began pulling on his underwear. “Get out of here this instant.”
“Dick,” scoffed the girl. She dressed quickly, however, making no unnecessary movements and making sure to keep her disgruntled customer in her sight.
“Come on, come on! Scram!”
Marat rudely pushed the prostitute out of his room and grabbed his head.
What had they discussed? The girl had told him something about Katya and Lisa. Something about matching tattoos that the two once got at a tattoo parlor that gave discounts to Birdless’s girls.
“‘So the little bitches thought of the following plan,’” Marat recalled the prostitute explaining.
That’s how she had referred to them — as if she herself was some saint!
“‘Katya and Lisa asked for the same exact butterfly tattoo to be done on their lower backs. Then the cunning little bitches got identical haircuts and began to use their resemblance to one another to take each other’s place when they were on their periods — so they could keep their wealthy Johns happy. One of them showed me a birthmark on her inner thigh and bragged that all her skirts in school had been that long. She had a hag of a principal who would suspend any girls whose skirts sat higher than their fingertips — if their arms were stretched along their sides. But her birthmark was higher still! She’d show me how, anytime the principal would try to check, she would lower her skirt below her navel. Then that blind cow of a principal would think everything was by the rules. That cracked me up!’”
Why had he remembered this nonsense? His job was to figure out the motive for the girls’ suicide or murder. And he had asked the necessary questions to do so. But the giggly Angela-Olesya didn’t want to talk about anything depressing.
Marat Valeyev dressed himself and left the hotel. He crossed the street and got into his car, which stood parked along the street. He scanned the left side-view mirror looking for a pause in the morning traffic. There it was, an ample gap in the column of cars!
Marat turned the wheel to the left, hit the accelerator and joined the flow. The car behind him began to honk violently.
“Oh go to hell!” the operative cursed.
What gave him pause, however, was that his own car was behaving strangely, as if something was slowing it down. Marat glanced in the right side-view mirror and noticed a mop of hair beneath his rear door. He recognized the bleached blonde hair! Fettered to the handle of the car door, the prostitute was being dragged along behind his car.
Horrified, Marat slammed on the brakes. The driver behind him stopped honking and in the ensuing silence Valeyev could already discern the shriek of an approaching police siren.
From behind the wheel of the black Infiniti, Alex Bayukin savored the sight of the operative desperately trying to unlatch the limp body of the girl in front of all the horrified witnesses. The police he had called earlier were already rushing up to the scene of the crime.
His job was done! Spending the night, keeping sentry behind the scummy hotel, had not been in vain after all.
Alex called the lawyer.
“Everything went as perfect as possible!” he reported. “They’re taking him away as we speak.”
38
Work is the best medicine for depression. Though, to be honest, it’s best taken in shock doses — that is, the patient must submerge herself in the work entirely.
Early the next morning, Elena Petelina drove up to the Wild Kitties strip club and squinted into the spring sun. All of March it had seemed as if spring had been engaged in a tug of war with the tarrying winter — just as Elena had seen an elephant do in Thailand. It had taken twenty people to restrain the humongous animal. The elephant kept either stepping or lurching forward, as if making of show of how hard he had it — only to suddenly jerk from his spot and pull the humans with him. Just like the animal, today, spring had finally triumphed over winter.
Elena Petelina approached a heavyset man in a police major’s uniform.
“Detective Egorov? Good morning.”
The ageing detective from the local precinct had the same disgruntled face as when he had helped Petelina fill out the report about Ekaterina Grebenkina’s death.
“Why did you ask me to come here?” Egorov asked.
“This is where the murder of Boris Manuylov took place. He was the pimp of the two girls who jumped off the roof in your precinct.”
“I don’t work homicides.”
In his demeanor, Egorov was not trying to hide how he felt. He seemed to be saying, Look at you, you’re wearing a nice new coat and boots, while I’m still in the uniform that I don’t have the time to dry-clean. We’ve got the same ranks, but the brass’ll soon dump me into retirement, while you go on twirling your tail in front of them. And the fact that your office is many stories above mine doesn’t mean that I have to serve you. You should have seen yourself trying to park! A hundred times back and forth. It was a lark to see!
Elena had come across this kind of attitude countless times. Should she argue? Prove how competent she was? That would be dumb. Between two people arguing, it’s never the smarter one who’s right. She’s a woman and knows perfectly well what ageing losers love more than anything. Flattery!
“You’re well regarded at headquarters, Detective Egorov. Yes, that’s right! You manage to solve as many cases in one year as I do in five. And you’re basically never forced to repeat your investigations. I wish I had your experience.”
Of course, Detective Petelina hadn’t the slightest notion of Detective Egorov’s professional record. She had only looked up his full name right before their meeting. The woman, however, was quite familiar with the words that any overworked detective wanted to hear. Coyly, she touched the major’s arm.
“With your help, we’ll crack this convoluted case in no time.”
Egorov lit up. He tried to draw in his stomach but only managed to hold it for one breath.
“What do you thing about this?” asked Petelina.
“If we’re talking about the first incident — that’s an everyday suicide.”
“Are you certain?”
“Have a look.” Animated, Egorov unzipped a folder and fished out a photograph of a smiling young girl and boy in glasses. “That’s Stela Sosuksu, the deceased, and Oleg Deryabin, a graduate student at MSU. We found the snapshot in her pocket. On the back she wrote: ‘I wanted to become someone else but didn’t have enough time. Goodbye.’ Basically, this is a suicide note.”
“It seems that you’re right.”
“But of course! I located Oleg Deryabin and asked him some questions. He is working in the MSU Botanical Garden in Sparrow Hills. The young man corroborated that he had indeed broken up with the girl after finding out about her line of work. It came as a bad shock for Stela. On the whole, a sufficient motive for a suicide.”
“And how did you locate Oleg Deryabin?”
“Stela Sosuksu’s girlfriends knew him. They’d even met him before.”
Elena Petelina recalled that Lisa Malyshko’s phone had vanished last night in Sparrow Hills, not far from the botanical garden.
“That’s an excellent find! May I?”
The senior detective took a photo of the photo with her phone and sent it to Ivan Mayorov. She sent a message too, trying to find out whether Valeyev was around. She wasn’t about to call him first. Even when it came to their work. Let him explain his absence last night himself!
“Detective Egorov, you’ve provided me with invaluable assistance,” Petelina did not skimp on her praise. “I can’t even imagine what I’d do without you.”
“Oh if I had a nickel…” the major flushed.
Petelina had asked Egorov to meet her at the pimp’s murder scene so as not to waste time. She had an important piece of business to attend to here — one that she needed to do herself. The senior detective shook hands with her elder colleague and smiled gently. Egorov proudly stretched out his double chin and took his leave.
Elena Petelina returned to her car. She had parked as scrupulously as she had, checking the photo report, because she wanted to position her car in the same exact place where the dead pimp’s white Honda had stood.
The detective approximated the way Boris Manuylov’s head had been situated and calculated the angle at which the bullet had struck him. Then she aimed a laser pointer in the same direction. The little spot of light fell on the cement corner of the strip club building. According to the report, the first responders had not found any traces of a round there. If the bullet had shifted even a bit to the right and passed between the buildings, then it would be impossible to find it. This in turn would help support her theory that the shell casing from the Yarygin Pistol could have been planted in the car or simply forgotten there by Manuylov earlier. Consequently, it could be assumed that Manuylov had died from the Makarov bullet, the same one that had become lodged in the car’s lining. And this, in a nutshell, was the insignificant little favor that Gomelsky, the lawyer, wanted from her.
The detective rocked the laser pointer. The bright dot crossed the post of a traffic sign. Elena got out of her car and carefully studied the metal pole. There was a small but distinct indentation at head level. The paint had been freshly scratched. If the bullet had done that, then it must have ricocheted.
Elena placed her pocket mirror next to the scratch and shined the laser pointer from the car’s direction. The reflected beam began to dance on the wall of the building beside the strip club. Petelina walked over there.
After a short search the detective caught sight of the flattened round, lying at the foot of the wall. Though the several grams of lead did not much affect the overall weight of her purse, to the detective, they represented a difficult and onerous choice.
39
In the cramped university lab room, Ivan Mayorov quickly identified Oleg Deryabin from among the four other technicians. The four other technicians were women.
Seeing the operative’s badge, the lanky young man in glasses instantly bristled with defiance.
“I’ve been Deryabin for the past twenty-seven years. What of it?” The student answered the simple question.
Mayorov had grown accustomed to knocking unruly witnesses down a peg or two.
“We are investigating the deaths of two girls who knew you very well.” Everyone in the lab stopped and turned in the direction of the operative’s booming voice. Mayorov waited a long beat and bent down to the student. “It might be in your interest to have this conversation in private.”
Deryabin scoffed but threw on his jacket and trudged out of the room obediently.
When Ivan Mayorov had gone into work that morning, Marat Valeyev had not been in the office. In such cases, the captain would usually call and dictate the day’s agenda to the senior lieutenant. No call like that had come today. Mayorov had fiddled with the thumb drive that held the surveillance footage from the bank — in which a part of The Philatelist’s entrance was visible — but decided against inserting it into the computer. Let the detective take care of that. It wasn’t too hard to figure out what he needed to be doing.
Mayorov scanned the bulletin of persons arrested overnight. Unfortunately, neither Lisa Malyshko nor Igor Grebenkin was on the list. He’d have to do it himself.
The senior lieutenant was about to call Captain Valeyev when he got a call from Petelina. Detective Petelina didn’t mention her common law husband, which meant that — as head of the investigation team — she was aware of what the captain was doing.
Petelina ordered him to send over the bank’s surveillance footage to her, and then to head over to the MSU botanical garden ASAP where he needed to locate a graduate student named Oleg Deryabin.
“How did you meet Stela Sosuksu?” Mayorov asked the graduate student, once they had emerged into the small courtyard between the lab buildings.
“I met her not far from here. On the alley to the main campus, during a fireworks show.”
“And how come you two didn’t work out?”
“Do you even need to ask? She’s a prostitute!”
“I’d like to know some details about your breakup. Did you hit her?”
“You should’ve seen the photos of her that creep showed me. Filth! My dad’s an associate professor. My mom’s a school principal. It would kill them if they found out. I couldn’t stand the sight of her. Stela came crawling over here herself. She was crying and promising to quit, but I couldn’t even touch her. She’s a dirty whore!”
“What are you a neat freak?”
“Oh — you’re one of the noble ones then..? Are you sure?” Deryabin’s narrow eyes dug into the operative. “Have you got a girl? I can see you do. Now imagine her on all fours with two guys on each end… And we’re not talking about rape here. She looks like she’s enjoying it. Today it’s those over there — tomorrow those others over there. A new customer every hour, prodding and prodding her. D’you get the picture? Okay, then be honest and tell me, can you really fall in love with a girl like that? I’m not talking about just sleeping with her — I mean loving her!”
A beckoning Galya appeared before Mayorov. Rumpled bed sheets, dimmed lighting, a female curve, a lapdog pose and two aroused men… Echh!
“So what do you want from me?” Deryabin smirked, appraising the operative’s reaction. “I said as much to her — and then told her to go back to work. To your question: I never laid a finger on her.”
The graduate student spit and smeared the saliva into the pavement with his sole.
“And, are you, Mr. Deryabin, acquainted with her friends, Katya and Lisa?”
“They’re just as slutty as she is!”
“Where did you meet them?”
“The same day I met her, at the fireworks show. And then one other time… Stela brought them over to the garden. We had a spot there — ”
“What spot?”
“Well, when we were dating. Before her pimp sent me those photos.”
“Where exactly is this spot?”
“There’s an abandoned conservatory over there in the garden.” Deryabin waved his left hand in the direction of a fence, beyond which stood the black trunks of fruit trees.
“Do you have keys to that facility?”
“What keys! The conservatory’s derelict. They’re going to dismantle it this year.”
“So one could spend the night there?” the operative inquired.
“In the summer when it’s warm — sure, no problem. But in this weather, well, maybe only stray dogs.”
“How do I get to the conservatory?”
“What for?” the graduate student became anxious. “I haven’t been there in a long time.”
“Gotta be done,” Mayorov shrugged his shoulders ambiguously.
Deryabin led the operative to the gate and pointed in the direction.
“I’m not coming though. It’s dirty. And I have to work,” the graduate student remembered. “I’m growing a new species of phlox. Phlox panticulatus. I can slip you some seeds for your summer home, if you’ve got one. It’s such a pretty specimen!”
“Pretty plants are great,” mumbled the senior lieutenant, figuring out that the student was talking about plants.
Mayorov looked at the patches of melting snow on the ground and imagined the fate that lay in store for his shoes. Then, he recalled the broken body of the young girl on the car hood and stepped into the snow — which immediately turned to water under the weight of his heel.
“Deryabin!” he called back to the student. “You don’t get nightmares, do you?”
“I take sleeping pills. I can slip you some to if you want.”
“Your girlfriend’s friend died two days ago. In the same exact manner as Stela.”
“I’m not surprised — they shared the same occupation,” scowled the young man shaking his head. “But I wouldn’t know anything about that. First time I hear of it!”
“And the third girl has gone missing. If her body is in there,” jabbing his finger in the direction of the conservatory, the operative fixed the grad student with a vicious look, “the next conversation we’ll be having will take place in another location. Just remember that — in a jail cell — sleeping pills are hard to come by.”
40
Hardly had Elena Petelina entered the Investigative Committee building than Mikhail Ustinov came rushing up to meet her. The state of his hair and the burning look in his eyes suggested quite eloquently that some novel and urgent thought had possessed the forensic expert.
“Detective Petelina, we were all waiting for you!” the expert announced, diverting the detective to the neighboring shopping center.
Masha Lugantseva came thumping behind them with a playful smile.
The girl must’ve been watching for my return from the lab window, Petelina realized.
“Where are you dragging me?” the detective objected.
“I’ve figured out how Ekaterina Grebenkina was murdered.”
“Alright then, let’s have it.”
“I’d rather show you.”
Misha Ustinov brought the detective to the entrance of the shopping center and stopped at the down ramp to the parking garage. A wide, knee-high barrier ran alongside the ramp. Misha had the reporter sit on the barrier and positioned the camera to one side of her.
“Imagine that this is the barrier on the roof,” the expert began to explain. “Commemorating her friend, Grebenkina approaches it, takes a seat and has a drink. Masha, pretend like you’re drinking.”
A bottle of beer appeared from the journalist’s bottomless tote. Masha deftly flicked the bottle open with a ring on her finger and began drinking from the bottle with evident pleasure.
“Alright, that’s enough!” Mikhail reproached his girlfriend and took a seat beside her. “Grebenkina was not alone. Someone sat down next to her — just like this — then, took her bottle and then…”
Misha bent down to put the bottle on the ground, suddenly grabbed Masha by her ankles and violently jerked her legs upward.
“Ah!” exclaimed the journalist and the detective simultaneously.
Masha would have fallen backwards over the parapet and slammed onto the ground, if the Tadpole had not held onto her feet.
“This is how the murderer did it!” the expert proudly announced.
“Let me go, you dork!” screamed Masha.
“If I let you go, you will fall. Work your abs.”
“Enough!” Petelina rushed over to help the girl.
“Why you sadist!” Upon regaining her footing, the journalist set upon the expert. “You could’ve at least warned me!”
“But I was conducting an investigative experiment that had to be as realistic as possible,” the Tadpole explained, retreating.
“Realistic? How’s that realistic? The fall’s only nine feet. And the hospital is right there.”
“Calm down!” the detective intervened. “Misha, is this just a theory of yours or do you have evidence to support it?”
“Of course I do! When Grebenkin was flipped, she struck the building wall with the back of her head. Remember that the medical examiner mentioned that he had found cement particles, or something like that, on the back of the girl’s head? I had Lopakhin send them to me. Then, I went to the murder scene today and found a bloodstain on the wall, along with some plastered hair. I scraped it off. I’m having it tested as we speak. I’ll have those results soon enough.”
“Excellent work.”
“Big deal,” Masha Lugantseva said, raising an eyebrow. “You still don’t know who actually killed her.”
“Conducting an investigation is like making your way through a labyrinth — but instead of looking for the shortest path, you look to make sure you haven’t missed a single hallway. By the time we establish who the culprit is, we must be able to answer the following questions: where, how, under what circumstances, by what means and why. If I don’t have good answers to those questions, the killer may never have to answer for his crime.”
“It’s so interesting to listen to you talk about this!” the journalist said astounded. “I bet you already know the motive by now too!”
Looks like I’m not the only one who knows how to flatter, Elena smiled to herself.
“No comment! And I’d like to remind you, Misha, that the details of the investigation are not subject to publication.”
“Welp, I have a ton of stuff to do.” The forensic expert grabbed the camera and hurried back to his lab.
The women were left alone together.
“I only stopped by the lab to take a pic of Vasilich.” Masha decided she needed to justify herself.
“What’s the message of the day?”
The journalist showed Elena the photo on her phone. Petelina looked at it closely. Wearing large glasses and holding a bucket of popcorn in his lap, Skeleton Vasilich was watching Malakhov’s “Let Them Talk” talk show. The inscription on the popcorn bucket said, “Life is Everywhere!” — a reference to the painting by Nikolai Yaroshenko.
The detective smiled skeptically.
“Modern journalism has truly reached unprecedented heights.”
“Provocation is the shortest path to celebrity. Anyways, black humor is in vogue these days.”
“In the old days, provocation was all about bedroom scenes,” Elena blurted out. Gomelsky’s blackmail had reminded her of itself with a renewed pain. “How are sex scandals dealt with nowadays? I remember one time, a man resembling a general prosecutor, lost his job over one.”
“Oh please! Who’d be shocked by that in this day and age? There are POWs who record themselves nude, just to stay in the public’s eye. And home videos? They’re like an epidemic. People record straight up porn and upload it to the web. Misha and I also have our fun. But we keep it strictly private.”
Elena glanced at the liberated girl with dreads, surprised.
“And what if, all of a sudden, someone steals your home videos and shows them to your editor?”
“Ah, let him be jealous! Surely you’ll agree that it’ll be cool to take a look at your beautiful young self twenty years from now. We watch them even now. It’s a turn on.”
“Pretty cool,” said Petelina and looked down.
How can these young people be so carefree with such intimate things? Am I already over the hill? Ruminating on this melancholy question, the senior detective headed back to her office.
In the lab in the meantime, forensic expert Mikhail Ustinov was darting in his rolling office chair from one instrument to another. An electric beep announced the culmination of the DNA analysis. Reading the data streaming down the screen, his eyes bulged in their sockets.
It has to be an error! was his first thought, but an epiphany followed in its wake: It’s we who committed the biggest error — right at the beginning of the investigation.
41
Ivan Mayorov tensed up as he approached the glass walls of the conservatory. He was coming up to the abandoned structure from the south. The bright sunlight cast flecks from the myriad panes of glass, obscuring what lay inside the building. A chill ran down the operative’s back. If someone was lying in ambush, he would effectively be at their mercy.
He had always disliked derelict buildings. A normal building has sturdy walls and doors, and it is always clear what one must look for and how. But in there, a wall would be a relative concept — the criminal could break through it in any place.
Though, more than likely, he was worrying about nothing. The conservatory wasn’t heated and it was unlikely that anyone had thought of—
It was at this instant that Mayorov noticed black footprints in the slush, winding from the depths of the garden to the conservatory. The senior lieutenant remembered what he had once been taught. The average length of the human foot was approximately one seventh of the person’s height. Taking into account footwear, this ratio would be a bit smaller. Here, he could make out two pairs of footprints. One pair was large, confident and evidently belonged to a man of about 5’9”. The other pair, between the first, had sharp tips, so it must have belonged to a woman of about 5’4”. The prints were right beside each other. The women’s steps had left a lighter imprint, as if the man had dragged his companion behind him.
But the thing that the operative disliked the most was that the footprints vanished in the conservatory — and there were no return prints.
“So what was the surprise then?” Grebenkin began to lose his temper, poking the gun’s barrel into the girl’s neck. “Quit stalling! Are you gonna tell me or not?”
Lisa Malyshko’s hands were still tied to the bed’s iron headboard, but she had managed to squirm herself some room and her tormentor had cut the ropes binding her feet. The girl could now sit up a little, propping her back against the headboard.
“Water,” begged Lisa, “I’m thirsty.”
“What do you think? That I’m going to run off to the store for you? I already gave you some snow. There is no other water!”
“My hands are numb. Untie me — please!”
“Enough whining you little bitch! You killed Katya and you’ll die for it. But first you’re going to tell me your secret, the one you managed to get from my daughter.”
“Your daughter…” Lisa looked up at Grebenkin. The corners of her mouth twitched, as a mad laughter overtook her.
The man’s eyes filled with leaden wrath. Grebenkin slapped the girl’s face sharply, putting an end to her laughter. A thin stream of blood began to make its way from the broken lip to the girl’s chin.
“Well that’s it. I’ve had enough. You admitted to killing my daughter. That’ll have to do for me. Rot in hell!”
Grebenkin put the gun up to his captive’s temple. The girl tossed her black curls and flashed her eyes. Her sharp gaze, like the tip of a spear, pierced the eyes of her tormentor.
“Then you will kill your own daughter.”
“What? You’ve chosen a poor time to mess with me.”
“Hello, dad.”
“Stop making up nonsense!”
“Dumbass. I — I am Katya Grebenkina!”
“You’re lying!”
“That was the surprise she wanted to tell you about. Look at me closely. Don’t I remind you of someone? The girl who died was Lisa Malyshko. I am Katya Grebenkina. I am your daughter, you dolt!”
“I don’t believe it… My daughter visited me in Saratov. She found me on her own.”
“She found you because Lisa was a fool! Her own mom didn’t know who the dad was, so Lisa always wanted to have a father. A nice, kind daddy. She tried to look out for me too. She found you on the web and began to bug me to go meet you. ‘Meeting your father will change your life. How do you not understand that?’ Truthfully, though, I couldn’t give a damn about you!”
“Why?”
“You have to ask? What a lowlife you are!” The girl broke into a nervous laughter. “So then why’d you ditch mom and me and didn’t never tried to find me even once?”
“You’re making all of this up. That’s all that’s going on. But it won’t help! You are Lisa and I will kill you.”
Grebenkin was about to raise his gun, but the girl continued to look him defiantly in the eyes.
“Don’t believe me? Then listen. I, Katya Grebenkina, was born in the filthy little town of Grayvoron, on the banks of the Vorskla River. In school, they taught us that Peter the Great came up with all these stupid names as he led the Russian army to Poltava. Peter would get up early in the morning and say to the trumpeter ‘Gray, voron!’ And then later, when he dropped his telescope into the river, he got pissed and said ‘Vor skla.’ I wonder what they’d call the river if Peter had taken a piss in it.”
“You could have read all that on the Internet.”
“Our home didn’t have any comforts,” the tied-up girl went on, as if possessed. “Out of my window, the only damn thing I could see was a bunch of Lombardy poplars, with hundreds of June bugs living in them. Mom grew potatoes on the tiny bit of land we had. You liked potato cakes with sour cream. Mom made them for you every time. You’d come over, stuff yourself and then go to bed with her. And while you slept it all off, mom would find the time to launder your uniform. Did I get it right?”
“You’re lying.” Igor Grebenkin shook his head uncertainly, painfully staring into the girl’s face.
“I’m telling the truth!”
“If you are Katya, then why did that other one come to find me in Saratov?”
“Because Lisa needed a dad — as much as I didn’t. So I told her: You can have him! You found him yourself, you can go visit him yourself too. So she went. Later on, you found her picture on a porn site and rushed to Moscow to save your daughter from her pimp. All men are hypocritical douchebags. They’re happy to climb on top of the daughters of others, but ready to kill over their own.”
“He doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Birdless..? Well, aren’t you cool? Lisa warned me that when you’d arrive, she’d tell you the truth.”
“Okay, let’s say you are Katya. Only for argument’s sake, mind you! You confessed that you killed your friend. But why? So that I wouldn’t find out about you?”
The girl looked down and tucked in her knees. She seemed even more defenseless this way.
“I got into a bind and simply made use of an opportunity that had presented itself. I needed to get away.”
“What kind of a bind?”
“It’s a long story. The important thing is that you identified Lisa as your daughter and the cops believed you. Katya Grebenkina doesn’t exist anymore. No one will look for her. And I’ve become Lisa Malyshko!”
“So what about the passport?”
“Oh give me a break! The passport photo is of a fourteen-year-old girl and Lisa and I look alike anyway. I can also easily just lose my passport and get a new one with a new photo. I have her birth certificate.”
Igor Grebenkin lowered himself onto the bed and folded his hands in his lap. He spent a long time like this, sitting and looking down at the floor.
“Untie me. My hands have fallen asleep,” the girl implored and softly added, “Daddy.”
“I don’t believe you,” the man shook his head. “You killed my daughter because you were jealous. Her dad had re-entered her life and you didn’t have anyone.”
The captive kicked her legs in exasperation.
“You slept with my mother. Do you remember the large birthmark that she had on her hip? On the inside of the thigh, right where the tops of her stockings would be? I’ve got one just like it.”
Grebenkin’s gaze slipped down the length of the girl’s jeans. A dim memory surfaced from under the intervening years, in which he was kissing a spot on soft female skin and then creeping with his lips upward.
“Show me,” Grebenkin sighed heavily, rubbing the stubble on his sunken cheeks.
“Untie my hands,” the girl demanded. “Come on!”
“So that’s what you’re counting on? I’ll manage myself.” Grebenkin stuck his gun in his belt and began unbuttoning the girl’s jeans. “Oh — and, if you lied to me, I’ll kill you.”
“You bastard! You creep!” The girl struggled. “Take your dirty paws off of me, you old goat!”
42
Before going up to her office, Elena Petelina stopped by the archives. She was met by Lyudmila Astakhovskaya, looking as elegant as ever with her vivacious and curious eyes. Petelina knew Astakhovskaya’s age and was perpetually surprised by how the woman managed to look fifteen years younger. In addition to this, Elena had the impression that despite her meager salary, the archivist wore a new outfit every time she saw her. Petelina realized that, most likely, this was just down to the artful combination of different articles of clothing. But how did one manage to acquire such a talent?
The perceptive woman deciphered the detective’s look of surprise.
“God gave us taste so that we may save money. By the way, Lenochka, take off your coat and turn around.”
Petelina as used to such strange requests and did as she was told.
“I thought I had taught you,” Astakhovskaya said with exasperation. “Slacks must either sit perfectly, or not be worn at all. The right fit will make your legs look longer and make your hips look narrower. Remember?”
“Well what’s wrong with mine?”
“You’ve got folds under your butt and bubbles around your knees.”
“It’s a desk job,” Elena reddened.
Astakhovskaya shook her head.
“That’s no excuse for a woman. Here’s what we’ll do. When you get your next paycheck, let’s go shopping together. Agreed?”
“We can go right this instant, if you want.”
“It’s still working hours. Don’t let trifles distract you; don’t make the mistakes I made.” The archivist placed a heap of papers onto the table. “Here’s what you wanted. This is a copy of an old case from St. Petersburg. If you had told me right away that you’re interested in fraud involving pharmaceuticals, I could’ve saved an entire day of work.”
Despite this reproach, Elena could see a lively interest in Astakhovskaya’s eyes.
“Don’t be afraid to ask, Lena. I’m still a detective at heart.”
The sign on the door to her office reminded Petelina of her position — senior detective. There really could be those who envied her occupying this office. Certain losers would be more than happy to take over from the “upstart skirt.” It was not hard to imagine the scandal that would ensue if they ever got their hands on the compromising video.
Elena plunked the case from the archives onto a stack of other fraud and larceny cases involving counterfeit warehouses and slumped into her chair. Being back in her familiar office did not do much to brighten her mood.
In order to help her former husband, she would have to investigate the theft and quickly locate the vanished goods. In order to help herself, she would have to decide what to do with the bullet that had killed the pimp. In order to get her paycheck, she would have to go about her duties honestly and catch the real killer. Cumulatively, all this meant was that she’d have to investigate, investigate and investigate some more.
Oh God, how unfortunate it is that there is no goddess of investigation that I can call upon for aid! They could put up a statue to her at the main entrance and we could all take a knee before coming in. As usual, Elena reached for her pencil and paper. If the ancient Greeks had invented a goddess of investigation, how would they have depicted her? The blindfold and scales are the symbols of the goddess of justice. The shield and the sword are symbols of protection and indictment. What would the Goddess of Investigation carry with her?
Elena hadn’t noticed that her hand had sketched a closed loop made of arrows instead of the customary arabesques. An investigation moves forward according to its own internal logic and sometimes leads right back to the point of departure. At least that’s what happens if she overlooks something at the very beginning. Her pencil traced a circle around the arrows and attached a handle to it.
A magnifying glass! That’s the symbol of investigation! Elena realized. How great it would be to have a magic magnifying glass that would reveal the hidden, ignore everything that was superficial and emphasize only whatever was important.
Elena tossed the pencil aside and sighed. Without the magical artifact, the detective would have to rely on her logic, intuition and good fortune. And good fortune only comes to those who aren’t afraid to work.
The detective checked her email. The army had replied to her request about the Yarygin Pistol. The weapon was registered to a Captain Aleksey Bayukin. Last November, however, this sidearm had been written off as lost during combat.
Some gangsters could have found it and then sold it to someone in Moscow, the detective thought unenthusiastically and recalled her earlier simile. Yet another dead end in the labyrinth of investigation for me to overcome.
Just in case, she forwarded the army’s response to Misha Ustinov, having underlined Captain Bayukin’s last name and added a note: “Who is he?” The Tadpole was unparalleled at finding information about any person through special, official and open sources.
Petelina looked through last night’s bulletin about goods stolen during transport. Trucks carrying electronics would get robbed right there on the highway. The same thing would happen to imported spirits, until the introduction of the Unified State Information System for Oversight of Alcohol Products. The robbers didn’t spend too much effort on cooking up complex schemes. A phony warehouse was the kind of trick that relied on happy circumstances. And besides, stolen pharmaceuticals represented a fairly particular market. Not just anyone could dispose of a large shipment of medicine. One would need to have connections. It would be even better if the heist had been ordered, targeting a specific shipment with a buyer standing by. Though, since it had been stolen, the shipment would have to be sold at cut-rate prices.
Similar frauds used to happen in St. Petersburg in the “90s. One of them was documented in the case file that Astakhovskaya had found for her.
Elena began paging through the investigation materials. She would photograph certain documents with her phone and make notes to the case.
According to the detective who had worked the case, a certain Aleksandr Kostromin (alias Kostroma) had masterminded the theft. The case file included his description and distinguishing characteristics, as well as several photographs of the man. Kostromin reminded Elena of the endangered intellectual who goes to the opera because his heart calls for it and not because his wife demands it. Despite his harmless appearance, Kostromin was never apprehended. He had vanished. Only his henchman ever went to trial.
An attached factsheet mentioned that Kostroma figured in other major fraud cases, including some that dealt with paintings and antiques.
Petelina was about to look up the St. Petersburg grifter in her databases, when she was distracted by a call from Mikhail Ustinov.
“Have you already unearthed Captain Bayukin?” she asked ironically.
“I saw your email, Detective Petelina. Bayukin can wait. There’s something else I want to tell you about. Something very curious.”
The expert paused dramatically.
“Just don’t force me to guess, Misha,” the detective begged.
“We are investigating the death of Ekaterina Grebenkina. But that is a mistake.”
“What mistake? We’re going about it wrong? What did we make a mistake in?”
“We made a mistake in the most important thing. Ekaterina Grebenkina is still alive!”
Petelina recalled how the orderlies slipped the dead woman from the hood of the car into the plastic body bag. The body had moved as though it were made of dough.
“April Fools’ is long past, Misha. Stop kidding around!”
“I proved earlier that the deceased was not in fact Grebenkin’s daughter.”
“Not his biological daughter! As far as the law is concerned, however — ”
“As far as anything is concerned… she’s not his daughter,” Ustinov cut her off, “because I found the real daughter. I’ve finished analyzing the DNA we discovered on the girls’ toothbrushes. The so-called Elizaveta Malyshko is the biological daughter of Igor Vasilevich Grebenkin.”
43
Ivan Mayorov flattened himself against the wall beside the door to the dark room at the end of the conservatory. He hadn’t made an error analyzing the footprints: The room was indeed occupied by a man and a woman. The operative recognized Igor Grebenkin’s voice. And there was a girl in there too… He could hear a bed frame squeaking and the man threatening the girl and demanding something. The girl was cursing and struggling.
Mayorov peeked into the crack between the door and the wall. He recognized the girl! Lisa Malyshko lay chained to the bed with her pants pulled down. Grebenkin was greedily pawing at her legs.
So this was why the girl was still alive. Grebenkin wasn’t just a murderer: He was a rapist too! It seemed he had decided to enjoy his victim before executing her.
Damn! It was too bad that he had left his radio in the car. Standard operating procedure in this kind of situation was to call for backup. Of course, he could apprehend the criminal on his own, but he had to keep in mind that Grebenkin was armed and could use his captive as a human shield. If something were to go awry, Mayorov would have to answer to the top brass.
Here, he remembered his phone. He needed to call Valeyev — if anything, to get his advice. His partner had ample experience with such situations.
The senior lieutenant got out his phone and stepped away several paces. A piece of glass crunched under his shoe. The tussle in the other room stopped instantly. In the ensuing silence, the operative heard a sound resembling the cocking of a gun.
It was too late to call for help — he had been discovered. Although, thinking about it, how would Grebenkin know that the person currently in the conservatory was an operative? What if, for example, it was…
“Lisa, are you in here? It’s me — Oleg Deryabin!” Vanya decided on a ruse. “The graduate student — Stela’s friend. Remember me?”
He stepped away from the door, no longer trying to dampen his footsteps. His fingers, meanwhile, were feverishly typing out a text message: “msu botan gard…”
The sound of whispering came from the room. Mayorov took this as a good sign. Grebenkin must be asking the girl who Oleg Deryabin was. Vanya recalled his conversation with the student and added a couple details for the sake of realism.
“I was growing some phlox paniculatus in here earlier. It’s a new genus.”
The operative’s fingers, meanwhile, appended “conserv girl…” to the text message.
“What an exquisite fragrance phlox has! The windows are constantly shut in here and the scent was everywhere,” Ivan went on inventing. “It would make your head spin — ”
“You — stop! Don’t move!” Grebenkin came rushing out of the room and pointed his gun at Mayorov.
“Take it easy. I’m a cop,” the operative warned, giving up his ruse. “Don’t do anything stupid now.”
“Well you’re no botanist — that much I could tell on my own. How’d your flowers pollinate if the windows were shut? You need bees and butterflies for pollination.” Grebenkin noticed the operative was holding his phone. “Drop the phone!”
“Easy.” Mayorov was trying to win some time and pressed the send button without looking.
“Drop it, I said!”
“Catch!”
Ivan Mayorov made a spur-of-the-moment decision and hurled the phone at Grebenkin. The criminal instinctively tried to catch the expensive device. The operative used the few moments of confusion to his advantage. He lurched forward, knocked the criminal off his feet and disarmed him.
Sitting on top of his foe, Mayorov picked up the phone. The screen was shattered and blank.
“Oh, tarnations!” Vanya exclaimed sadly. “Why’d you have to be such a butterfingers?”
Mayorov shoved Grebenkin into the room and cuffed him to the bed. The girl stared at the strange face with fear.
“It’s over. I’m police. I’ll help you in a second.”
The operative cut the ropes around the girl’s wrists. Lisa winced as she rubbed the bruises on her wrists. She looked at the operative askance. Ivan read embarrassment in her eyes. The girl’s pants were still around her ankles. A large birthmark could be seen on the lusterless skin on the inside of her thigh.
“Are you in one piece?” asked Mayorov. The girl shrugged her shoulder ambiguously. “Fix yourself up.”
Ivan turned away, switching his attention to the apprehended criminal. Irate, Grebenkin was futilely sawing at the metal bar with his handcuffs. The bed shivered from his exertions.
“Oh, yes. I forgot to introduce myself and read you your rights. I am Senior Lieutenant Ivan Mayorov. You are being detained under suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent…”
The operative heard the girl rustling behind him. Mayorov noticed the culprit’s eyes change. A look of pure wonder replaced his helpless rage.
“Stop ogling the girl, you pervert. Eyes on me!”
Grebenkin glanced at Mayorov piercingly and instantly shifted his eyes over to the policeman’s shoulder. Sensing that something was amiss, the operative began to turn his head in the same direction — but it was too late!
All that Ivan managed to notice was the empty bed over his shoulder and a sliver of the blackened brick that had risen above his head.
44
Katya Grebenkina was alive!
Petelina grappled with the unexpected turn of events.
So then what do we have? Lisa Malyshko was the one who died, and Katya took her passport. But why? Criminals fake their deaths to escape some mortal danger. Who is threatening Katya Grebenkina? She hasn’t committed any crime and she’s not wanted. Prostitution is only a misdemeanor. What is she afraid of then?
Petelina remembered how Igor Grebenkin had acted at the murder scene. He had seemed utterly confident as he had identified his daughter. In addition, the victim had Ekaterina Grebenkina’s passport on her. This and the fact that the father’s despair had seemed so sincere was what had led them to make the fatal mistake.
Petelina had often observed people in an agitated state. Emotions can always be a means to influence, or more precisely, to manipulate those around you. The newborn cries to get a toy. The girl flatters the boy with an intimate smile to entice him. An old man recounts his troubles to make his listeners feel sorry for him and to get them to help him. It is only when they find themselves in singular situations that people don’t care about the opinions of others. And that was precisely how Grebenkin had behaved at the scene of the crime.
Is he a good actor or was he also being manipulated? Who would arrange such an elaborate murder? Was it the girl in the apartment? Had she sat there, calmly painting her nails, while her best friend lay cooling on the hood of the car, no more than a bag of flesh and bones?
Mikhail Ustinov called. As ever, the expert had completed his latest assignment in no time flat.
“I checked out Aleksey Bayukin.”
“The captain to whom the Yarygin Pistol was issued?”
“Bayukin is no longer in the army. He got a medical discharge after suffering a heavy concussion. But that’s not the chief thing. According to the database of train tickets, he arrived to Moscow on the first of April.”
“And that same evening the gun he lost was used in a shooting at the Wild Kitties strip club.”
“There’s an interesting coincidence for you.”
That I don’t buy, Petelina wanted to say but refrained. She had not yet decided what she would do about that damned shell casing that Gomelsky wanted expunged from the case.
“Tell me, Misha, where is Alex Bayukin staying? Did you check out the hotel registries?”
“The hotels have no record of an Alex Bayukin. But his dad resides in Moscow — he’s a major general working for the defense ministry.”
“Did you find out his address?”
“Naturally. Not just his address — his phone too.”
Petelina rocked her head, smiling kindly. If every investigator considered it “natural” to see each assignment to its logical conclusion, the criminals would end up behind bars much faster.
“Email it to me.”
“Already done, Detective Petelina. I’ve also attached a photo of Aleksey Bayukin which I dug up on the web.”
“You’re a genius!” Petelina praised Ustinov as she opened the image.
“Tell Masha that sometime.”
“Female solidarity prohibits me from doing that. It could go to your head.”
Petelina hung up the phone and focused on her screen. Officer Bayukin looked apprehensive and tired in the photo. The detective did not try to delve into his psychology. She knew that a brain injury could critically alter someone’s personality — and not at all for the best.
We have a serious conversation ahead of us, Aleksey Bayukin.
Lyudmila Astakhovskaya peeked into the detective’s office.
“It’s addressed to you,” she waved an envelope, “so I took the initiative.”
Elena recognized Ivan Mayorov’s handwriting on the envelope and opened it.
“It’s from field ops. A thumb drive with the surveillance footage.”
“Strange that Valeyev missed the chance to drop in on the woman he loves.”
“During work hours, I’m just his supervisor.”
“Oh really? He doesn’t object?”
“I couldn’t care less if he did!” Elena snapped.
Astakhovskaya grasped the detective’s state of mind and sat down across from her.
“Men rule over peace. This is their law. And women rule men. That’s our cunning.”
The women looked at each other and snorted with laughter.
“You really know how to lighten the mood.”
“The mood determines how well people work. And people working well is what brings you your success, Lena. You’re a woman detective and you can’t work the same way everyone else does. You have to be better than your male colleagues. Otherwise, you incite the question: ‘Whose is she?’”
Petelina knew Astakhovskaya’s unhappy past.
“They already jabber about that kind of stuff with Kharchenko,” she sighed.
“Jabbered. Until Valeyev made things clear to them.”
“Why do I have to have a man?” Petelina barked angrily. “All they bring is worry.”
“Well, they can bring some nice moments too.”
“Sometimes. Exceedingly brief, nice moments.”
The women smiled simultaneously. Astakhovskaya was old enough to be Petelina’s mother, but Petelina would never have been able to discuss such delicate matters so lightly with her own mother.
“He didn’t come home last night. And he didn’t call.”
“Did you have a fight? Or did you overdo it and tighten the leash too much?” Astakhovskaya looked at Petelina inquisitively.
Elena was spinning the thumb drive on the desk in front of her but thinking about an entirely different thumb drive — the one that she had placed in her drawer after Gomelsky’s departure. No, she was not yet ready to talk about the explicit video.
“Let him have a walk on a slacker leash,” Astakhovskaya advised, getting up. “You’re still on the government’s clock. I won’t distract you.”
Before opening the door, Astakhovskaya turned around.
“Chin up, Lena. You’re the best detective we have. At the very least, you are better than I once was. Don’t drop the bar.”
The advice had its effect. Petelina cast aside her doubts and delved into the thumb drive that Mayorov had sent over.
The front entrance to The Philatelist was visible in the background of the surveillance footage from the bank’s camera. An older gentleman with a cane descended the stairs to the store. With his thin mustache and sideburns he resembled an aristocrat from the old European films. He seemed to perfectly exemplify the endangered species of stamp collectors.
About ten minutes later, Lisa Malyshko approached the store.
No, no, Elena corrected herself. That’s Katya Grebenkina!
Having uncovered the monstrous disguise, the detective now studied the girl in an entirely different light. She could see that girl held herself cautiously and was anxious but nonetheless entered the store.
And who is this? Elena Petelina concentrated on the laptop’s screen. Why, it’s Denis Gomelsky! What’s he doing here?
A minute after Gomelsky descended into The Philatelist, he was followed by a man who seemed familiar to the detective.
I saw him somewhere recently!
The detective paused the recording and opened Mikhail Ustinov’s email.
That’s it! It’s the ex-soldier, Aleksey Bayukin himself! So the owner of the Yarygin Pistol that was recently involved in a murder also takes an interest in philately?
Elena hardly had time to process what she had just seen because the events in the video went on unwinding. The gentleman with the sideburns came backing out of the little store. He was dragging the girl behind him and waving his cane. Suddenly, another man in a dark jacket ran up to him. He grabbed the gentleman from behind and whispered something in his ear. The man with the cane lowered himself onto the stairs helplessly and the girl passed from him to…
Igor Grebenkin from Saratov? Precisely! He was the one who took Katya Grebenkina, aka Lisa Malyshko, and ran off with her in the direction of MSU.
Petelina went through the recording once again. She knew every visitor to The Philatelist except for the gentleman with the cane. The detective zoomed in on his face and sent a screenshot to the forensic expert. Thanks to modern technology, there were now ways to establish a person’s identity from a photo. It was quite possible that Ustinov would be up to this challenge.
The elegant, white cane was clearly visible on the enlarged frame. Petelina sank deep in thought.
In our time, this cane is a fairly uncommon accessory for a gentleman. The cane… the cane… Its owner had not acted like a chance patron but rather like an active participant to whatever happened inside the store. Wasn’t there an unusual cane with a secret feature mentioned in one of the old cases? If that’s a lead, then the best way to follow it up is with Astakhovskaya, that living breathing encyclopedia of investigation.
45
Police Chief Andrey Petrov frowned and looked up at the operative sitting in front of him.
“Here we are again, Captain Valeyev. This time, the shit you’re in is way deeper. My people tell me that you spent last night with the victim in the hotel.”
“That’s correct. I slept with her. She is a call girl. What of it?” Marat Valeyev replied bleakly. He understood how flimsy his explanation sounded.
“There were witnesses in the neighboring room who heard you kick the girl out of your room.”
“I didn’t hit her.”
“Let me take a guess. You had problems performing in bed. The girl laughed about it. The next morning you took it out on her.”
“I didn’t cuff her to the car!”
“What the hell did you take off so fast for? You almost smeared the girl across the pavement.”
“I already said: I have no idea the girl was there.”
“Were you drinking this morning?”
“I had a few drinks last night!”
“What are you yelling for? I’m not going to believe you more if you raise your voice. Anyway, ‘last night’ is a pretty ambiguous notion, Valeyev. The girl got to your room at one in the morning.”
“I’m telling you, I didn’t do this. I’ve been framed. Let me go and I’ll find the asshole!”
“Who’d bother framing you, you boob? I’ve got an entire carload of operatives like you in my department, and let me tell you, the paddy wagon ain’t nearly big enough for all of them. You boozed hard, then lost it — admit it already!”
“How is she?”
“Took you a while to ask. The doctors are looking her over. We’ll know later.”
“I hit the brakes as soon as I saw her.”
“And yet, someone else called the ambulance. Do you even remember what her name is, Valeyev?” Petrov glanced at the report. “Sofia Gritsay. She’s Ukrainian. I mean, sure, she’s here illegally and, granted, she was engaging in an illegal activity, but why humiliate her like this?”
“I didn’t humiliate her.”
“Sure. Well, you’re in it now, let me tell you. You’re in it so deep, we’ll need a crane to pull you out!”
The operative’s personal belongings were spread out on the table before the lieutenant colonel. The phone in their midst began vibrating. Petrov glanced at the screen.
“Ivan Mayorov is your partner, right?” he asked.
“Yup.”
“Strange stuff he’s writing to you. ‘msu botan gard conserv girl.’ What girl?”
“Probably the prostitute that gave us the slip.”
“Again with the prostitutes! Is he inviting you to come over and have some fun with him? You really seem to have a busy job, eh Valeyev? Yesterday, you were trying to barge into a strip club, today it’s one prostitute after another.”
“It’s not what you think. Call Mayorov and ask him yourself.”
“You know what? I think I will. If only to get the girl’s distinguishing characteristics. I mean, what if you won’t be happy with the size of her tits or waist?” Petrov made the call, listened for half a minute and then put the phone back down. “Your partner’s a real smart one. Phone’s off — I assume to avoid any distraction.”
“Hang on a minute! Mayorov couldn’t have turned off the phone. We don’t do that! What’s in the text he sent? ‘MSU, botan gard, conserv?’ That’s a location. Something’s happened there. Ivan sent the text because he couldn’t call. He needs help!”
“Yeah, for that girl,” snorted the lieutenant colonel. “No big deal. He’s young, he’ll manage. I doubt he needs your instruction.”
“I’ve got to get out there!”
“You’re not going anywhere, except straight to the holding cell… Well what’d you think?! I can’t squash what you pulled this morning. I already notified Internal Affairs.”
“I couldn’t give a damn about myself!” Marat jumped out of his seat. “Vanya was tracking a murderer. Send a patrol to the botanical garden in Sparrow Hills!”
“Come now, come now, a little quieter please. I am the one in charge here, not you.”
Valeyev vaulted over the table and grabbed the officer by his tunic.
“Tell your men to go help Mayorov.”
“Sure thing,” Petrov reddened and pressed a button on the intercom. “I need backup. This instant!”
Two plainclothes officers burst into the office. Petrov shoved Valeyev away from himself and stood up.
“Take him to the holding cell. And, if he makes any trouble, you are permitted to dispense with formalities.”
46
The bell rang. The proprietor of The Philatelist glanced with suspicion at the attractive woman who had stopped before the storefront.
Women aren’t interested in stamps. It’s not something they understand. When they stop by, it’s only trouble. Though, this lady is older than the girl last night — and smarter, you can tell by her eyes.
“Are you Benjamin Romanovich Lisitsyn?” Elena Petelina displayed her badge and introduced herself. I need to talk to you about an incident last night.”
“What are you referring to?” Lisitsyn played dumb.
Like a poker player, Petelina dealt five photos onto the counter one after another.
“Would you prefer to talk here or at the Investigative Committee?”
Lisitsyn’s eyes skipped across the screenshots from the camera beside the store.
“I just knew it. I knew that nothing good would come of this,” the philatelist lost his cool. “Let’s talk in my office. I’m going to go lock the front door so we won’t be disturbed.”
In the office, Elena Petelina sat down in the proprietor’s chair without a second thought. Even when the detective is on someone else’s territory, she must demonstrate that she is in control of the situation.
Petelina waited while the fidgeting philatelist settled down in his chair, then opened a thick folder and began reading aloud various information about Lisitsyn. She recited his passport information, place of residence, telephone number, car registration, real estate address, as well as the name of the company in which Benjamin Romanovich Lisitsyn figured as sole proprietor. This was all commonplace information devoid of anything incendiary; when one read it in a terse clerical tone, however, punctuating the reading with emphatic pauses, one found that the subsequent conversation would go that much more smoothly.
The detective turned through several other pages, which contained recipes she had printed out earlier, and mumbled, “Well, I suppose I can save the others’ statements for another day.”
Petelina hadn’t the slightest idea of what had occurred inside the store, but she also knew better than to let on as much. She gave Lisitsyn a stern look, held it long enough for sweat to appear on the poor man’s temples and popped a pointed question:
“How come you realized so quickly that last night’s incident wouldn’t turn out well for you?”
“You have to understand that I have been interested in stamps from childhood. I know everything there is to know about them. They are my life.”
“Get to the point, Mr. Lisitsyn.”
“Of course. The other day, a young woman brought in some rare stamps — or, to be precise, some special stamps.”
“By special, do you mean antique?”
“Not necessarily. The main thing is how unique the stamp is. I recognized the block that she showed me. They were rural stamps from the Okhtyrka district with a misprinted valuation of 5 kopeks. There is only one such block in existence. And it belongs to a famous collector named Brikman, who lives in St. Petersburg.”
Petelina made a note of this in her notebook.
“Had Mr. Brikman sold these stamps?”
“No. He was murdered. And his murderer, as far as I know, was never discovered.”
Petelina did not reveal that this was the first time she had heard of the collector’s murder.
“Tell me please what you know about Mr. Brikman,” she asked.
“Valentine Leonidovich Brikman?”
Petelina nodded.
“Oh! His collection has a fascinating history. Mr. Brikman’s father, Leonid Brikman was a salesclerk and had a quite sufficient stamp collection going back to the pre-revolutionary years. The Bolsheviks confiscated his money, but they didn’t know much when it came to stamps. Naturally, Leonid Brikman knew every collector in Leningrad. In the interwar years, he was fortunate enough to become the supervisor of the food warehouses. You can imagine what such a position means in a city under siege. When the Nazis surrounded the city causing a famine, Brikman began trading food for rare stamps. Stamp collectors are by nature obsessive and, even starving, were unwilling to part with their most valuable items. And so Brikman eventually realized: Why keep feeding them? Better do the opposite — cut off their food entirely and wait until they starve to death.”
“Harsh — ”
“But effective. As soon as the collectors died, Brikman would show up at their apartments and take everything! This was how Leonid Brikman ended up with the largest stamp collection in the USSR.”
“Did anyone ever try to establish its value?”
“How can you put a price on something that grows more valuable with every passing year? Those in the know said that only the Queen of England had a more valuable collection.”
“The conversation started with Valentine Leonidovich Brikman,” Petelina checked her notes.
“Leonid Brikman’s son, Valentine, was born in the mid-30s. He became a jeweler, though a rather mediocre one. However, Valentine inherited his father’s passion for stamps. A while later, father and son pulled off a genius scheme.”
Elena Petelina raised an eyebrow, encouraging Lisitsyn to continue.
“Valentine Brikman married the only daughter of a famous Moscow stamp collector. Over the years, the parents passed away, and thus two unique collections united into one. The outcome, as I’m sure you realize, was nothing short of a treasure trove.”
Lisitsyn raised his arms and rolled back his eyes as if he was holding a magical chalice before himself. Petelina yanked him back to reality.
“Mr. Lisitsyn, let’s talk about what you know about Valentine Brikman’s murder. It took place in…” the detective made a show of furrowing her brow.
“In “95!” Lisitsyn hurried to remind her. “A terrible time. I had to get by by selling salami. No one was interested in buying stamps — aside from the most calculating and perspicacious.”
Lisitsyn smiled slyly, letting the detective understand that he invested his salami proceeds into imperishable valuables. Petelina was again forced to yank the philatelist back to the matter at hand. She knew that she could just as well read all the details of the murder in an official report, but it never hurt to be aware of the rumors surrounding a case either — especially when it came to the insular world of stamp collectors.
“What did your customers have to say about Brikman’s death?”
“That the son had paid for the sins of his father. In a metaphysical sense, of course. The father had profited from death and so death took an interest in the family. Valentine Brikman was stabbed and robbed. The killer also stabbed Brikman’s wife. She died in the hospital. Only their son survived because he hadn’t been home at the time.”
“What about the stamps?”
“The police found a suitcase stuffed with the stolen stamps in the building’s attic. It contained 95% of the collection, but the missing 5% was worth ten times what was recovered.”
“So the murderer knew what he was doing.”
“Yes — that, or he had been hired by someone in the know. The killers got the stamps and then the expert picked out the most valuable ones.”
“And last night, that woman brought you the same stamps that had been stolen from Brikman’s collection..?” Elena Petelina slid a photo of Katya Grebenkina, disguised as Lisa Malyshko, across the table.
“Yes! Though, truth be told, something seemed off to me…”
“What exactly?”
“The stamps, the girl,” the philatelist began unintelligibly.
“Did she tell you her name?”
“No. She took the stamps with her too. She promised to return later on in the evening, once I’d found a buyer.”
“This one?” Petelina slid forward a photo of the sixty-year-old whiskered gentleman. “Who is he?”
“An old customer. His name is Tarmo… I forgot his lat name. He’s from Estonia but has lived in St. Petersburg, I think.”
“Why do you think so?”
“The way he speaks. He referred to the front door as the main entrance, which is a St. Petersburg term — there were some other signs too that I can’t quite remember.”
“So the Estonian wished to purchase the stamps, but the deal didn’t work out. Some strangers showed up.”
Petelina indicated the photographs of Denis Gomelsky and Alex Bayukin. Lisitsyn sighed and raised his sweatshirt, revealing bruises on his stomach and back.
“About an hour-and-a-half before the deal, this freak here showed up at my store.” The philatelist poked at the snapshot of Alex Bayukin. “He started torturing me, beating me up. Kept asking about Brikman’s stamps. I’m no hero, so I told him when the girl would return. What would you do in my position?”
“Call the police. He left you alone eventually, didn’t he?”
“True. The thug left the store. But he warned me that if I tried anything, he’d be waiting for me on my way home. He threatened me with a gun too.”
“A gun? Do you remember what model it was?”
“Detective Petelina, I’m an expert in stamps, not weapons.”
Petelina looked up an image of a Makarov Pistol on her phone and showed it to the philatelist.
“Was it this one?”
“No, I think it looked different.”
Petelina found an image of a Yarygin Pistol.
“That’s it! That’s the one he stuck in my face.”
It’s all coming together, the detective rejoiced to herself. The supposedly lost Yarygin Pistol wasn’t lost after all. Alex Bayukin still has it! I need to put out an APB for his arrest immediately. The ex-officer is in cahoots with Gomelsky. And the lawyer is trying to get him off the hook.
“They were all ready when they showed up,” Lisitsyn went on with his tale. “Tarmo’s cane turned out to be a cattle prod. He zapped the thug who tortured me with it.”
“A cane with a stun gun,” the detective wrote in her notebook.
Her mind was occupied with how she could detain Alex Bayukin as quickly as possible. His testimony could become her trump against Gomelsky. However, it wasn’t enough to simply put out an ABP. It could take a while for Bayukin to be apprehended, and she didn’t have that much time. She needed to establish round-the-clock surveillance of General Bayukin’s apartment. The son could easily stop by to visit his father.
She needed to initiate an active search for Alex Bayukin as soon as possible. She replaced the photographs back in her folder and stood up.
The philatelist began to say something about the quality of the rural stamps, but Petelina was already on her way out.
“I will send for you, Mr. Lisitsyn, in order to get a formal statement,” she said as she was leaving.
“As you wish,” said the philatelist in the direction of the closing door. “Only, it seems to me, that the stamps the girl brought in were counterfeit…”
47
After her conversation with the philatelist, Elena Petelina returned to the Investigative Committee building. No sooner had she gotten out of her car, than two plainclothes detectives approached her. Their cold eyes and prim postures left her no doubt that they were no strangers to uniforms and epaulets.
“Major Lebedev, MVD Internal Affairs,” the first man flashed his badge.
“Captain Pryahkin,” the second man introduced himself.
No one who works for law enforcement is happy to see Internal Affairs.
“I work for a different agency, officers,” the detective pointed out coolly.
“We are here about Captain Valeyev, who does work for MVD, not yourself, ma’am.” The IA agents surrounded Petelina from both sides.
What’ve you done now, Valeyev? The woman’s heart skipped a beat. Elena realized that she had not seen Marat since yesterday.
“And how do I figure in all this?” The pointless question gave her time to gather herself.
The officers smiled tersely but did not say anything.
“What’s happened?” Elena couldn’t contain herself. “Tell me!”
“Please step into our van and we will explain.” Major Lebedev took Petelina by her elbow. It seemed to her like he was prepared to apply force if she refused.
A worthy answer, the detective assessed her antagonist and yanked away her arm. I’ve used the same tactic in my interrogations. But you’re not dealing with your ordinary civilian here!
Having grown accustomed, over her years as a detective, to being in control of the situation, Elena knew exactly what to do. You couldn’t agree to their terms. You had to dictate your own! Even when it came to seemingly minor stuff.
“Major Lebedev, Captain Pryakhin, you failed to ask me whether I have any time to spare you. And, in any case, our conversation will take place in my office.”
The IA agents exchanged glances. As the senior officer, Lebedev was the first to respond. This time, the major’s tone was more deferential.
“We will be forced to identify ourselves at the front desk. I don’t think that that is in your interest, Detective Petelina.”
“You are suggesting that our conversation will be off the record. In that case, let’s talk in my car. Get in the front and I’ll sit in the rear.”
Petelina opened the door, tossed her purse in ahead of herself, and took a seat in the back seat in such a manner as to leave no further room beside herself. The agents were forced to sit in front and crane their necks in order to see her.
“Detective Petelina, did you notice anything strange about Valeyev’s behavior? How has he been acting in his private life?”
“Are you sure I am familiar with Captain Valeyev’s private life? Am I his wife or relative or something?”
“We are asking about a man with whom you are currently living.”
“This is starting to smack of gossip. Well, what can I say… Valeyev is very neat, like all men. His socks are all over the place. He doesn’t turn the lights off when he leaves. He milks the toothpaste for all it’s got. And when he shaves, the mirror ends up bespattered in shaving cream. A complete mess.”
Lebedev unwittingly looked away but quickly recovered.
“Is that the extent of your complaints towards Valeyev?”
“Right! Almost forgot! He needs to be reminded ten times before he takes the trash out.”
“I wasn’t asking about the minor details.”
“Are you implying that you want to know about how he is in bed? I’m touched you care. It’s stop and go in that department. I’d rate him an eight. If you decide to include that in your report, please also note that that’s on a scale of one to ten.”
“Satisfactory, then,” smirked Pryakhin.
“I don’t like the nerdy type,” parried Petelina. “Too much neck beard.”
Lebedev scowled at his partner and looked at the woman gravely.
“We are interested in the following: Has Valeyev ever hit you? Is he violent? Does he have any problems with alcohol? Please be truthful in your answer.”
“Look, will you just cut to the chase? What in the hell is going on?”
“It seems, detective, that you’ve forgotten that Valeyev was involved in his partner’s death.”
“I am a senior detective,” Petelina corrected. “And I’d like to remind you that the case you’re referring to was duly investigated and closed.”
“Well, now there’s a new one.” Lebedev watched the detective’s face carefully.
The death of his partner! A new case. Petelina quickly remembered the last time she spoke with Ivan Mayorov. No, Vanya is perfectly alright!
The IA agent took heart, noticing the fear that flashed across the woman’s eyes.
“Your beloved Valeyev spent last night with a prostitute. This morning, he nearly killed her. Brutally, I should add.”
“It can’t be!” Elena said confidently.
“What? The fling with the prostitute? Or the attempted murder?”
“I mean the ‘brutally’ part… Do you have a cat, major?”
“The hell does a cat have to do with it?”
“Valeyev has a cat, a tomcat. And anyone who has a cat is utterly incapable of being a sadist.”
“Well, what can I say to that..? Anyway, Valeyev has been suspended. We are currently determining whether he should be taken into custody and charged officially.”
Having said that, Lebedev got out of the car and began to walk away. Pryakhin followed in his wake.
“When and where did this happen?” Petelina yelled after them. “I need to know!”
Lebedev turned around. A vengeful smile flickered across his face.
“Why? What relation do you have with Valeyev? Are you his wife? Or his relative or something?”
“I’m his wife,” the woman acquiesced. “Common-law.”
“A good wife keeps abreast of her husband’s problems.”
The major turned his back to Petelina. She remembered the wedding band on Lebedev’s hand. It hadn’t been difficult to notice that, over the years, the thin ring had molded to the man’s ring finger. Elena looked at her own naked finger — with its even and complete tan.
Igor Grebenkin walked up to the fence of the botanical garden and, before clambering over, turned around.
Despite the oncoming evening, the spring thaw continued to melt the snow’s last remnants. Dry patches of grass had replaced the black footprints that had, just yesterday, cut through the snow. The patches were slowly growing towards one another, in places already becoming little glades. Soon enough the devil himself wouldn’t be able to figure out that three people had entered the conservatory but only two had walked out.
Smart daughter I’ve got. She knocked out that cop in the nick of time. Now that Katya is safe, I can get out of Moscow ASAP. As for the asshole cop, it’s his own fault for poking his nose in other people’s business. Each man has his own fate. We owe God a death and let it go which way it will.
48
The pencil crunched under the pressure of the woman’s hand. Elena Petelina shuddered and glanced at the piece of paper. It was unlikely that anyone who saw the jagged doodle could figure out that she had been thinking about the man she loved.
A few calls had been enough to get a picture of what had happened with Marat Valeyev. Elena was deeply hurt that Marat had slept with a prostitute. Why? What had he found with her that she hadn’t given him?
Such questions, though, were not so important at the moment. The main thing was that the girl was okay. She had suffered a fractured collarbone, a concussion and several contusions. The girl was in the hospital and couldn’t remember what had happened to her very well.
Paradoxically, it was the calculated cruelty of the incident that Elena found most comforting. Marat could not have done this kind of thing! Sure, he could have lost his temper and even used force. What cop wasn’t capable of that? But it would take someone utterly mental to commit such a crime so openly. Marat wasn’t like that. Sure, he was stressed out. In no small part due to her confessing to her lewd relationship. But he had faced far greater trials than that. What could she do to help him?
Take ahold of myself and investigate what had happened. Oh god! Yet another problem. Where are you, Goddess of Investigation? Help me in my time of need!
Petelina called Mikhail Ustinov.
“Misha, Valeyev is in serious trouble. Have you heard about it?”
“I heard.”
“We need to get to the bottom of it. But because I’m involved in the case, they won’t let me near the investigation. The case is being handled by the MVD’s Internal Affairs. I’m sure you know someone in their forensics department. I’m begging you, Misha, ask your friends about the case. I need to know all the details of the incident. Ask them to be extra careful with the investigation. I am certain that Valeyev is innocent. But you know yourself how things work out sometimes.”
“I’ll do everything I can, Detective Petelina. But… the press already knows about the incident. Masha found out first. I had nothing to do with it. Please believe me!”
“Damn it! Stop her.”
“If she doesn’t do it, someone else will. It’ll get out whether we like it or not. These days, after the police reforms and the sweeping re-qualifications, every incident that involves a police officer is examined under a magnifying glass. The public demands it, so the administration has been making a show of punishing bad cops — to cover their own behinds.”
“Valeyev isn’t guilty. Not of this, at least.”
“Well sure,” Ustinov agreed somewhat reticently. “Of course…”
The conversation ended. Elena put down the phone and felt a feeling of helplessness overwhelm her. Now, in addition to her problems with her ex-husband’s fraud case, Gomelsky’s blackmail and the convoluted investigation into the prostitute’s death, she also had to deal with Valeyev. Where could she begin? What was the first thing she needed to solve?
A melody began to play on her phone. It was Galya Nesterova, Ivan Mayorov’s girlfriend.
“Detective Petelina, I don’t know who else to turn to,” the girl said anxiously. “Vanya’s disappeared. His phone is off. Valeyev isn’t answering either.”
“What about the car radio?”
“The officer on duty couldn’t get in touch with them.”
“Did you call their department?”
“We work in the same building! Vanya left this morning on an assignment you gave him.”
Petelina recalled that she had sent the operative to the MSU Botanical Garden. At the time, she had thought that Valeyev was with him. But Mayorov had gone on his own. He had gone after an armed criminal — and he hadn’t been heard from since.
Anxious questions began to suggest themselves to Elena.
“What’s going on?” Galya voiced them for the detective. “Where is my Vanya?”
49
That night, Elena woke up and reached her arm across her bed. Her hand came to rest on the empty pillow. Her eyes flapped open. Where’s Marat? She couldn’t remember him getting out of bed!
A sharp needle pierced her mind. Everything had gone awry. Valeyev had been detained for another 48 hours!
Elena stuck a pillow under her stomach and wrapped herself into her cover. Oh god, she was so used to sleeping beside him. What would happen now?
Elena couldn’t fall asleep the rest of the night. And yet, once morning came, she got up early and made a full-fledged millet porridge for her daughter and some strong coffee for herself. Nastya, however, did not put much stock in her mother’s work. The girl picked at the porridge lazily with her spoon and turned her attention to the chocolate mini-cheesecake in the sideboard. In the end, Lena had to finish her daughter’s food the way she would when the girl was still a toddler. At least the porridge had turned out well.
“I’ve got a match today,” Nastya reminded her petulantly.
Another curling competition and I can’t even remember whether it’s a Moscow championship or just a club match, Elena reproached herself.
“Your grandmother will take you,” she promised. “I’ll remind her.”
“Grandmother doesn’t forget. Will you come to watch?”
“What time does it start?”
“At six.”
The curling matches would last two hours and Petelina would often make it in time for the last and decisive ends to cheer her daughter on.
“I can’t even say, Nastya.”
“Then don’t come!” the daughter announced decisively.
“Why?” Elena asked surprised.
“I haven’t decided yet whether I’ll play for real, or just let this one slide.”
“What are you talking about, Nastya?” Elena stopped washing the dishes and took a seat next to her daughter.
“The skip’s responsible when we lose. The team’s responsible when we win. I’m not the skip. If we lose a lot, the coach will make me skip instead of Katya.”
“Oh Nastya!” Elena threw up her hands and shook her head, at a loss for words.
“It’s all because of Thailand. Whenever everything goes well, something bad’s definitely going to happen!”
“Not at all, Nastya.”
“What do you mean? I lost my position as skip and Valeyev ran away from you!”
“He didn’t run away.”
“I can see by your eyes, mom, that not everything’s alright with you. Just like with me.” Nastya turned away. The silence lingered for an agonizing while. “So what do you advise?”
“Do what you have to and let things turn out the way they will.” The mother embraced her daughter.
“Is that how you deal with it?” The daughter nuzzled her mother.
“I try.”
Nastya poked her with her nose.
“Then I’ll do the same.”
“Okay. But right now we need to dress and get on our way.”
Elena got her detective’s uniform from the wardrobe. Today she wanted to look formal. She didn’t want to be reproached by the ever-observant Astakhovskaya. Surely, there was nothing the woman could say about her uniform.
At the building entrance, mother and daughter ran into Sergey Petelin. He flashed Nastya a friendly smile and looked at Elena inquisitively. A look of resignation lay buried in his eyes.
Petelina made her decision quickly.
“Nastya, you can go to school on your own. I need to talk to your father.” Once their daughter had turned the corner, the parents’ faces grew somber like two deflating balls. “Well, what have you got for me, Petelin?”
“It’s bad on my end, Lenok. Very bad. It’s starting to look like bankruptcy. I don’t own enough trucks to recoup the cost of the missing cargo. They’ll start looking for assets to seize. You remember that your mom’s apartment is registered in my name?”
When Nastya was born, the Petelins moved to a new spacious apartment in Elena’s current building. Later, Sergey had made a gracious present without which Elena could not have gone back to work peacefully: He bought an apartment for his mother-in-law in the neighboring building. In the divorce settlement, Elena received their apartment, while Mrs. Gracheva went on living in her former-son-in-law’s apartment.
“I’m working on your problem, Sergey. And I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
“Not me — us. Our wellbeing depends on your efforts.”
“I will try.”
“Lenok, it’s not a matter of trying here. You’ve got to dig as hard as you can! I’ve been duped. Those assholes stole my money. Have you managed to find out anything at all?”
“I told you, I’m on it,” Elena replied roughly. “I don’t have anything to add at the moment.”
“I get it. I get all of it… If Valeyev had some kind of problem, you’d kill yourself trying to help him. A former husband, on the other hand… I’m just another issue that you’ll get to in due time. Just try to understand that it might be too late!”
“Oh Lord!” Elena shut her eyes tightly and shook her head, as if she was trying to shake a great weight off of it. “Go. We’re only wasting time here.”
Sergey’s eyes narrowed in disdain.
“I hope that you’ll be able to spend at least some fraction of your priceless time on your family’s wellbeing.”
Sergey Petelin got in his car. Elena watched him drive out of the courtyard, cussing out a passing car on his way.
Do what you have to and let things turn out the way they will, Elena recalled her earlier advice.
The detective’s duty was to go to work, but her heart called on her to go help the person she loved. The struggle did not last long. Elena checked the address and headed towards the hospital where Valeyev’s victim was being held.
The day had gotten off to a bad start. And yet, it was not even worth comparing it to the nightmare that had descended on her last night, after poor Galya Nesterova had screamed, “Where is my Vanya?!”
50
The day before, as soon as she had realized that Ivan Mayorov had not been heard from for many hours, Elena Petelina was overcome with the same anxiety as Galya Nesterova.
Petelina called Mikhail Ustinov immediately. The Tadpole quickly established the last-known location of the operative’s phone. Sparrow Hills! The Moscow State University’s Botanical Garden! The same place where Grebenkin and the girl he had abducted from The Philatelist had vanished last night.
Petelina tried her best to calm Galya Nesterova, assuring her that she would personally go to the sinister botanical garden herself. Galya begged her to bring her along. Petelina sympathized with the woman’s situation and could not say no to her. On their way to Sparrow Hills, the senior detective called for backup from the nearest police precinct.
Two cops with assault rifles slung over their shoulders met the women outside the labs in the botanical garden. Both of the cops were staff sergeants. One was tall and gaunt with a calculating squint; the other had a round, plain face and a body that matched it. The cops were having a smoke.
“Which one of you ladies lost her boy?” asked the tall sergeant snidely. Noting Galya’s agitation, he winked at her. “Is it really worth looking for him? Maybe, we can just forget him?”
Galya froze in shock. Having often encountered male rudeness towards female supervisors, Petelina fixed the man with a steel gaze and switched to a formal tone.
“Major of Justice, Senior Detective Petelina. Please introduce yourself!”
“The Noose!” the round-faced cop whispered to his tall fellow.
“Zip it,” replied his partner.
Both sergeants put out their cigarettes and straightened themselves. Petelina listened to their ranks and surnames and then told them what she wanted from them.
“Where should we look?” the tall cop looked around.
Petelina looked up the coordinates the Tadpole had sent to her phone. She pointed to the fence and the dark garden beyond it.
“In there.”
“Gate’s locked, dagnabbit.” The cop yanked on the gate, which had a chain wrapped around it.
“Well, cut it open then.”
The round-faced cop ran back to the car for a chain cutter. He huffed and puffed for a bit but finally held up the severed chain proudly. Elena opened the gate and indicated the direction they needed to go in.
The cops walked on ahead, shining with their flashlights, while the women came up behind them. The disrupted darkness of the nighttime garden parted before them unwillingly, snapping shut as soon as they passed.
After a little while, the short sergeant came to a halt.
“Are we going to comb the entire garden or something?” he asked.
Petelina double-checked their current position with the coordinates Ustinov had sent. The coordinates, however, were ambiguous: They showed only the general area where the last signal had come from before the phone was turned off.
This approximate area was somewhere around here. But where exactly? And what, in the end, were they trying to find anyway?
The friable black earth of the garden gave rise to macabre thoughts. Elena was too scared to look Galya Nesterova in the eyes. She was sorry now that she had brought the girl along. The detective was racked with two contradictory desires: to find something as quickly as possible and to call it a night. If they wouldn’t find anything, then the patrol cops’ gossip about the weird Noose would only grow. But if they found, say, a body…
At that moment, a shot rang out in front of them.
The well-trained cops hit the dirt, bristling with their rifles. Petelina yanked Nesterova behind herself and took cover behind an apple tree. The women took a squat. The tree trunk was too thin to provide adequate cover for two people, but both women were unwilling to soil their nice clothes with the dirty ground.
The second shot was followed by the sound of breaking glass. It became clear now that the shooter was in the dark building that resembled an old conservatory. The cops fanned out, crawling on their bellies, and took aim at the derelict structure. They were clearly looking for their target.
Suddenly, a black figure appeared against the glass wall. It emerged from the conservatory, straightened its shoulders and began moving towards the cops.
The thin sergeant turned and looked at Petelina inquisitively, as if to ask, “What’re our orders, lady?” His posture was tense, indicating his readiness to squeeze the tendons of his index finger and through them the trigger of his assault rifle.
“Stop!” Petelina yelled at the black figure. Her voice came out pinched and unconvincing.
The stranger darted behind an apple tree. Elena managed to catch sight of a gun in his hand. He was obviously ready to shoot back.
Who is he? wondered the detective. Why shoot from inside the glass structure? If he’s just committed some serious crime, then he’s in an agitated state and won’t be willing to surrender just like that.
Observing the detective’s indecisiveness, the tall sergeant gestured to his partner, asking “Do you see him?” The round-faced cop nodded. The tall cop touched the barrel and his leg, meaning, “Can you hit him?” The partner shook his head and indicated first his eyes and then his forehead, meaning, “I can see his head.” “I’ll scare him, while you…” the silent conversation continued. “Alright!” the round-faced sergeant nodded, spread his elbows and took aim.
Elena Petelina understood that the situation was getting away from her. She took a deep breath and yelled as hard as she could at the hiding enemy.
“Drop your weapon and come out at once!”
But her words were lost in the noise of gunfire, bursting against the top of the apple tree. The figure jumped to its side and rolled across its back toward a thicker tree. However, it had not gathered enough momentum to cover the distance and had to jump up and sprint the remainder.
Petelina saw the rifle’s barrel track the silhouette and freeze. The sergeant had found his target!
But at this instant, a woman’s scream rent the night.
“Vaaa-nyaaa!”
Galya Nesterova was running toward the black figure. The woman crossed the line of fire just as the sergeant’s finger was ready to squeeze the trigger. Petelina realized who the figure was a second earlier. You can’t fool a loving heart.
And the detective hurled her purse!
The short burst of rifle-fire ploughed into the raw earth. Petelina hadn’t missed — the purse had struck the menacing weapon right on the barrel.
They took the detective’s car back, since the operatives’ car was nowhere to be found. Elena Petelina drove — while in the back, a shining Galya Nesterova hugged her dearly beloved Ivan Mayorov.
Vanya explained that the girl he thought was a hostage turned out to be Grebenkin’s accomplice. She had knocked him out. Coming to, he had found himself handcuffed to the headboard of the iron bed with his own cuffs. The girl was already gone. Grebenkin left a bit later, after it was completely dark out. He took the keys to Mayorov’s car and tossed the operative’s sidearm into the old vegetable patch.
Mayorov managed to detach the headboard from the heavy bed. He dragged it over to his gun and used two shots to break the chain of his cuffs.
These were the shots that the search party had heard. If it were not for the well-aimed hurling of the purse, the operation could have turned out quite differently.
As soon as Petelina returned home, she received a message telling her that her information had been correct. The operative’s cruiser was found abandoned near Paveletsky Station. Igor Vasilevich Grebenkin had been detained as he was trying to board a train to Saratov.
This was the only ray of light in the seemingly hopeless case.
51
Elena Petelina entered the lobby of the city hospital, showed her badge and asked what room Sofia Gritsay was in. On the way to the elevator, Elena first sensed and then heard her phone ringing in her purse. She yanked the phone out of the little side pocket. Elena didn’t recognize the number, but the voice was intimately familiar.
“It’s me!” Marat announced. “I get one phone call and I… well…”
Lena didn’t say anything. Marat felt a chill and began to explain himself.
“Forget it, Lena. The prostitute was work-related. It was just business.”
“So how’d it go? Did you do your business?”
“I mean the criminal case,” Marat clarified bashfully.
“Oh, but of course. The criminal case! So, let me guess, I need to start calling every pimp in the city, right? You know, for the sake of the investigation.”
Oh Lord! What am I talking about! she thought, sensing her heart knock.
“Lena, I’ll explain,” Marat began to bluster. “Lisa and Katya looked alike. They had the same figures, similar haircuts, interchangeable wardrobe. They even had identical tattoos done. Butterflies on their lower backs.”
“What profound insights. It’s like you’ve slept with both of them.”
“They did it on purpose. One would take the place of the other if the client was lucrative and one of them was sick. But I unearthed one vital detail. One of them had a birthmark on the inside of her thigh. Just above her knee.”
“An intimate location. One would have to spread certain things apart to see it.”
“I’m not joking. Check the one who died. It’s very important.”
“Sure, I see. It wasn’t a romp — it was an expert evaluation. You were just investigating the hooker’s birthmarks. Did you find all of them? You didn’t miss any, did you?”
“Look Lena, I lost it that night and had too much too drink. Then something clicked and I decided to get some information.”
“Do you even remember my birthmarks, Valeyev?”
“On your chest. On the bottom of your left breast. There are two small ones there.”
“Leave my breasts out of it!”
“Lena, I didn’t chain the prostitute to the car!”
“If you hadn’t banged her, nothing would’ve happened at all!” yelled Petelina and only then noticed that she was standing next to the elevator and that all the women were looking at her disapprovingly, while the men were listening with interest.
What are we talking about? Is this really that important right now?
“Forgive me, Lena. My time’s running out. I didn’t do it.”
The call ended. Elena reproached herself for not asking how Marat was feeling and how he was being treated. Why, I bet he doesn’t even have a toothbrush! With unwitting tenderness, the woman recalled the rumpled tube of toothpaste in her bathroom.
Some visitors stepped into the large elevator. One of the men held the doors and nodded to Elena invitingly. However, the woman beside him slapped away his arm and blocked the entrance with her back. The elevator closed and hummed away, ascending.
The detective headed to the stairwell. Monotonous walking was a good way to gather one’s thoughts.
The detective had no trouble identifying Sofia Gritsay in the three-bed hospital ward. The bleached blonde was sitting up in her bed, propped up by a pillow. She was turning through a tattered magazine, the kind that one finds in numbers at hairdresser salons.
One fleeting glance was enough for Petelina to intuitively assess her “nemesis.” She was about ten years younger, but had already lost her freshness. Her look was as weary as her posture. Her hair still had volume but lacked a healthy sheen. Her breasts were larger, but her arms were thin, which meant her waist was beginning to bloat as well. Though, there was no way to tell under the covers — and then again, what did it matter? Elena was a thousand percent certain that her little legs were much nicer.
My Marat with her… Why the hell do men throw good money after such sickly nags? How does sticking their noses where hundreds have already been not repulse them?
Petelina suppressed her smarting jealousy and affected a compassionate demeanor. She sat down on the little chair beside the bed. She didn’t really need to introduce herself, since her blue uniform and major’s epaulets spoke for themselves.
Having inquired after the girl’s health, Elena Petelina asked Sofia Gritsay to tell her about the incident.
“Nothing unusual. Some drunk decided to have a little fun,” the girl waved her hand. “At first, everything went like normal.”
“What do you mean when you say ‘normal?’”
“Well, like I said, he’d been drinking for a while by then. You know what they say, ‘He’s got a glint in his eye — but only lint in his fly.’ So I had to put a little extra work in… Then we talked about some crap and passed out. He’d paid for the entire night and I was already burned out anyway. In the morning, I offered him another ride, but either he was out of dough or his head was killing him after his bender. Either way, he just shoved me out of the room.”
“Did the client beat you?”
“He didn’t hit me, but he was wound up. So I decided to get out of there quickly. I get all kinds of freaks in my line of work.”
“Me too.”
“Ha! I imagine,” Sofia Gritsay smiled. “Hey, I’ve got a favor to ask — for all us girls. If you get a rapist or sadist for something really severe — can you make sure to throw the kitchen sink at him? We’ve had it up to here with those creeps!”
“Let’s get back to what happened when you left the hotel, shall we? Did you see who it was that chained you to the car?”
“I crossed the street and was about to hail a cab when he grabbed me from behind and began to strangle me. The only thing I saw before passing out was his hands. He was wearing gloves.”
“Was the man who choked you your client?”
“Who the hell knows? Who else could it be so early in the morning?”
“Well, like you said, you never know…”
“Sure, but there wasn’t anyone else around. There’s no bus stop there — no one was out on the street.”
“Could you try and think if there was some detail you’ve forgotten to mention? Please, Sofia?”
“When he grabbed me, I started struggling and I remember I scratched the bastard over my shoulder — like this.”
“Are you sure?” Petelina took the girl’s right hand to get a better look at her nails. “They’re sharp.”
“Of course they are — they’re my only protection against the creeps. What else can you use when you’re naked? I got him good. You can bet on it!”
Petelina was happy to note that the girl was one of those about whom people might say, “She is what she is. One of god’s own.” For clients, perhaps, this was a drawback, but for her investigation it was a godsend.
The detective instantly called Mikhail Ustinov and ordered him to come out to the hospital. She couldn’t care less that she had no authority to be investigating the case. If she didn’t get tissue samples from under the girl’s nails now, it’d be too late. The nosy patients in the neighboring beds could act as witnesses.
While the Tadpole zoomed over on his motorcycle, Petelina decided to verify Marat’s stupid explanations.
“Sofia, were you acquainted with Katya Grebenkina and Lisa Malyshko?”
“I’d been with the agency for about five years, when Birdless first brought them in. I took them under my wing a bit. After that, they spread their own and — oh…”
“Did your client last night ask about them?”
“Yah! They’re all we talked about. He said that he was one of their old clients but still had trouble telling them apart. So I told him about Katya’s birthmark.”
“What birthmark?”
“The one on the thigh!” Sofia Gritsay threw back her cover and pointed at her bare leg. “She has a large birthmark right here. If you stretch your arms along your sides, it sits just higher than the nails. They used to check the length of our skirts that way at school, to make sure that they weren’t too short. Katya bragged that her birthmark would always show from under the skirt. She was swinging her hips even back then, the little flirt.”
“So the birthmark was on Ekaterina Grebenkina’s inside thigh?” Petelina clarified. She had secretly turned on the voice recorder.
“Yes, only Katya had it.”
Mikhail Ustinov entered the ward. After he had scraped under the victim’s nails and after Elena had properly drafted the interview report, she spoke with the doctor.
“Her injuries aren’t severe, so we’ll discharge her soon,” explained the doctor. “Anyway, she’s a Ukrainian citizen and doesn’t have any medical insurance.”
“Are you aware that she is engaged in prostitution? Did you check her for…”
“AIDS? Of course. She’s okay.”
“What about other STIs?” Petelina asked anxiously.
“We checked for those too. Let me take a look.”
The doctor began looking through his file, while Elena tensed up in anticipation.
“Here we go, WR came back negative, so no syphilis. Her pap smear looks fine too.” The doctor noticed relief spread across the woman’s face and hurried to assure her, “You have nothing to worry about, detective. Such diseases can’t be transmitted through ordinary conversation.”
If only you knew whom I’m really worried about. My wandering goat! Elena was still full of resentment towards Marat but also felt herself calming down.
Descending in the elevator by herself, she looked in the mirror and stretched her arms down along her skirt. Feeling mischievous, Elena lifted her skirt until it was level with her fingertips. Her thighs were basically completely visible.
Hold me back girls! What a scandal it’d be if I showed up to work in a skirt this short. I bet Valeyev would love it most of all. That lech! That pig! He likes it when I wear nightgowns this short — they’re convenient for him to slip a hand under.
Elena felt a pang of desire seep in from below her stomach. She bit her bottom lip slightly.
Pig… Animal… Male!
52
Senior Detective Elena Petelina took her time preparing for her first interrogation of Igor Vasilevich Grebenkin. The criminal case file was already lying on the table, the suspect’s name printed upon it in large type. Elena had stuffed the folder with blank sheets of paper in order to embellish its effect on the suspect: Let him believe that she had gathered ample evidence about him. She had also strewn half a dozen CDs around her laptop. They too were blanks, which she had labeled with titles such as Grebenkin — Surveillance in permanent marker. Petelina had used these same discs before, simply erasing one last name with nail polish remover and replacing it with the one she needed.
When Grebenkin was led into her office, Petelina raised one eyebrow and went on working on her laptop. The guard sat the suspect in the chair and assured the detective that he would keep watch outside. The detective nodded. She spent another three minutes clattering on her keyboard and only then looked up at the defendant. Grebenkin looked unsettled. He had soaked in the volume of evidence that had been gathered about him.
“Please sit over there,” Petelina indicated the neighboring chair.
There was no reason for this except to further demonstrate her mastery of the situation. Grebenkin did as he was told.
The detective buttoned up her tunic, folded her arms in front of her and took a long look at the suspect. She had purposely decided to wear her uniform for the interrogation. The major’s stars on her epaulets would serve as a constant reminder of who was who in this office.
“Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceedingly small… Mr. Grebenkin, this is the first time you are under investigation, so I wish to impart on you a well-worn truth. An honest confession will greatly shorten your sentence. Take a minute and consider: Should I be the one who tells you about your crimes, or should you be the one telling me?”
“I never wanted to harm anyone. I just wanted to help my daughter.”
“You wanted to help… Mr. Grebenkin, you cannot imagine how many crimes happen as a consequence of best intentions. There are entire nations that start wars out of a desire to help the oppressed. And yet, unscrupulous means rarely lead to scrupulous ends. You arrived in Moscow with an illegal firearm — a crime in of itself. Your arrival was immediately followed by a corpse — a woman whom you identified as your daughter.” Petelina leaned forward and asked a leading question: “Why did you push her off the roof?”
“I did no such thing,” Grebenkin jerked back.
A quick and assured response, suggesting innocence, the detective concluded.
“In that case, you must be familiar with the person who did. Who pushed the girl off the roof?”
Grebenkin looked away and leaned as far back in his chair as he could.
A hesitation. That means he knows!
“It’s in your interest to cooperate with the investigation. Who pushed the girl? Perhaps it happened due to negligence.”
Petelina was consciously avoiding the word “murder.” It’s imperative to speak as delicately as possible about tragic events to make it easier on the suspect to confess.
“I thought she was my daughter,” Grebenkin mumbled. “I had met her earlier.”
Petelina opened the case file and produced one of the few documents that had anything on it.
“According to the DNA tests, the deceased is not your daughter. Did you consciously make a false statement?”
“I didn’t know! Please believe me!”
I believe you, Petelina agreed without making any indication of that fact. She reached for the next document.
“Your actual daughter is a woman who calls herself Lisa Malyshko.”
Grebenkin looked up. There was a glint in his eye.
“Is that accurate?”
“With a confidence of 99.8%. She is your biological daughter.”
“So she told the truth,” Grebenkin muttered to himself and fell silent. His mood clearly improved.
“Yes. Your daughter is alive. Congratulations. The problem is that she killed her friend,” the detective confidently asserted what was only a theory of hers.
Grebenkin licked his lips and pulled at the collar of his sweatshirt.
“It’s stuffy in here. May I have some water?”
Petelina stood up, poured a glass of water and handed it to the man wordlessly. Dryness of the mouth and the feeling of stuffiness are signs of stress. The guilty man grows anxious when he lies.
Grebenkin drank all of the water and replaced the glass on the table.
“I am the guilty one,” he said, unwittingly nodding his head to every word.
Is he trying to convince himself? Or is he really confessing?
“Guilty of what?” The detective loomed over the suspect. “You pushed the girl off the roof?”
“Yes.”
“How did you do it?”
“Well… I pushed her. She fell.”
“Was the girl facing you or did she have her back to you?” Petelina knew that the girl had been sitting down before her fall.
“She had her back to me,” Grebenkin replied after several moments.
“Are you certain?”
“I took the opportunity and pushed her. She didn’t even have time to think.”
“Show me how it happened. Imagine that I am she.”
Grebenkin took his time getting up. Petelina turned her back to him and repeated her demand. She wasn’t afraid. As usual, she had turned on a hidden camera before the interrogation. The footage would allow her to examine every detail of the suspect’s behavior afterward and closely review when he had lied and when he had been truthful.
“Go ahead and push me. How did you do it?”
“Why, what’s the difference! Like this.” Grebenkin shoved the detective’s shoulders with his hands.
Petelina staggered. She knew for sure now that Grebenkin had not killed the girl. He was covering for the real killer.
Whom would he do such a thing for? The answer seemed unambiguous. His daughter! What was his motive? Did he feel guilty for being a feckless father? Or was this something more elaborate, like a calculated attempt to buy some time for his daughter to get away and then beat his own case at trial?
Grebenkin, though, did not seem that cunning. She could call his bluff right then and there, but she’d be better served by dulling his vigilance and moving on to another incident.
“At the time of your arrest, a handgun was discovered in your possession. A nonlethal pistol that had been modified to shoot live rounds. Where did you obtain it?”
“I’ve had it for a long time… I found it in Barnaul about fifteen years ago.”
By his fleeting gaze, Elena understood that Grebenkin was lying. But that wasn’t the most important thing at the moment.
“When and where have you used it?”
Grebenkin wavered, bowed his head and clenched his hands together.
“Mr. Grebenkin, you won’t be able to conceal anything from us.” The detective flipped through some pages and moved one of the Surveillance discs closer to herself in order to seem more convincing. “We have established that the gun was fired recently. We are also aware that you were looking for Boris Manuylov alias Birdless and that you confronted him outside of the Wild Kitties strip club. Perhaps you’d like to explain the rest to me..?”
“Manuylov is a pimp. He coerced my daughter into becoming a prostitute.”
“The motive is clear enough. You sought revenge. Did you decide to exact retribution in advance? Or did you shoot him spontaneously?”
“I don’t know.”
“The facts are all here.” Petelina drummed on the bloated folder with her middle finger. “You got into Manuylov’s car and fired from your pistol. It’s pointless to deny it. We found both the shell casing and the bullet inside the car. We also discovered your blood in the back seat. Manuylov was sitting behind the wheel. You were sitting behind him. Tell me, what happened between you?”
“I broke into Manuylov’s car and waited for him. When the pimp got in behind the wheel, I pointed the gun at him.”
“What part of him did you aim the gun at?”
“At his head, his temple.”
“Did you wish to kill Manuylov?”
“I wanted that scum to answer for the filthy acts he made my daughter do.”
“When did you shoot?”
“Someone else showed up. I think he knocked me unconscious.” Grebenkin touched a half-healed sore on his head. “I didn’t know that my blood was in the car.”
“Well, your fur hat was right beside it.”
“Really?”
“Really really. There is an enormous law enforcement system working against you. And so, tell me, what did you see when you came to?”
“Manuylov was dead.”
“How did you know he was dead?”
“He had a bullet hole in his head.”
“Where exactly?”
“In his temple.”
“Which one.”
“The right one.”
“When you threatened Manuylov, you put the gun to his right temple too, no?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember shooting?”
“I don’t remember at all. I passed out.”
“Even if you were struck, your finger could have pulled the trigger. Isn’t that so?”
“Could be.”
Petelina approached the window. She folded her arms across her chest and clenched them tightly as if she were cold.
There you have it. Grebenkin admits that he could have shot Manuylov. The second bullet no longer matters. I can do what Gomelsky wants me to. A simple solution to my problem. All I have to do is write up the report properly — and the suspect will be nice and ready for prosecution. And that’s not even mentioning that he has an attempted murder of a police officer hanging over his head, as well as the illegal possession of a firearm. An whole cornucopia of criminal charges.
Beyond the window, the late-coming spring was hurrying to make itself known. A blue sky pierced by sunlight lay above, while below the dirty puddles still lingered — stark reminders of the recent winter. The woman was similarly conflicted — she was free to revel in her victory, but a niggling pain kept her from doing so.
Petelina turned around to face Grebenkin.
“Last question for today.” The detective showed him the photograph of the sixty-year-old gentleman with the cane dragging Katya Grebenkina out of The Philatelist. “Who is this person?”
“Some old asshole. One of Katya’s customers. She had promised to visit him that day and he flipped when she didn’t show.”
“He flipped out simply because she didn’t come to their date?”
“He’s a freak! What do you expect from someone like that?” Grebenkin clenched his fists. “If my daughter had mentioned him earlier, I would’ve…”
The detective ordered the guard to remove the prisoner. Over her years in the service, she really had encountered some freaks. But none of them would have exacted revenge against a prostitute for missing a date.
So who are you really then, Mr. Cane?
53
“Lena, I dug up the case that involved a man with a cane.”
Lyudmila Astakhovskaya entered Petelina’s office. Her involvement in the latest investigation had rejuvenated the archivist, who already looked good for her age.
Elena remembered the older woman’s comment about her slacks and made sure to notice the narrow black slacks on Astakhovskaya. They fit perfectly. In turn, the perceptive archivist did not miss the detective’s interest.
“Slim-fit trousers,” Astakhovskaya did a pirouette. “They never go out of fashion. Every woman must own a pair. They slender the hips and lengthen the legs. Especially in black.”
“I see,” Elena agreed.
“By the way! I saw you on your way in from the parking lot today. You should really consider wearing something on your head.” Astakhovskaya sat down in the armchair, placing a stack of papers on the desk.
“I’ve always had problems in that department. I can’t find a hat that looks good on me.”
“What hat? It’s April! You need a beret! It’s an eternal classic. You’d look good in a terracotta red one. I can give you mine if you like. It’s twenty years old, but given how much they pay me here, I can only afford very nice things.”
“Terracotta red, you say?” Elena imagined herself in a beret.
“Sure. If you want a mischievous look, you wear it further back on your head. And if you want to look mysterious, slant it to one side.”
“As soon as I have some time for shopping, I’ll — ”
“Remember the first rule. We aren’t rich enough to buy cheap things.”
“I’m not sure I’ll manage without you.”
“That’s fine! I’ll take you on as my charge.”
“What did you find out about the cane?” Petelina got back to the business at hand.
“Remember the devil-may-care “90s? Every little thug had more guns than dirty socks. They were running around with them in the open. If you needed to pat someone down, you checked for the guns first and foremost. And so, one day in St. Petersburg, an old-fashioned businessman with a cane and a Chekhovian beard showed up for a meeting with a big mob boss named Boyarintsev, aka Boayrin. They had a serious issue to settle. You see, Boyarin had accused the businessman of selling him forged paintings for a large amount of money. You’d think that that would have been the end of that gentleman grafter, but his cane had a switchblade in it. He ended up wounding Boyarin and getting away.”
“The Boyarin? The head of the Kronshtadt mob?”
“Officially, yes — although I think Boyarintsev thought of it more as an entrepreneurial organization than a criminal one. He was under investigation for strong-arming businesses and orchestrating assassinations. It didn’t go anywhere though. As usual, they ended up getting him on drugs and illegal possession of firearms. Boyarin got a stiff sentence, but was paroled pretty quickly. A few appeals, a few bribes — you know how it goes. Nowadays, Boyarintsev is a well-known entrepreneur with all kinds of power.”
“What about the gentleman swindler?”
“I dug up his name: Aleksandr Dmitrievich Kostromin.”
“Long-Con Kostroma!” Petelina recalled a case in which some pharmaceuticals were stolen through a phony warehouse.
“The very one. He was involved in the same case you were interested in.”
“Where is he now?”
“Kostroma disappeared without a trace in “95. Considering how he treated Boyarin, I’d bet that he found his resting place at the bottom of the Gulf of Finland — with his feet encased in cement. Here’s his photo.”
Petelina pulled the image closer to get a better look. A blond goatee, long whiskers, wavy hair. She was forced to admit that the man needed only a pince-nez to complete his resemblance to Chekhov. Instead, Kostromin was wearing large prescription glasses.
A suspicion flashed through the mind of the detective. A beard, whiskers and glasses were all the most basic elements of a disguise. Petelina fetched the snapshot of the Estonian at the entrance to The Philatelist and compared it to the photograph of Kostromin. The differences, however, were glaring. Kostromin’s face was drawn out, while the Estonian had a broad chin. The St. Petersburg conman had blond hair, while the Estonian’s hair and mustache were black. Even the eyes were colored differently — Kostromin’s were a light green, while the Estonian seemed to have hazel eyes.
“Do you suspect a reincarnation?” Astakhovskaya guessed her colleague’s train of thought.
“There’s an Estonian involved in this case. He carries a cane too. One with a stun gun though.”
“A new century brings with it new possibilities.”
“He’s from St. Petersburg too.”
“Perhaps he was acquainted with Kostroma and decided to imitate him.”
Petelina phoned Ustinov.
“Misha, I sent you a photo of a man with a mustache and sideburns. Did you figure out who he is?”
“His name is Tarmo Keelp. He’s a businessman from Estonia. The last few years, he’s been making extended stays in Moscow.”
“Has he been involved in anything?”
“Nothing criminal.”
“What’s he do then?”
“It’s hard to say. Tarmo Keelp is not a registered owner of any Russian company.”
“Misha, you’re a computer genius,” Elena knew to offer flattery before asking a man for a favor. “I’m going to send you another photo. It was taken in “95 and shows a conman from St. Petersburg named Kostromin. Try to figure out whether he ever crossed paths with Tarmo Keelp.”
“Well, I can give it a shot of course,” the Tadpole promised, abashed.
Hardly had the detective put down her office phone, than her cell phone began ringing. The caller ID showed that the call was from Denis Gomelsky. The change in Elena’s face did not escape Astakhovskaya’s notice.
Elena picked up the phone as if she was afraid of burning herself.
“So what’s up, Petelina?” Gomelsky got straight to the point. “Time is short. What did you decide?”
“I’m not alone right now,” Elena replied through clenched teeth. “I’m at work.”
“I hope you’re working on our little problem. Otherwise, I might have to acquaint your daughter’s friends and teachers with the adventures of her depraved mother.”
Elena covered the microphone. Astakhovskaya understood that she was interfering and quickly took her leave. Alone in the office, Elena exhaled and went on the offense.
“I’ve found out a thing or two about you, Gomelsky. It turns out that you’re very interested in rare stamps.”
The lawyer did not say anything. When the silence was getting too long, Petelina asked tersely:
“What were you doing at the stamp collector’s store?”
Gomelsky lost his cool.
“You need to think about yourself instead of spying on me! I’m giving you 24 hours, ya Noose! If by tomorrow evening you haven’t solved our little problem, I’ll upload the video to the web.”
The ensuing silence brought with it both joy and worry.
The stamps! I’ve found his sore spot. But what can I accomplish in just one day?
54
“Stop by my office,” Kharchenko said stiffly and hung up.
Based on the boss’s voice, it wasn’t hard to figure out that he was dissatisfied with something. Then again, being dissatisfied is part of any supervisor’s job description.
Petelina took the elevator up to the colonel’s office. Col. Kharchenko was frowning more than usual. He indicated a chair for her to sit in and stood up himself.
“Elena you can’t just initiate the surveillance of a major general working for the Ministry of Defense without at least letting me know first.”
“The surveillance of a general? What are you talking about, Colonel Kharchenko, sir?”
“Your actions have put me in a very awkward position.”
“I don’t understand. Could you explain please?” As she spoke, Petelina was forced to crane her neck and look up at her boss in order to follow his meanderings around the room. She had used the very same technique during her interrogations.
“General Konstantin Bayukin!” Kharchenko abruptly bent down to Elena and fixed her with a cold stare. “Aha! I can see that no further explanation is required. In fact, it is your explanation that I would like to hear now. Under what grounds have you placed the general’s apartment under surveillance?”
Petelina understood what the problem was.
“I put out an APB for Aleksey Bayukin, the son of General Konstantin Bayukin. I notified the local police department of the general’s place of residence and warned them that his son might show up at the apartment.”
“Wonderful! You know what they did? They parked a police van next to the general’s front door. It has a yellow stripe on it and the words ‘POLICE’ on it and everything! Certain individuals noticed it the second day it was there. You know who these individuals were? Our own dear colleagues — detectives from the military prosecutor’s office. Naturally, they had some questions for the chief of police. He, in turn, produced the authorization from our agency. So I get a call, and guess what? I have no answers for them. You think that’s okay?”
“Aleksey Bayukin is suspected of a serious crime.”
“Why don’t I know anything about it?”
Elena recalled the damned shell casing from the Yarygin Pistol, the thumb drive and Gomelsky’s demand.
“It could be that Aleksey Bayukin is not actually involved. I simply needed to make sure.”
“Detective Petelina,” Kharchenko retook his seat and slapped the tabletop; it was clear however that he was beginning to calm down, “I trust you completely, but I ask only one thing: Don’t put me stupid situations. You could have taken a moment to imagine how your assignment would pan out and grasped the consequences of what you were about to do.”
“Respectfully, Colonel Kharchenko, there is no way I could have foreseen the involvement of detectives from the military prosecutor’s office. What were they doing there anyway?”
“The defense ministry is currently investigating the embezzlement of public housing intended for retired service personnel. It’s a serious matter. General Bayukin is a suspect in the investigation. However, they have been unable to discover any cash or bank accounts in his name. As a result, the detectives are taking their time with the actual indictment. They’ve even approached me, asking whether we had anything on the general. So what do you think I was supposed to say?”
“Colonel Kharchenko, sir, who can find a way out of a delicate situation better than you?”
The flattery had its effect. The colonel reclined back in his seat and rocked back and forth a couple times.
“Well, I threw some nonsense their way. But not before I pumped them for whatever they had.”
“And?”
“General Bayukin is a tiny cog in a much grander scheme. The actual mastermind is a civilian — he’s experienced and intelligent. But who he actually is — no one knows. The army detectives want to use the general to get at the head honcho. I understand that you’re conducting a murder investigation, but have you come across anything involving this kind of fraud?”
“Nothing like this,” Petelina blurted out. She instantly remembered her ex-husband’s problem. Sergey Petelin had also fallen victim to some conmen.
“If you come across anything, we have to share it with them.”
“Yes, of course.”
“By the way, General Bayukin already knows that he’s under investigation. He’s retained a good lawyer. You know who? Your old acquaintance, Denis Gomelsky.”
Elena flinched and looked down.
If only I’d never met Gomelsky!
55
For the past half hour, General Konstantin Bayukin had been waiting in his car, parked alongside Kutuzov Avenue. The general was waiting.
Hundreds of luxury cars had zoomed by, among them, every once in a while, official limousines with SUV escorts. No one cared one bit about the speed limit. The drivers all knew that this broad and straight federal highway had no surveillance cameras along it. This was probably the only major thoroughfare in the capital that afforded such privileges. After all, why saddle the rick and powerful of this world with such petty cares?
A government car with a special license plate issued to members of parliament pulled over a little distance in front of Bayukin. The general hurried towards the stopped car. He opened the rear door and saw his old friend and onetime superior officer. The familiar member of parliament was well into what one would call the “twilight” years of his life.
“Get in, Kostya,” the passenger waved carelessly and signaled to his driver, “You, go have a smoke.”
Left alone, the MP was quick to warn the general:
“This is the last time I’m helping you. I don’t need all this.”
“This is very important for me,” Bayukin replied. “I promise I won’t ask you for any more favors. Did you manage to find out anything?”
“I had a chat with a colleague in the steering committee. The defense ministry’s audit of public housing was initiated at the request of one of our inveterate law-lovers. He, in turn, was turned onto it by a lawyer, who also provided him with some evidence to get the ball rolling.”
“Who? What lawyer?”
“Err… what was his name..? Gomelsky. That’s right! Denis Gomelsky.”
Bayukin was stunned.
“So that’s how those damned ambulance-chasers find their clients,” he railed after a pause. “It’s like a glassmaker who goes around casting stones at night.”
“I see that you’ve met this Gomelsky before. In which case, I’m happy to’ve helped, Kostya. And… don’t call me again. I don’t need other people’s problems. I have enough of my own — believe me.”
56
Gomelsky. That snake Gomelsky! And yet, once upon a time, I really believed him. A handsome man, a successful lawyer — but underneath, a cynical manipulator! Why do women have such poor luck with pretty men? What am I supposed to do?
In her left hand, Elena Petelina clutched the evidence baggie with the bullet from the Yarygin Pistol she had found. Her right clenched the thumb drive with the disgusting video.
The solution is obvious, a wicked voice whispered in her head. Give him the bullet, charge Grebenkin with the pimp’s murder and that’s all she wrote!
There was also the shell casing from the Yarygin Pistol to worry about — the one in the Tadpole’s lab.
Ha! You already said that the shell casing might’ve been in the car from an earlier incident and has nothing to do with the murder!
And yet, again, Aleksey Bayukin is out there somewhere and that Yarygin Pistol is on him. What if he gets caught?
Leave Bayukin out of it. Don’t you get that that’s what Gomelsky really wants?
Then, what happens if Gomelsky saves a copy of the video and decides to use it sometime later?
You’ll have to trust him. You’ve got no other choice!
“There’s always a choice,” Elena muttered the tired phrase.
Between bad and worse, replied the little voice, choose the bad before it’s too late, you dolt!
“Lena, are you free?”
Petelina flinched and, looking up, saw Lyudmila Astakhovskaya standing in her doorway. Her fingers relaxed. The bullet and the thumb drive dropped back into the desk drawer. Elena nodded silently.
“Elena, forgive my nosiness, but I saw how you reacted when Gomelsky called.” Astakhovskaya took a seat across from Petelina, pointing at the phone. “His last name appeared on the screen.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“You have no idea, Lena. You seemed disgusted to even touch the phone.”
“I quite like my phone.”
“Yes, perhaps, but too many creeps know the number. You don’t have to say anything; I already figured that Gomelsky’s causing you problems.”
“He lied to me!”
“You don’t say! He must be a very good lawyer then. How do you know a lawyer is lying?”
“His lips are moving.”
“Pre-cisely.”
The women smiled at the same time. The smiles, however, were as fleeting as a falling star.
“How is Marat? I heard he’s in trouble,” Astakhovskaya said empathetically.
“Deep trouble. He’s been arrested. IA is involved.”
“But he’s not guilty, right?”
“If he weren’t guilty of something, he’d never have ended up in this situation to begin with.”
“Hardship forces us to take stock of our feelings. You’ll help him, won’t you?”
“Lyudmila Vladimirovna, honestly, I’m falling apart here. I’ve got so many problems at once,” Elena shook her head dejectedly.
“I can see that, Lena. That’s why I came back — I want to help you.” Astakhovskaya placed a substantial stack of documents onto the desk. “I decided to take a closer look at that slimy Gomelsky. After all, I still have friends in various agencies, and all the archives are at my beck and call.”
“And?” Petelina scooted closer to the desk.
“Denis Gomelsky started his practice in St. Petersburg right out of law school. That was in “95. He mostly handled criminal cases back then. Later on, the St. Petersburg crowd moved to Moscow and began taking over the powerful government posts there. Gomelsky followed them. His current specialty is defending corrupt officials.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. Government officials are the perfect clientele for a lawyer. Claim that the case is politically motivated and appeal every decision.”
“That’s not the most interesting thing though. I found out that Gomelsky is frequently mentioned in dubious business deals.”
“What kind of deals?” Petelina looked up from the documents that Astakhovskaya had brought her.
“He specializes in inserting ‘poison pills’ into real estate closing contracts. The seller persuades the buyer to understate the price of the contract — under pretext of paying fewer taxes. Of course, the buyer still pays the full price; just, part of it is paid under the table. Then, after the contract has been signed, a third party appears, claiming legal objections to the contract (which, due to the poison pill, is valid). The court voids the deal and the money paid under the contract is refunded to the buyer. However, the seller still pockets the money that was never declared, leaving the buyer with no legal recourse. The same con can be used in deals involving companies that own real estate.”
“Somehow, I get the impression that Gomelsky’s not after money.” Petelina slapped the stack of papers and asked directly, “Will the stuff in here serve as ammunition against him?”
Astakhovskaya shook her head.
“There’s no legal way to get to him.”
Petelina dropped her arms helplessly. The sliver of hope shining before her shattered into further pieces. Irritation grew in her chest.
“Why did you bring this then, Lyudmila? What the hell is this useless stuff good for? You may as well have brought me a bunch of fairy tales. What is this? Extracts from his St. Petersburg cases?” Petelina began picking out individual pages and tossing them aside. “And this? A copy of his diploma?”
“I thought… You have to know your enemy from head to toe. It’s the only way to find his weak spot.”
“Denis Valentinovich Brikman — » Petelina began reading aloud but cut herself off reaching the familiar last name. “Is this Gomelsky’s diploma?”
“Brikman is his real last name. Gomelsky was his mother’s name. He began using it after university. Gomelsky suits a lawyer better. Of course maybe he did it in memory of his mother. Both his parents died that same year.”
“Died…”
Petelina recalled the philatelist’s story about the murder of Brikman, the St. Petersburg stamp collector. And this recollection was followed by Denis Gomelsky’s agitated reaction to her mention of the stamps.
“Did his father collect stamps by any chance?” the detective asked pensively.
“That’s putting it mildly. His was one of the most valuable collections in the country. Brikman Sr. was robbed and killed, his wife too. They found the stamps in the end, but the killer got away.”
“I need to find out more about that case.”
The detective was frenetically going over the last days’ events. One girl dies, while another runs off with some rare stamps. She wants to sell them and goes to The Philatelist, where she becomes the subject of some kind of conflagration between a gentleman with an electroshock-cane named Keelp and Gomelsky, whose given name is Brikman and whose father used to own the very stamps the girl is trying to sell.
Too many coincidences. I need to get to the bottom of this!
Astakhovskaya marked the detective’s excitement.
“I’ll get you a copy of the Brikman case,” she promised.
The archivist left the detective’s office convinced that her visit had not been in vain.
57
“I am very sorry but I am currently unable to take your case.” Having turned away an important client, Denis Gomelsky slammed down the receiver.
Everyone could go to hell for all he cared! He had more important business to attend to: This was his chance to solve the mystery of his father’s stamps.
Denis remembered his father, Valentine Brikman, teaching him about his rare stamp collection. Over the years this instruction became a systematic education aimed at a time when the boy would take over his father’s and grandfather’s business. During his school years, Denis learned about the history of stamps. He knew every unique stamp that existed in the world. A good portion of them numbered in the family collection. More often than not, they were little more than nondescript tiny squares with simple illustrations.
Initially, Denis did not experience the same fervor as his father towards the ancient bits of paper. What was so pretty about them? Denis had plenty of classmates who collected stamps too. They showed off series that had vivid illustrations of cars, sailboats, flowers and animals. Denis had nothing that interesting to show them in turn.
Denis Brikman enrolled in his university in the early “90s. Around the same time, Leningrad regained its former title of St. Petersburg. The old Soviet supermarkets with their perpetually empty shelves gave way to retail outlets overflowing with imported goods. Beautiful foreign cars began to race up and down Nevsky Prospect, the city’s most famous street. And it was then that Denis learned the true value of the family collection. Giving in to his wife’s demands, his father traded a tiny ancient stamp for a brand new automobile. A minute clot of paper for a four-wheeled miracle of German engineering!
Some time later, however, a terrible tragedy struck.
Denis came home. The door wasn’t locked. He instantly felt something amiss and called his father. He found his body in the kitchen, with several stab wounds in the stomach. His mother lay in the entryway. His father was dad; his mother was barely breathing. It seemed that she had come rushing in response to her husband’s screams — right into the killer’s waiting knife.
Denis clearly remembered the terror he felt and the frigid stupor that followed it. He barely even managed to call the police — they were forced to call the ambulance themselves. His mother was taken to the hospital.
A bit later, a very inconsiderate detective showed up. He kept wincing, as from a toothache, at the sight of the antique furniture and the paintings on the apartment’s walls. The detective began to pepper Denis with questions and grow irritated whenever Denis was unable to answer them quickly enough: “Where’d they keep the money and valuables? What is missing? Stamps? What stamps? Can you describe them?”
Then someone from the hospital called and explained that his mother had come to, but that her wound was fatal and nothing could be done. The detective rushed to interview the dying woman. He gave Denis a lift. The ensuing scene in the hospital would etch itself into Denis Brikman’s memory until the end of his life.
His mother passed. A suitcase with the stolen stamps was discovered that very same day in the building’s attic. The next day, Denis realized to his horror that the most valuable stamps were no longer in the suitcase.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed the detective. “If they show up, we’ll nab the murderer. Anyway, people die in St. Petersburg every day. Go on now — don’t get underfoot. If I need you, I’ll call you.”
He never heard from him again. Predictably, the “wait and see” method of finding the culprit yielded no results. Following the tragedy, Denis changed his last name from Brikman to Gomelsky, which had been his mother’s maiden name.
Eighteen years later and thousands of miles away, the stolen stamps did eventually show up. But even then they slipped away from him!
The lawyer replayed the scene in The Philatelist over and over again. The Estonian with the cane had been no random customer. He had known the girl-thief and had wanted to take her with him. She had clearly been a dilettante and so was probably acting at his behest — but had decided to betray him. The Estonian had let the girl slip through his fingers at the store. But he knew more about her than anyone else. And he would try to find her again. After all, she still had the stamps!
Furthermore, the Estonian must have known how General Bayukin got the stamps to begin with.
Gomelsky left the offices of his law firm in a decisive mood. Half an hour later, he was at the apartment of his client, General Konstantin Bayukin.
Denis Gomelsky stuck his phone with a photo of the Estonian under the general’s nose. The lawyer had sneaked the picture during the stand-off at The Philatelist.
“Was this the guy that gave you the stamps? It was him!”
“Why hello, you bastard lowlife! I know everything about you. It was you who leaked the info about the apartments scheme. And then you had the gall to offer your legal aid!”
“That guy murdered my parents!” Gomelsky violently shoved Bayukin and, before the general could recover, slipped around him and put him in a headlock. The lawyer dragged the general across the room and threw him onto the couch. “Now you’re going to sit there and listen to me, and then you will tell me everything.”
The general stared fearfully up at his enraged visitor.
“My parents were murdered in ‘95. They were stabbed. The killer stole their rare stamps. I know every stamp in that collection by heart and I’ve been looking for them my whole life. So there I am, eighteen years later, reading about an auction in Hong Kong and what do I see? Fifty-two stamps — all as familiar to me as the palm of my hand — go up on auction in one day. All of them were from my father’s collection! It was a sign I couldn’t overlook. So I flew down to Hong Kong. The Chinese do not part with their customers’ information willingly. But I did manage to discover that the seller was a Russian — although, I didn’t expect anything else. I bribed the right people. And half-a-year later, the stamps I was looking for were again at auction. But this time, I was there too.” The lawyer’s eyes drilled into the general. “That was the first time I saw you and your cheap epaulets.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Oh sure. Listen, general, you may have entered the auction under a phony passport — but you flew over there with your real one, you dumbass.”
Bayukin tried to get up from the couch.
“I went to Hong Kong just to visit,” he said, “nothing more.”
“Don’t you move!” The lawyer pressed the general back into his seat. “I asked around about you here in Moscow. The main thing I wanted to know was where you had been on the day of my parents’ murder. That turned out to be a dead end. You were posted to Siberia and couldn’t’ve been in St. Petersburg.”
“That’s correct. I never knew your parents. And, besides, I’m no robber!”
“And yet, you somehow still have the stolen stamps! To answer how this was, I decided to ingratiate myself with you. The best way to do this? Concoct a criminal liability for you and then approach you to become your lawyer. How? I knew a simple truth: Dig deep enough into the life of an official and you’ll find some corruption. He who giveth and taketh away — is therefore he who owneth. Your job is to issue apartments to service members. So I did some digging. I figured out how you embezzle the apartments and leaked it to the right person. That led to an investigation — and certain respectable persons recommended a great lawyer named Gomelsky to poor General Bayukin.”
“You bastard!”
“No more than you. I took me a bit to realize that you’re getting paid with the stamps. Someone really did cook up a genius scheme. No transfers, no cash. An envelope with stamps and nothing more. Sneak it across the border and you’re rich! You would’ve gotten away clean if it hadn’t been for me. You have to understand that I’ve been looking for these stamps every day for the past eighteen years. For me, this is a question of life and death. My parents’ blood rests on those stamps.”
“I don’t know anything about the murder.”
“Well, now you do. And you should also know that I won’t give an inch in this matter.”
“But I don’t have the stamps either! I was robbed, remember?”
“I’m not much interested in the girl. She’s a patsy. Who gave you the stamps to begin with? Was it this caned prig?”
Denis Gomelsky stuck his phone into Bayukin’s face once again.
“Yes, it was him.” The general covered his face with an outstretched hand.
“What’s his name?”
“Tarmo Keelp.”
“Where can I find him?”
“I know where he lives.”
“Address!”
“He lives on Lenin Avenue. I’ll show you on the map.”
Gomelsky pulled up a map of Moscow on his phone. The general found the building in question.
“Here. An old building from the Stalin years. Apartment number 68.”
“What else do you know about the Estonian? Has he ever mentioned St. Petersburg?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“What exactly?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Bayukin barked suddenly. “And remember. Just like your own father, I have a son. He will avenge me!”
“How? From prison?” Gomelsky smirked. “Alex is in my debt. Without my help, they’ll lock him up for so long that you won’t live to see him again. Anyway, you’ll find yourself in prison too, if you don’t hurry up and skedaddle.”
The lawyer turned to go, taking the general’s cell phone from the table along the way. Reaching the doorway, he turned around.
“Yes, and keep in mind, general. If you lied to me about Tarmo Keelp, I’ll give both you and your son to the cops. This very day.”
As he left the building, Denis Gomelsky’s mind raced to his coming meeting with Tarmo Keelp. It could not be put off. If this was the person he had been looking for, Keelp had to die. The earlier, the better. And the killer would have to be Alex Bayukin. It was time that the captain started working off his debt in earnest. He had spent enough time off, resting at his mother’s apartment.
58
Elena Petelina picked up the phone. The conversation turned out to be a brief one.
“I’ll stop by in a second,” Mikhail Ustinov warned and hung up.
A few minutes later, Ustinov appeared in Petelina’s office with Masha Lugantseva in tow. The reporter’s dreads were a good match for the unruly shag of hair on the expert’s head; the detective, however, was far from pleased to see them — and that was putting it mildly. The journalist had been fanning the flames of the Valeyev affair. She had made it impossible for the top brass put the damper on the incident with the prostitute who had been cuffed to the car. Of course, the public instantly bought in to the story of the sadistic cop and started clamoring for his punishment.
“What is she doing here?” The first thing Petelina wanted was to turn away the unwanted guest, and yet she could hardly wait to hear the expert’s findings — especially since the expression on the Tadpole’s face looked so promising.
“Valeyev is not guilty!” the expert announced his most important news from the doorway. “The particles of skin tissue I collected from under Sofia Gritsay’s nails belong to another person. That’s my official forensic conclusion.”
Petelina looked at the official report. The DNA did not match. Valeyev was in the clear! The girl had scratched at some other, unknown, assailant. Thank God!
And yet, the relief that the woman in her experienced was quickly succeeded by the inveterate worry of the detective. So who had attacked the girl then? Who could have gained from framing the operative?
“Misha, did you check out our databases?”
“I haven’t found any matches yet. But I’ll keep looking.”
Petelina recalled Lebedev and Pryakhin, the hard-nosed agents from the MVD’s Internal Affairs.
“There are some who will find it unlikely that these skin tissues belong to some unknown sadist instead of one of the girl’s former clients.”
“That’s what I called Masha here for,” replied Ustinov, looking over at his girlfriend.
“It’s time I came clean,” the reporter joined the conversation. “I deliberately used my blog to provoke outrage about crooked cops. Then, I asked all possible witnesses to send in footage from their dashboard cameras in order to ensure that the bad cop wouldn’t go free. And here you go…”
Masha Lugantseva deftly extracted a tablet from her tote, positioned it in front of the detective and poked the screen. Elena watched as Marat crossed the street and got into his car.
“Here we can see that Valeyev hasn’t done anything. Five minutes earlier, however…”
The red dreads dipped in front of Petelina’s face as the journalist loaded a video from a different passing car.
Elena saw Sofia Gritsay moving in the right side of the frame. A man, his face obscured, approached her from behind, brought his hands up and around her neck and… The car drove past the scene.
“Damn!” swore Petelina. There was a different look in her eyes though, when she looked at Masha again. “Do you have anything else?”
“That’s enough,” Ustinov announced confidently, freezing the video at the frame of the assailant about to attack the girl. “He’s dressed differently from Valeyev.”
“The recording is black and white. Both men are wearing dark-colored jackets,” objected the detective, well-versed in the dark arts that attorneys practiced in court. “Five minutes passed. Who’s to say that the suspect didn’t change his clothes?”
“You don’t notice anything else?”
“Enough already, Misha!”
“Their heights! You can’t fake that. The assailant is the same height as Sofia Gritsay. I can prove it. Valeyev, on the other hand, is about six inches taller.”
Petelina looked closer at the frozen frame and reclined in her chair complacently.
“You’re a genius, Misha.”
“If it weren’t for Masha…”
“You’re both brilliant!”
Elena started thinking about whom she needed to contact and what evidence she needed to furnish in order to force her love’s immediate release.
Meanwhile, the Tadpole went on with his other findings.
“Detective Petelina, you asked me look for any possible connections between Aleksandr Kostroma from St. Petersburg and Tarmo Keelp. I couldn’t find any information about Keelp in St. Petersburg. So I decided to find out a bit more about him. A well-dressed man with a cane is unlikely to use the subway to get around. This means that he would have taken a car to get to The Philatelist. I pulled up the surveillance footage from the cameras along Taganskaya Street and found some things. Here we can see Keelp getting out of a blue Audi with Estonian plates.”
Just you wait, Lebedev and Pryakhin. I’ll prove to you that Marat was framed. Elena outlined the body of proof in her mind and instantly began having doubts. Those two are dead-set on an indictment. Sure as death, they’ll object that I have a personal interest and my evidence could be manufactured.
“The car’s completely clean. It’s crossed the border several times and has all the proper paperwork.”
I need to explain the situation to Kharchenko. It’d be better if he provides evidence of Valeyev’s innocence instead of me.
“However, the new footage allowed me to get better quality screenshots. Here’s Keelp’s face from three different angles. And you know what? I found something curious about it.” Ustinov arranged several photographs in front of Petelina. “Are you listening to me, Detective Petelina?”
“What?”
Petelina looked up at the screenshots, which had intersecting lines charted over them with notations of distance and angles. Three of the pictures showed Keelp getting out of his car; the other two were archive photos of Long-Con Kostroma.
“What are you trying to say with these?” Elena asked puzzled.
“You see, I isolated the anthropomorphic vertices and calculated the face descriptor — ”
“Misha.” Petelina winced as if stung by a wasp.
“Got it! To the point then. The photo identification algorithm determined that Tarmo Keelp is Aleksandr Kostromin. The probability that they are one and the same person is higher than 97%”
“Is that a lot or a little?”
“That’s a lot a lot. I can say with complete confidence that Aleksandr Kostromin is currently living under the name Tarmo Keelp!”
“But how?” The detective pointed at the obvious differences in the men’s appearances.
“May I show you in the software?”
The Tadpole circled the desk and began typing on Petelina’s laptop. Soon, the same photos of Keelp and Kostromin appeared on the monitor.
“There’s an eighteen year difference between the photos. Kostromin’s goatee lengthens his face. If we get rid of it, apply an aging algorithm and assume that he dyes his hair and uses colored contacts, then…”
The expert punctuated each sentence with a respective alteration to the photo on the screen. Petelina looked on as, as though in a cartoon, the Chekhov-looking Kostromin metamorphosed into the bald Keelp — complete with a thin mustache and sideburns.
“Oh my!” exclaimed Masha Lugantseva. “What’s he involved in?”
It was like something clicked in the detective’s mind. As if she had changed the channel to a completely different movie. A second ago, she had been only concerned with Valeyev — but now he had been joined by the conman Kostromin aka Tarmo Keelp, and the lawyer Gomelsky aka Brikman, and the stamp collector with his rare stamps, and Bayukin with his gun, and her former husband Sergey, who had been left destitute by unknown conmen.
“We need to bring in Tarmo Keelp!” Petelina decided.
“I knew you’d say as much and decided to simplify things some more.” Mikhail Ustinov smiled the condescending smile of a genius. “I figured out where Keelp went after leaving The Philatelist. From the Garden Ring Highway he got onto Lenin Avenue and then turned right here.”
“How?”
“The Highway Patrol Service has installed so many cameras,” the Tadpole shrugged slyly, “that tracking a blue Audi with Estonian plates is but a cinch now.”
“Give me the address. If Keelp really does live there, Vanya Mayorov should have little trouble establishing the apartment of a conspicuous gentleman with a white cane.”
59
Where did that odd Estonian Tarmo Keelp even come from? Denis Gomelsky racked his mind. One way or another, he has dad’s stamps — which means he knows the secret of my parent’s deaths. And that’s his death sentence. The old Estonian won’t get away from me!
“Here we are.”
Gomelsky parked his Infiniti next to the building on Lenin Avenue where, according to General Bayukin, Tarmo Keelp lived. The general’s son, Alex Bayukin, was in the car beside the lawyer.
“Hope you caught up on your beauty rest at your mommy’s house. What’s with your cheek?” asked Gomelsky, noticing the scratches on Alex’s face.
“The slut clawed me up.”
“You need to be more careful. That reminds me — before we go up there, wrap your piece in a bag so you don’t leave any shells in the apartment.”
“You think I’ll have to shoot him?”
“If it comes to that. I went through quite a bit to get you off the hook too, you know. You owe me big, Alex.”
“Well, alright then. What do you want me to do?”
“Remember the old creep with the cane? He’s an Estonian by the name of Tarmo Keelp. He snitched on your dad about the apartment business and then sent over the hooker so she could steal the stamps.”
“The bitch!”
“She’s just a cheap slut, a mindless muppet. He’s the mastermind. We’re going to go up to his apartment right now. First I’ll have a chat with him, and then…”
“What makes you think the Estonian will let us in?”
“I’ve considered that. Here’s your dad’s cell phone. Keelp’s phone number is in there. When we get to his door, you’ll call and tell him that your dad had a heart attack and died. But before dying, he told you to return the stamps to the Estonian. You’ll hold this baggie in front of the peephole. The stamps in it are real.”
“Dad’s dead?”
“Of course not, don’t worry. Anyway, just do as I tell you. The important thing for us is to get the Estonian to open the door.”
Apartment No. 68 was on the fourth floor. Alex stopped in front of the peephole and rang the bell. Sounding as distraught as he could manage, he related the story of his father’s death and demonstrated the baggie with the stamps peeking out of it.
The lock clicked open. As soon as the door cracked a little, Denis Gomelsky, who had been waiting to the side, wedged his foot into the opening. Alex was supposed yank the door towards himself and burst into the apartment, but the ex-soldier tarried too long. Keelp realized that he was being tricked and tried to shut the door. The stubborn Gomelsky, however, was prepared to sacrifice his own foot. A tug of war followed. Finally, Alex joined the struggle. He grabbed onto the handle and pulled. The door gave, swinging suddenly open, and sent Alex flying backwards. Keelp had retreated into his apartment. Gingerly, Gomelsky tested his injured toes — they hurt but were unbroken.
“Hurry! Find him!” the lawyer commanded.
Alex entered the apartment. He had wrapped a plastic bag around the gun in his hand. Gomelsky remained in the entryway, afraid that the Estonian may slip away through the front door. The lawyer noticed the familiar white cane hanging on a hook in the closet. He looked it over and found the trigger to the stun gun in its tip. Well then. He was now quite prepared for his coming meeting with Sir Tarmo Keelp.
Alex Bayukin returned to the entryway.
“He’s not here,” he reported.
“What do you mean? Did you check everywhere?”
“Even under the bed.”
“What about behind the curtains?”
Bayukin furrowed his brow, trying to remember the rooms he’d just searched.
Why, you incredible moron! Gomelsky wanted to yell at him, but his experience as an attorney whispered at the last moment that berating an armed man was not such a great idea.
“I’ll check myself,” Gomelsky decided. The cane with its secret function instilled him with confidence.
The two-room apartment was cluttered with all kinds of antique furniture. The rugs that decked the floors and the heavy drapes that framed the windows dampened all sound. Gomelsky looked around cautiously. The interior decorations had all been selected haphazardly, reflecting a myriad of different styles. Only the nouveaux riches could find this impressive. For his part, Gomelsky would not have found it at all surprising if a good part of “the antiques” turned out to be Chinese replicas. There was no comparison here to the exquisite furnishings in his parents’ St. Petersburg apartment.
Left alone, Alex Bayukin called his father’s landline. Gomelsky’s mention of his father’s death had unsettled him. You just could never figure out when the lawyer was telling the truth and when he was lying.
“It’s you!” The father recognized his son’s voice. “Finally! Gomelsky took my cell phone, so I couldn’t warn you in time. I can’t ever remember your number.”
“I’m with him right now.”
“With Gomelsky? He’s a traitor! He’s the one who engineered all my problems to begin with. It was he who snitched on me. He’s no lawyer — he’s the hangman himself!”
“Hangman, huh?” echoed Alex.
“Listen to me boy, keep away from him. Or, even better, avenge me.”
Vengeance, the word burst like a bubble, delightfully, in Alex Bayukin’s head. He looked down at his hand, sweating inside the plastic bag with the gun. This was not at all fitting for a combat officer!
Alex shook off the bag and entered the room. Denis Gomelsky had his back to him. The lawyer had already checked the entire apartment and was currently occupied with inspecting an open wardrobe.
“Where is that bastard hiding?” Gomelsky was muttering.
“The only bastard here is you!”
Gomelsky wheeled about. Alex Bayukin was standing nine feet away from him, the gun aimed at the lawyer’s chest, the fog-filled eyes fixed onto his.
“Why?” asked Alex.
“What do you mean ‘Why?’”
“Why’d you betray my dad? You wanted to make some money?”
“Calm down, Aleksey. I can explain everything.”
“There ain’t nothing here to explain. You’re using everyone! You want to use me to nail the Estonian just now…”
“You’re forgetting that you killed a person — and left a whole heap of evidence in your wake. I saved you, Aleksey.”
“Shut up! If it weren’t for you, my father wouldn’t have had any problems to begin with. And then I wouldn’t have to go chasing after some stupid stamps — or shot that pimp!”
“Let’s speak calmly. I didn’t force the general to embezzle apartments. He would’ve been caught regardless.”
“The only thing you lawyers know is how to run your mouths. The only thing we soldiers know is how to shoot.”
“Aleksey, listen to me — ”
“I’m sick of your stupid Moscow crap.”
“Don’t do anything stupid now!”
Alex raised the pistol. The lawyer’s brain went into overdrive. This is it for me! Alex is a nervous lunatic. It may be impossible to figure things out with him. And where’s Keelp? I looked in every corner of the apartment, where he could’ve hidden himself. This wardrobe is all that’s left. But it’s empty too.
Denis Gomelsky scanned the two-room apartment one more time — every corner, niche and piece of furniture.
And he figured it out!
Gomelsky darted into the old wardrobe, shutting its doors just as, that very second, two bullets from the Yarygin Pistol slammed into the wooden panels.
60
Ivan Mayorov was already annoyed as he entered a store called Gifts & Things! The question occupying him was when the general public would finally start helping their police force. In his hand, the operative carried a broken-off table leg that he had found in a junk pile. Vanya placed the piece of wood on the gift wrapping counter.
“I would like to have this wrapped, please,” he requested.
“That?” The woman’s eyes bulged as if she were a goldfish looking at him from her fishbowl.
“Look lady, a second ago you used three new boxes to wrap one trinket worth three kopeks,” Vanya reminded her, provoking only further, ichthyoid stupefaction, “whereas I am asking you to wrap this here antique. Please make it as pretty as possible.”
While the splintered leg was being wrapped in bright wrapping paper, Mayorov relived the cause of his current irritation.
He had spied the blue Audi with the Estonian license plates parked in the yard of a horseshoe-shaped building on Lenin Avenue. Seeing a girl with a toy dog, he asked politely, “Could you tell me what apartment the owner of that car resides in?”
“I will do no such thing!” the girl snubbed.
“He has a large number of outstanding parking tickets.” For the sake of persuasiveness, Mayorov added, “I’m police.”
“Why, you cops have completely lost the plot! First you hang up a bunch of signs everywhere and then all you do is amble around fining everyone who so much as looks at you the wrong way. Why not go after all the crooks in government? I mean, this city’s brimming with them!”
The toy dog barked a salvo in support of its mistress. Vanya stepped back, fearing for his pant legs’ wellbeing.
“It’s against ordinance to walk your dog without a muzzle!” he reminded, retreating from the yard.
The girl’s squeals and the dog’s yelps joined in confederate outrage.
When the operative returned to the yard, he was carrying a beautiful tubular package. The shiny gift-wrap sparked in the light from the streetlamps. For his next reconnaissance attempt, Vanya settled on an elderly woman with a bag of groceries.
“Pardon me, ma’am. I am a courier. I need to deliver this new cane. But I have lost the address. I remember only that the man did not have a Russian name. Do you by chance know of a resident here who uses a cane?”
“Unbelievable! You were entrusted with a precious delivery and you’ve utterly bungled it. At least you had the good sense to ask. I mean, are there any intelligent men left anywhere at all? My son-in-law, he’s just like you. Listen to what he pulled yesterday…”
Vanya nodded along dutifully, terrified of blowing his cover. Having heard out the woman’s opinion of her son-in-law, as well as half the planet’s population, Vanya discovered where Keelp lived and soon ended up in front of apartment No. 68.
Petelina’s instructions had been plain. Pretend to do an ordinary documents check, find some formality to object to and deliver Tarmo Keelp to her — ostensibly for the purposes of establishing his identity.
Ivan Mayorov reached for the doorbell. At that instant, the operative heard two sounds from behind the door which forced him to duck and jump aside. Someone was shooting inside the apartment! Vanya tossed away the table leg and readied his service weapon.
Damn it all! This stuff again without a partner! This time he wasn’t going to walk straight into the fray. Poor Galya was at her nerves’ end as it was. When she had left him at work, she had crossed him and begged him to be careful. And so, what was his plan of action now? First, he would call for backup from the nearest precinct. Then he would call Petelina. The table leg could actually serve to keep the door propped shut in the meantime.
No sooner had Mayorov done all of these things, than the sound of approaching footsteps came from behind the apartment’s door.
Someone turned the lock. Ivan pressed himself to the wall beside the door, holding his handgun with both hands.
The door handle turned and the door gave forward from a light push — as far as the table leg permitted. The next push that came was much more forceful.
61
“Vanya, don’t do anything until you have backup. I’m on my way.”
Elena Petelina threw on her coat and grabbed her purse. Her hand, having just now dropped the phone, snatched at it again. It was the woman’s involuntary reaction to hearing the familiar melody of “Love Me Do.”
Marat, her heart twinged.
“I’ve been released,” Petelina heard her lover’s voice. “Thank you, Lenochka.”
So you’ve figured out that I did my part, you pig. Why’d you do such a thing? Petelina was torn between happiness and anger. Marat is free. He didn’t hurt that girl in the hospital — but he hurt me!
“You can thank Kharchenko. It was all him,” Elena replied coldly. “After what you did, I wouldn’t lift a finger for you.”
“I’m heading your way.”
“Don’t even think about it!” Elena blurted out. She wanted to see Marat as soon as possible, to press herself to him, but… it was too soon. He had cheated. Even if it was just with a prostitute, it was still cheating! He had to reflect on his mistake.
“I want to see you.”
“I’ll tell the desk sergeant not to let you up.”
“Lena, I was unfair to you and I hurt you. Please forgive me.”
“Later, later… I am busy right now.”
“Lena, this will never happen again, ever. I am an idiot!”
“That’s the first intelligent thing I’ve heard you say.”
“Lena…”
“Go home, take a shower and relax,” Petelina relented.
“What about Nastya? Won’t I scare her?”
He will come over to my place. We will see each other tonight. Is this the right thing to do or not? It’s too early!
“Nastya is at curling. And you’ve got no business at my place.”
“You know, I always meant to get an understanding of the whole curling thing.”
“How about understanding me? Have you ever wanted to do that?”
“I want that too. I want you, Lena.”
“You’re going to have to earn that chance.” Petelina sensed that their conversation was tending toward straight flirtation and cut herself short. “Listen, you’re distracting me. I’ve got to go.”
“Where?”
“None of your business. You’re suspended, Valeyev.” Petelina was wary of telling Marat about Keelp-Kostromin and the gunshots reported in his apartment. God forbid he showed up there and caused some more trouble. “Later!”
“Wait! Who framed me? Why?” the detective heard just before the elevator’s doors closed, causing the call to drop.
Ivan Mayorov met the patrol unit outside of apartment No. 68. It was the same two sergeants — the tall one and the round-faced one — who had met him in the MSU Botanical Garden.
“You again?” squinted the tall sergeant.
“Quiet. I heard gunshots. Someone’s inside.” Mayorov pointed at the door to the apartment that was still propped shut by the table leg. “He wanted to leave, but I locked him in there.”
“You sure about those gunshots?”
“Two of them… Sounded like a handgun.”
“Run to the car for the bulletproof vests,” the tall sergeant ordered his round-faced partner.
Left alone with Mayorov, he stepped over to the window and lit a cigarette, glancing over at the operative.
“Listen, Senior Lieutenant, do you have some kind of built-in metal detector that leads you toward guns? Back in the park you wandered right into ours… same thing here now.”
“That’s the nature of the job. Takes a certain intuition,” Mayorov remembered a big word.
“Uh-huh. Well I got a certain intuition for Moldavian girls without residency permits. You know how to tell them apart from everyone else?”
“No…”
“Their clothes. They imitate all the bare-assed pop singers on the TV. Watch too much TV and decide that everyone dresses that way here.”
“And what do you do with them? With the bare-assed ones?”
“Hah! Well, you know. First I feel her out with some questions. She’s afraid, begs me to let her go, while I just kind of pretend — ”
Mayorov never found out what follows the probative questions because, just then, the round-faced sergeant returned with the vests. The gaunt cop donned his and flashed Mayorov a tight-lipped smile.
“Sorry about your luck, senior lieutenant, we don’t have one in your size. We should probably call a locksmith and some witnesses if we’re going to unlock that door.”
“Wait.”
Mayorov remembered how, after the lock turned, someone tried to open the door. It was only the table leg, which he had propped against the door, that had kept the criminal inside. The operative crept up to the door and kicked the leg aside. As he expected, the door was unlocked.
Seeing the gap between the door and the frame, the jesting sergeant grew serious.
“Take the safety off,” he warned his partner. “When we enter, you cover the right and I’ll cover the left.”
The sergeant stuck his rifle’s barrel into the slit and pushed the door. The door opened.
“Police!” Mayorov announced loudly. “Drop your weapons and get on the ground!”
There followed a minute of silence. The tall sergeant nodded to his partner, exhaled sharply and burst into the apartment. Mayorov and the round-faced cop followed behind him. The cops darted through the entryway and ran into the living room. The operative kicked in the door to the bathroom and turned on the light.
And saw an armed man!
His reflexes snapped to instantly. Mayorov fired. The bullet pierced the figure.
In the wedge-shaped shards from the large mirror, Ivan could see that he had fired on his own reflection.
The sergeants came running up to his aid.
“Where?” asked the tall one. He looked around the empty bathroom and the hole in the mirror.
“Honest mistake,” explained Mayorov.
“It’s understandable. You must be still shaky after last night.”
“You guys find anything?”
“It’s empty.”
“What do you mean empty?”
“There’s no one in the apartment.”
Mayorov searched the two rooms and the kitchen, looking in any place that could conceal even a small child. The apartment really was empty.
“Listen, lieutenant, maybe the shots you heard were an honest mistake too..?” the sergeant asked. “You know, like in the bathroom..?”
Mayorov peered through every window and checked out on the balcony, looking for a fire escape. He did not find anything that the fugitive could have used. The operative glanced at the parked cars below. His eyes scanned the multi-colored roofs and hoods several times. The blue Audi with the Estonian plates had vanished! Ivan clenched his fists and eyelids.
A total failure! he scowled. What am I going to tell Petelina? Damn it all to hell, if Keelp was in the apartment, how did he manage to get away?
62
Forensic expert Mikhail Ustinov was sitting in front of a widescreen monitor watching lines of text scroll along its expanse. Masha Lugantseva’s dreads touched him either from the left or from the right. The fidgety journalist was the kind of person about whom people would often remark, “She’s got ants in her pants.”
“Did you find any matches? Who attacked Sofia Gritsay?”
The lines of text stopped scrolling.
“Nothing,” confessed the expert.
“Who were the candidates?”
“This is a DNA database for the most-wanted criminals. Murderers, gangsters, rapists. Whoever attacked Sofia Gritsay isn’t on this list.”
“What if it was your everyday thug?”
“We collect biometric data only for the most dangerous criminals. We don’t have the means to do it for everyone.”
“Oh really? I will start lobbying in my articles for the creation of a DNA bank for every citizen in the country. Imagine how much easier it will be for you guys to do your jobs. Or, for example, to identify disaster victims. Or, domestic incidents, such as paternity… No, I am definitely going to sink my teeth into this one.”
“Don’t hold your breath. They’ve only just now created a database for soldiers in conflict zones.”
“Why don’t you check that?”
“I don’t think that… Although…” The Tadpole tussled his hair and ran his fingers along the keyboard. One could think that the keys were white-hot — his fingers barely touched them.
Masha adjusted Skeleton Vasilich, turning him to face the camera she had set up on the table.
“Come here,” the journalist called to Ustinov.
“I got no interest in being in your blog.”
“Come on, it’ll only be our backs.”
“Forget it!”
Masha pressed herself to Misha’s back.
“Are you sure, Misha?” she whispered in his ear. “After all, I could become upset with you.” She gently touched the expert’s earlobe with her lips and added languidly: “Is this really my farewell kiss..?”
The expert spun around in his chair and tried to embrace the girl’s waist, but she slipped away and beckoned to him with her finger from behind Vasilich. The skeleton’s finger was pointing to a sheet of paper attached to his ribcage: “Which one of us is in the majority now?”
Misha approached unwillingly.
“Stand on the other side,” the reporter ordered. “I’ll take the photo.”
Misha clasped his hands and turned his back to the camera. Masha pressed the remote.
“What does that mean anyway?” the Tadpole asked once the picture had been taken.
“I’m just checking to see how quick-witted my subscribers are. You know the expression: ‘To die means to join the majority.’”
“I know another one. Some are so scared to die that they never begin living.”
“Brilliant! I can use that one too. I better write it down before I forget.” The journalist grabbed her tablet.
The expert returned to his computer. The search query of the soldiers’ database was almost finished. At the top of the screen blinked a notification: MATCH FOUND!
“Got it,” whispered Ustinov and clicked on the blinking message.
The photo and datasheet for Captain Aleksey Konstantinovich Bayukin materialized in the center of his screen.
63
Ivan Mayorov met Elena Petelina in the stairwell next to apartment No. 68. Petelina could tell by the operative’s sour expression that he had no good news for her.
“What happened?” she asked, entering Keelp’s apartment.
“I followed standard protocol, Detective Petelina. Having heard gunshots from within, I called a patrol unit for backup and undertook the necessary measures to prevent the shooter from fleeing. But… then it turned out that…”
The embarrassed operative had trouble finding the right words. Petelina tried to help him out.
“Then it turned out that the shooting came from another apartment.” The detective opened the door to the bathroom and saw the shot out mirror. “Though, I guess I’m mistaken.”
“That was me.”
“What was you?”
“That was from my gunshot. A clumsy accident.”
Petelina turned around and looking carefully at Mayorov’s embarrassed face asked the central question, “Vanya, where is Tarmo Keelp?”
“Come with me.”
Mayorov led the detective into the living room with the humongous rug and the heavy antique furniture. A giant wardrobe with carved doors towered in one corner.
“Look here.” The operative pointed at two holes in the wardrobe’s door. “These are the holes left by the shots I heard. And here are the bullets I discovered.”
Elena Petelina studied the apertures in the massive wooden door. The wood had been recently fractured. It was easy to get a splinter in one’s finger from it. She took the evidence bags and examined the bullets. Her eyes narrowed in conjecture. This was the Yarygin Pistol once again!
Her intuition suggested that this was the same weapon as the one that had been used to kill the pimp. Anyway, forensics would figure that out. Had Aleksey Bayukin really been here? Misha Ustinov had already called to tell her that it was he who had attacked Sofia Gritsay. This shell-shocked officer was showing up in this case much too frequently. How did he end up here?
“You never answered my question: Where’s Keelp?” Petelina reiterated.
“I had no idea at first. But then… Look over here.”
Mayorov opened the wardrobe and parted the men’s clothes hanging inside it. The wardrobe’s backing was made of much younger wood. The operative turned and smiled mysteriously.
“What’s this?” Petelina said exasperated. “Have you adopted the Tadpole’s habit of tormenting me with mysterious questions? Alright, I’ll play along. The wardrobe is an antique. One could restore its facade but simply replace its back wall.”
“They did replace it. But why?” As if it was his own creation, Mayorov proudly slid the central panel of the wardrobe’s backing to one side. An opening appeared in the wall behind the wardrobe. “This is a passage to the neighboring apartment. That’s how Keelp got away!”
Heavy footsteps could be heard approaching from the entryway. As they neared, they grew soft passing over the rug in the room. The detective saw two sweaty sergeants in bulletproof vests, the same ones she had teamed up with in the botanical garden.
“Both of the apartments, this one and that one, are rented out without the proper registration,” announced the tall sergeant. “The locals told us. An older man with a cane lived in this one. That one was unoccupied, supposedly.”
“There’s blood here!” Elena Petelina had been examining the clothes hanging in the wardrobe when she noticed a maroon spot on a light-colored blazer. “If there really was shooting, then someone was trying to kill someone else. The question is how successful were they? Did you check the neighboring apartment?”
“Empty.”
“Any traces? Say, drag marks from a body?”
The patrol cops shrugged their shoulders. Mayorov climbed through the opening behind the wardrobe. Petelina followed behind him.
Tarmo Keelp, aka Aleksandr Dmitrievich Kostromin, she thought. Arrested in the “90s for numerous frauds in St. Petersburg — including, among them, frauds involving pharmaceuticals. Back then, he ran the same scheme with the phony warehouse that was used on Sergey. Later, Kostromin vanished for a long time. Now he’s resurfaced in the guise of an Estonian national. He’s somehow involved in the theft of the Brikman stamps. He was at the morgue, asking about Lisa Malyshko. And he tried to kidnap Katya Grebenkina. In his apartment, someone fired from Bayukin Jr.‘s pistol, the same weapon that was used to murder the pimp Manuylov. Meanwhile Bayukin Sr. is being investigated in a housing embezzlement scheme. The son of the murdered stamp collector Brikman, Gomelsky is acting as the lawyer for both Bayukins and doing whatever it takes to get the job done. I’m being blackmailed by Gomelsky, while Valeyev was framed by Aleksey Bayukin. Oh Goddess of Investigation! If you can hear me now, help me untangle this Gordian knot!
“Keelp!” Elena whispered the word that came to her suddenly — as though from above. “Keelp’s at the center of it all.”
“I’m not used to acting on my own, Detective Petelina,” explained Mayorov, following behind the detective as she examined the neighboring apartment. “How’s Marat doing?”
“You can ask him yourself.”
“They let him out?” Ivan brightened up.
Petelina finished her search of the empty apartment and walked out to the landing. Ivan Mayorov came thumping behind her. He dialed Marat’s number and waited impatiently through the rings to say hello to his friend. The ringing ceased. Mayorov heard rustling as though someone was taking the phone out of their pocket. Abruptly, the rustling gave way to a woman’s excited exclamations:
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Keep going!”
Ivan shot a look at the detective and clasped the phone to his chest in embarrassment. His attempt to conceal what was happening did not escape Petelina’s attention.
“Let me see that!” She snatched the phone from the operative’s hand, as her heart groaned, Is that filthy bastard once again—
“Sweeep!” Elena recognized the painfully-familiar cry.
It was the cry of the captain of a curling team, calling on her teammates to sweep the ice before the on-gliding rock. Her heart relaxed. Elena realized where Valeyev was.
“Are you at the New League Club?” she asked. This was the name of the ice rink where Nastya was currently competing.
“Lena!” Marat was happy to hear her. “I decided to spend my suspension acquainting myself with the great Canadian sport of curling.”
Elena could tell by the pauses between his words that Marat was smiling.
“How is Nastya doing?” Elena decided to find out, recalling her daughters mature reservations.
“I haven’t really figured all this out well enough to offer commentary. They only just started. But I like it!”
“Your partner is here. He can’t wait to talk to you.”
Petelina gave Mayorov his phone back and got out her own. She needed to order a search for Tarmo Keelp’s car immediately. The cunning conman had to be apprehended. He held the key to all the riddles that had fallen on her head.
The detective and the operative walked out of the building and stopped beside the patrol cruiser. While the senior detective explained to the desk sergeant what she wanted and confirmed her credentials, Mayorov related to Valeyev his recent blunder in the Estonian’s apartment. Marat was straining, listening at once to his partner’s tale and also trying to catch the details of Petelina’s conversation in the background.
“What kind of car did the Estonian run off in?” Valeyev asked suddenly, interrupting Mayorov.
64
“Ah! It stings!” Denis Gomelsky contorted from the pain. “Don’t pull it too tight, you’ll cut off the circulation.”
Two men sat in the black Infiniti. Alex Bayukin was bandaging a light wound on Gomelsky’s right forearm with gauze from the car’s first-aid kit.
When Tarmo Keelp vanished mysteriously from the closed apartment, the lawyer realized that he was dealing with an intelligent and prudent criminal. He found the emergency escape in the sliding backing of the wardrobe — and used it himself just in the nick of time.
One of the bullets fired by the vengeful Alex grazed the lawyer’s arm. Gomelsky passed into the neighboring apartment and set up an ambush. Alex felt that something was amiss and tried to leave through the front door, but the door turned out to be wedged shut. He was forced to follow Gomelsky down the secret passage. The lawyer used this to his advantage, striking Alex and taking his weapon. There followed an edifying lecture on the topic of “You can rot here or I can give you another chance,” after which, the reconciled companions made their way back down to the Infiniti.
“Don’t worry, it’ll heal in time for the wedding,” joked Alex finishing the dressing.
Wincing, Gomelsky pulled on his punctured car coat in order to conceal the bloodstain on his shirt.
“You shoot when I tell you — not whenever you feel like it!” the lawyer warned Bayukin, understanding very well that had decided to work with the crazy ex-soldier precisely because it meant almost nothing for the shell-shocked captain to shoot another human being. Gomelsky intended to use this quality of his partner to solve his own problems.
“We’ll call it even.” Alex touched the top of his head where the lawyer had hit him.
The Infiniti remained parked alongside the broad Lenin Avenue, across the street from Keelp’s building.
“See that woman on the phone?” Gomelsky pointed at Elena Petelina, talking on the phone beside the patrol cruiser. “She’s a detective. They call her the Noose. All your problems are her fault. If the Noose latches onto you, she can put you away for life. Oh yes! Have no doubts. But I can arrange for you to walk free — under one single condition: From now on, you do what I tell you and don’t try anymore nonsense.”
“But dad said that you…”
“It’s his own fault! There are ministers and chiefs of staff under investigation — and he’s just a general!” Gomelsky lost his temper, but quickly got himself back under control. “At the moment, our common problem is Tarmo Keelp. He’s the one who cooked up the housing embezzlement scheme and got your dad involved in it. He’s the one who first paid him in rare stamps and then arranged their theft and sent over the prostitute to do it. If we get rid of Keelp, your dad will be able to blame everything on him.”
“Get rid of?” Alex asked.
“Well, why do you think we just invaded his apartment? We need to find him, talk to him and…” the lawyer substituted the final “kill him” with a more abstract, “make sure he keeps quiet.”
“I doubt he’ll return to the apartment today.”
“Agreed. That’s why you need to find out from your daddy where the Estonian might be hiding.”
“Dad won’t tell me,” Alex shook his head. “He’s mad at you. He ordered me to get revenge.”
“Great! So lie to him! Tell him that you took care of me and that Keelp was a witness.” As a sign of trust, Gomelsky returned to Bayukin his Yarygin Pistol and cell phone. “We’ll be okay if we stick together you and I. As payment, I’ll save you and the general from the Noose — I’ve got something on her. Now make the call!”
“What should I ask him?”
“Where we can find Keelp. Otherwise the Noose will find him first and then you’ll have to tangle with her.”
65
Marat Valeyev was starting to feel quite accommodated at the New League Club. Here, he could watch the game while sitting in a comfortable chair and sipping on some coffee from a vending machine. The only source of discomfort was the cold wafting in from the ice. The heater by his feet, however, created a pocket of respite even from that.
“Yes!” entranced with the game, Marat answered his phone with the same enthusiasm that the skip used when calling on her teammates to sweep the ice.
The caller was the desk sergeant for Moscow. Before his exile to the local police precinct — as a result of the tragic death of his friend — Valeyev had worked for the city’s Organized Crime Department and knew many of the agents at MVD headquarters. When he heard that Petelina had ordered a search for Tarmo Keelp’s car, he got in touch with the desk sergeant and asked him to let him know if the car was discovered. His operative’s soul could not come to terms with his mandated inactive status. He couldn’t wait to help the woman he loved and support her in her search for the criminal.
“Where’d they find it? Next to the old Hotel Ukraine on Kutuzov Avenue?” Valeyev echoed, getting up from his chair. “Thanks bud! I owe you one.”
The suspended police captain hurried to his car.
Gomelsky’s black Infiniti turned off Kutuzov Avenue toward the Radisson Royal Hotel, an imposing, spire-tipped Stalin-era skyscraper, known formerly as Hotel Ukraine.
“So the general said that Keelp arranged one of their meetings in this hotel?”
“Back when they were first getting to know each other,” replied Alex.
“The Estonian has good taste. I hope it’s remained constant.”
Denis Gomelsky retrieved a suit-sleeve with an extra suit and a fresh shirt from the trunk of the car, replacing them with his stained shirt and punctured car coat. Denis changed his clothes, tightened his tie, sprayed himself with some cologne and combed his hair. He pulled thin gloves onto his hands and took his leather briefcase in hand.
Alex Bayukin looked on respectfully as Gomelsky transformed back into the successful lawyer.
“Follow me!” the lawyer commanded.
Entering the high-ceilinged lobby of the Radisson Royal Hotel, Denis Gomelsky affected a preoccupied expression and approached the front desk.
“I need to deliver some documents to a client as soon as possible.” Gomelsky placed a picture of Tarmo Keelp and a thousand rubles on the counter. “He recently got a room here.”
“Could you tell me please what your client’s last name is?”
Gomelsky wasn’t sure that Keelp had signed in under his own passport.
“At the current stage of proceedings, I advised him to keep his name to himself and to turn off his phone. What room is he in?” The lawyer slipped another thousand-ruble bill under the photo.
“Let me think.” The photograph and cash passed to the hands of the concierge. Gomelsky pressed a third bill to the counter with his fingers. “I think I remember. It’s room 1012.”
The lawyer took the photograph and headed to the elevators, nodding to Alex to follow him.
The lawyer stopped so close to room 1012 as to ensure that only his suit and tie would be visible in the peephole. This time, Alex positioned himself beside the door.
Denis Gomelsky pushed the doorbell.
“Hospitality services!” he announced, “We wish to extend to you this complimentary gift basket as a sign of our gratitude for repeatedly choosing our fine hotel!”
As soon as Keelp opened the door, Alex Bayukin charged into the room.
Marat Valeyev approached the front desk of the Radisson Royal Hotel, holding in his hand an Estonian license plate which he had removed from Tarmo Keelp’s blue Audi. He slapped the metal plate onto the counter.
“The owner of this car was involved in a hit and run. We have serious suspicions that he is in hiding in your hotel. His description is as follows: age approximately sixty; height is 180 cm; he is balding, with sideburns and a thin mustache. Have you seen this man?”
The concierge remembered the photograph of the man residing in room 1012 very well. He remembered the three thousand rubles residing in his pocket even better.
“May I see your badge please?”
“Of course. Just a moment.” Valeyev walked around the counter and grabbed the man by his testicles. “I am undercover. Either you tell me the room number or you can say goodbye to your balls.”
“Ten-twelve,” whimpered the concierge.
“If you warn him, I’ll have you charged as an accessory. That carries up to five years in a maximum security colony. You understand?”
“Uh-huh,” nodded the terrified concierge.
The counter was decorated with two flower vases. Valeyev yanked out one of the bouquets. Having taken the elevator to the tenth floor, he found a housekeeper pushing a cart with laundry and cleaning supplies. Marat imagined that Elena Petelina was in front of him. Undressing the woman mentally, he caressed her with his gentle gaze from her ankles to the tips of her ears. How he wanted to embrace the woman he loved!
The aura of his male desire was so powerful that the housekeeper turned around and stopped startled. Before her stood a man with a beautiful bouquet of flowers, embodying at once strength, masculinity and desire.
“Milena,” Marat read the nametag, “when does your shift end?”
“In two hours,” the thirty-year-old woman replied as if hypnotized.
“I’d like to ask you out to dinner, Milena. Do you have a dress?”
“Dress,” the housekeeper did not know what to say. Her eyes filled with the same fear that overcomes a schoolgirl who is called on to answer an exam question in front of the class.
“I will buy you an evening dress — better, an evening gown. Allow me to determine your size.”
Marat handed the bouquet to the speechless woman and ran his hands along her torso from her shoulders to her hips.
“You — are perfect. You — are a miracle,” he whispered, hiding in his pocket the skeleton keycard that he had pilfered from the housekeeper’s belt. “Meet me in two hours down in the lobby. I will be waiting.”
Smiling encouragingly at the happy woman, the operative backed away down the hotel’s hallway until he reached the corner. He found room 1012 and stuck the card into the slit. The green LED blinked. Valeyev quietly opened the door and stepped inside.
Marat found himself in a narrow entryway, a closet of clothes to his right and the bathroom door to his left. He could hear a demanding male voice coming from the room.
“Where’d you get the stamps from? They belonged to my father. You wanna keep stonewalling? I’ll make you talk, you old goat!”
This was followed by the sound of a blow and the dull sound of someone falling onto the bed.
The fallen man croaked and spit. When he replied, his voice sounded old and tired, “Aren’t you scared of hearing the truth, Denis Brikman?”
“What are you trying to imply? Well?”
Marat Valeyev crept forward and peeked into the room. He could see the back of a man in an expensive suit. The shirt’s high collar coiled tightly around the man’s neck and the perfect hairline suggested frequent visits to an adroit hairdresser.
Gomelsky the lawyer! Marat realized. Oh how I’ve looked forward to meeting you.
Like a volcanic eruption, his envy burst over his brain, drowning reason in its wrath. Here before him was the vile lawyer who had once slept with Lena and was now blackmailing her with their debased past. He had fought with the woman he loved because of him. He had lost his temper and imperiled his career because of him. Baseness was unforgivable. Vileness even more so! Now the lawyer would answer for it all!
Valeyev threw himself at his nemesis.
66
Five seconds later, Marat was ruing his lack of restraint. He had grabbed Gomelsky with both arms and squeezed him as hard as he could. His intention had been to force the villain to return the video and destroy all its copies. But solutions involving violence are only good when there is no witness — particularly when they involve shrewd lawyers.
Valeyev looked up to see Tarmo Keelp, sitting on the bed. The Estonian was wiping his busted lip, while staring over the operative’s shoulder. The door to the bathroom clicked. Valeyev instantly whirled to face the sound, turning the lawyer in his grip with him, and saw Alex Bayukin standing in the entrance to the living room. The lawyer’s lackey stuck his hand behind his waist. It wasn’t hard to guess what he had back there.
The unarmed operative shoved Gomelsky at Bayukin and grabbed the Estonian. In doing so, he won himself another moment to think.
“The police are already in the hotel!” Marat yelled, using Keelp to screen himself from a gunshot, “They’re on their way up.”
The fallen lawyer got up and considered the situation.
“Let’s go,” he told Alex.
The door slammed. The hotel room was empty.
“And? What now?” Keelp calmly inquired. “Should I express my gratitude for saving me?”
“I’m a cop.”
“In that case, we can come to an agreement. I am going to leave now and you will discover a packet of euros on the floor back there.”
“Shut up!”
Valeyev was waiting. He was sure that he had beaten Ivan Mayorov to the hotel by mere seconds. He was not mistaken. Soon enough, a knocking came on the door and he heard his partner’s voice.
“Tarmo Keelp! Open up! This is the police!”
“Door’s open, tenderfoot,” Valeyev gently grumbled.
“Marat?” Mayorov asked surprised, entering the room with two police officers.
“I decided to help you guys a bit. Just to make sure that this wizard here doesn’t come up with anything fancier than vanishing through walls. Pack him up.”
Handcuffs snapped around Tarmo Keelp’s wrists.
“For what?” the Estonian asked with annoyance. “What am I being charged with?”
“You are being detained for the purposes of establishing your identity, Mr. Kostromin,” replied Mayorov.
Keelp’s eyes flashed and his face paled.
“What a bunch of nonsense!” he said through clenched teeth. “I am an Estonian citizen. My name is Tarmo Keelp.”
“We’ll see about that. Your case has been assigned to one of our finest detectives.”
Valeyev took his partner aside to the window.
“Listen Vanya, you didn’t see me here. I’m suspended, remember.”
“Oh sure. Petelina wouldn’t approve.”
“Exactly. It’s time I got back to the New League Club. I’m beginning to get a handle on this curling stuff. It’s a cool sport!”
Marat decided to keep quiet about Gomelsky and Bayukin. He needed to figure out the problem of the video first. Lena’s career could not be imperiled by clumsy police operation.
Valeyev gave Keelp a significant look and again turned to Mayorov.
“I managed to ask the detainee several questions,” he said. “It turns out that he is acquainted with Gomelsky — though he knows him under the name Denis Brikman. What could that mean? Make sure to let Detective Petelina know about it.”
Elena Petelina walked out of the Investigative Committee and got into her car. Burdensome thoughts tormented her.
Keelp-Kostromin had been apprehended. He could wait until tomorrow. Meanwhile, today was Gomelsky’s final deadline. How should she act? Succumb to his blackmail and give up the evidence? What else could she do to protect her thirteen-year-old daughter from the shocking video? Or had the time come to let the girl know that one’s personal life takes on various forms, among which are some that are, to adults, neither prohibited nor shameful? Either solution made her tremble.
Her phone rang. It was as if the daughter had sensed that her mother was thinking about her.
“We won, mom!” Nastya reported happily. “I couldn’t play badly in the end.”
“You did the right thing.”
“Someone wants to speak with you — ”
“Hey!” Elena heard Marat’s voice. “Nastya played really well. You know, I can see a lot of you in her. I remembered how I used to look at you in school during P.E. Your chest was just then starting to grow and whenever you’d run — ”
“Valeyev, keep your eyes off the underage girls, okay?”
“I was thinking of you, Lena. Should I come over?”
Elena was at a loss. Either way you spin it, Marat had cheated on her. Of course, a prostitute is not the same thing as a lover, but it hurt a lot either way that the man she loved had taken another woman into his arms. He had slept with her after all, pressed his body to hers, welcomed her caresses.
“No. Don’t. Later,” Elena said through her teeth and ended the call.
In the next moment she became afraid. How would he interpret the “later?” “Later” as in some time later? Or “later” as in goodbye? She had meant the former but couldn’t well call him back to explain that.
The phone rang again. If it’s Marat, she wouldn’t answer it! He had to feel at least a small part of the hurt that he had caused her.
However, it was Denis Gomelsky.
“Hey! The deadline’s today. Do you remember?”
“Look Denis, this is a complicated situation. I’m trying my best here.”
“Petelina called me by my first name! That’s a good sign. Are you ready to do as I told you?”
“I’ve made a decision.” Elena really felt that she was ready to take a risk. “You’ll get your evidence. I’ve already got the bullet. The shell casing might as well be in my possession too.”
“So what’s the holdup?”
“I have to make sure that everything’s airtight. Otherwise, if this comes out, it’ll only get worse for both of us.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Lena. You’re more than capable.”
“Of course I am. But I need a little more time. You’ll get what you want, Denis.”
“I don’t doubt it. But what I want may change a bit. You know what I’m talking about?”
“Denis, don’t push a woman too much. Maybe, she’ll want what you want on her own…”
“Alright, I’ll let you have another day. I need to rest a bit anyway. I’m not feeling great.”
“Until tomorrow, then.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Ooof! I’ve squeezed out another 24 hours. And somehow managed to placate all the men, thought Elena with some relief. But no. There was still Sergey. He’s got a problem too.
Petelina called her ex-husband.
“Have you managed to do anything for me?” Sergey asked as soon as he picked up the phone.
“I’m working on it.” Elena felt a pang of insult. Why was she the one who had to solve everything? “Did you find out anything yourself?”
“I tried. I spoke with everyone I could think of in that goddamned Southern warehouse lot. The only thing I found out was that some gentleman with a cane could have been involved in renting the phony warehouse.”
“A white cane?”
“You know him? Sergei livened up.
“I’ll meet him tomorrow.”
“Lenok, if you save me, I’ll be in your debt eternally.”
“I’ll make sure to remember those words, Petelin.”
67
Tarmo Keelp held his head high as he was escorted to his morning interrogation. The only thing he missed was his beloved cane. The elegant device, with its hidden feature, served Keelp not only as a means of self-defense: The cane was also an accessory that spoke of a powerful life in which he had grown accustomed to manipulating the ignoble feelings of the common folk. Envy and greed were the two vices upon which the conman had nurtured his fortune.
Lyudmila Astakhovskaya ran into Keelp in the stairwell. She was descending down to the archives, just as the prisoner was being led up to Petelina’s office. Her experienced female gaze assessed her coeval’s posture, his fascinating, old-fashioned whiskers and upstanding suit from a famous Italian haberdasher. Astakhovskaya even turned to look at the unusual arrestee. A worthy foe, thought the former detective. A duel with him requires preparation and intellect and differs fundamentally from your typical conversation with your run-of-the-mill skinhead thug.
A slight detail caught the eye of Astakhovskaya. She tried to get a better look at the source of her concern, but the detainee turned on the landing and vanished up the next set of stairs.
Elena Petelina greeted Keelp with a cold disdain. In her encounter with the cunning conman, the detective had decided to adopt the guise of a soulless apparatchik who was accustomed to grinding through the fates of others with ease.
Having written down the personal information the prisoner recited to her, Petelina slid a package of contact lenses toward him.
“Take it, they’re yours. We found them in your apartment. The light green color serves quite nicely for your new image. Though, I personally prefer hazel eyes myself, Mr. Kostromin.”
“I understand. However, my name — ”
“I could not care less what you call yourself now. I have here a forensics conclusion based on an image comparison.” Petelina slowly turned through several pages containing old and new photographs and resembling a scientific report. “This proves beyond a reasonable doubt that the man sitting before me is the famous St. Petersburg conman, Aleksandr Kostromin, alias Sashka Kostroma. Accordingly, you’re about to be on your way to pretrial custody under you original, legal surname.”
Petelina shut the folder containing the interrogation report and pressed the call button. A guard entered the office.
“Take him away.” The detective waved her hand carelessly.
“How? That’s it?”
“Go on now, Mr. Kostromin. There’s a reporter waiting for me, who will be more than happy to remind her readers of your past exploits.” Petelina called into the opened door, “Maria Lugantseva, you may enter!”
Masha came running into the office preceded by her camera — and instantly fell to snapping rapid bursts of photos.
“Why this is the very same Kostroma who crossed the almighty Boyarin!” the girl warbled excitedly, flitting about as Keelp tried vainly to shield himself with his arms. “My piece will be a bombshell!”
“You can’t do this!” hissed Keelp. “It’s not right!”
“I make the rules here,” the detective cut him off. “Next time we meet will be in a week. Unless, that is, something happens to you.”
“Enough!” implored the prisoner. “Get the journalist out of here!”
Petelina took Masha’s camera and ordered her and the guard out of her office. Sitting across from Keelp-Kostromin, the detective’s stare resembled the point of a rapier.
“I am listening,” Petelina made a thrust.
“Try to understand, Boyarintsev is very powerful even today. If he finds out, it’ll be the end of me.”
“So what?”
“What do you mean ‘so what?’ I won’t live long enough to see my day in court!”
“Less work for me.”
“Why, how dare you! A human life depends on you. How can you be so soulless?!”
“What do you suggest?” For the first time in their conversation, Petelina adopted a conciliatory tone.
Keelp snatched at the ray of hope like a drowning man snatches at a straw.
“I need to remain Keelp. Kostroma no longer exists. He’s gone and there’s no need to stir up the past. You have to understand that a painting’s price is always relative. There was a 17th century painting hanging in a Dutch museum, its author unknown. It was appraised at forty thousand euros. But then the experts realized that it had been painted by Rembrandt’s hand. And its price instantly jumped to five million. What changed? Had the painting become better? Brighter? Larger? Not one bit!”
“I understand your wish. What do you offer in exchange?”
“I am prepared to plead guilty to my current legal infractions.”
“The theft, for example, of two shipments of pharmaceuticals in Volgograd?” Petelina made a probing lunge. She had no proof of Kostromin’s involvement in the ruin of her former husband. The scant circumstantial evidence she did have barely gave her grounds to suspect the man.
“Let’s say.”
“I would like an unambiguous answer.”
“Yes,” exhaled Keelp.
“Would you be prepared to return the cargo to the trucking company?”
“The goods are still in one piece.”
“What must be done to effect this?”
“One call from me and he will have everything, right down to the last crate.”
Petelina didn’t take a long time making up her mind. She retrieved the prisoner’s phone from the package of his belongings, turned it on and handed it to Kostromin.
“Make the call.”
“It is I!” Keelp announced into the phone. “I am in deep trouble. I need you to return the two containers with the pharmaceuticals today. Leave the mule alone. And quit asking pointless questions! That’s it! No discussion.”
Keelp returned his phone to the detective and smiled ingratiatingly.
“That misunderstanding will be resolved,” he said.
“Is ‘the mule’ the owner of the trucking company?” Petelina inquired with a wry smile.
“What else do you call an oaf on wheels?”
“Is there anything else you wish to confess to, Mr. Kostromin?”
“My name is Tarmo Keelp!”
“I am not quite sure of that yet.
“Well, okay. I masterminded certain, shall we say, procedures involving housing for military personnel.”
“Please be more specific.”
Lyudmila Astakhovskaya couldn’t rid herself of the niggling vexation that the foppish prisoner’s appearance had incited in her. Suddenly she realized that the fabric of his suit along the left side of his back had looked a little bulky. A defect of this kind, however, would have been completely unacceptable to an Italian tailor of such pedigree. It was only possible if someone had oafishly and improperly sewn in the liner — as if some dilettante who couldn’t properly hold a needle and thread had decided to try his hand at altering a bespoke suit.
Considering the possible causes for the defective suit liner, Astakhovskaya hurried up to Petelina’s office.
As she entered the detective’s office, she affected the jaunty smile of dumb old woman.
“Lenochka, I just wanted to discuss with you our forthcoming shopping trip. Remember our agreement?” As she approached the desk, Astakhovskaya tripped and grabbed onto Keelp who was sitting beside her in an attempt to keep her balance. “Oh, pardon me, how clumsy I am!”
Elena Petelina did not think her clumsy at all. She could see the through the act and merely looked at Astakhovskaya inquiringly.
“It’s very stuffy here. The prisoner might begin to feel light-headed. Let him take off his jacket,” Astakhovskaya announced without a shadow of a smile.
“What? Who’s this lady?” asked Keelp, outrage brewing.
“Take it off!” demanded Petelina, fully trusting Astakhovskaya’s intuition.
“On what grounds?”
“Take it off, Mr. Keelp — or shall I refer to you by another name?”
“We’re not talking about your pants here after all!” Astakhovskaya rolled her eyes.
Muttering, Tarmo Keelp shed his jacket to the floor. Astakhovskaya spread the suit jacket on the couch, smoothed it out with her palms and began ripping the liner’s seams with a pair of scissors.
“What is she doing? She’ll ruin my expensive suit!” Keelp appealed to the detective’s reason.
“Please relax,” Petelina warned.
“Why this suit was ruined long before I came along. How can anyone sew in the liner so crookedly?” Astakhovskaya stuck her hand under the fabric and, after three seconds, held up three envelopes for Petelina to see. “Looks our boys have utterly forgotten how to do a pat down.”
Keelp grinded his teeth helplessly, watching Petelina shake a flurry of old stamps from the envelopes onto the table. She noticed four identical pale-green stamps, joined in one block. Looking closer, she recalled her conversation with the philatelist Lisitsyn.
Got it!
A block of four rural stamps from the Okhtyrka district with a misprinted digit five were lying before the detective! It was precisely this rarity that Katya Grebenkina had brought into The Philatelist to sell.
“Those are just stamps, no more,” explained Keelp. “It’s a hobby of mine, you see.”
“So that’s why you concealed them in your liner?”
“I’ve been robbed before and try to be careful as a result.”
“Those are not simply stamps. Those are evidence. They belong to the stamp collection of a man named Brikman who was murdered in the nineties.”
The prisoner’s eyebrows jumped from astonishment. He had not anticipated such erudition from a woman detective.
Petelina understood that she had struck the bulls-eye and shifted to the attack.
“You are a murderer, Kostromin.”
“No! I never killed anyone. I am only a conman.”
“You’re lying!”
“Listen, I know who killed Brikman!”
“A henchman of yours? The man you hired to do the dirty work?”
“No, of course not!”
“The facts suggest otherwise. You are now an accessory to a brutal double murder!”
“I am not an accessory to anything!”
“You knew Brikman?”
“Yes.”
“You have his stamps. You disappeared from St. Petersburg immediately after the murder. Isn’t that correct?”
“It is! But I didn’t kill him!”
“Every murderer says exactly the same thing.”
“Please listen,” Keelp implored. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“You wish to make a full confession?”
“What confession! I will tell you about the stamps and about the murderer, just please listen to me!”
“I’m listening. But don’t even think of lying!”
“Water. Give me something to drink.” The agitated Keelp was trying to calm his breathing.
Astakhovskaya got him a glass of water, gave the detective a big thumbs up and left the office.
“I saw the killer. It’s a revolting story,” Keelp-Kostromin began his tale. “And, what’s more is I have proof. Rock-solid evidence.”
68
Later that afternoon, Igor Grebenkin was brought to the detective’s office. Petelina felt sorry for this man who, at age fifty, had discovered that every good thing about his life had happened in his youth. Those were the years when he was loved and became a father. Still young, the officer had been afraid to trade his bachelor’s freedom for an uncertain future with a sleepless woman and a screaming newborn. Yet freedom had not brought him happiness. Grebenkin had not advanced in the service and accomplished nothing in his private life.
Twenty years later, happiness knocked on his apartment door. Grebenkin came to truly love the girl who claimed she was his daughter. Later, he had to live through the horrible sorrow of her death and, overcome with blind vengeance, made a stupid mistake and was arrested. Yet the girl who confessed to her friend’s murder turned out to be his real daughter. And Grebenkin again found a reason to live. In order to save his daughter now, however, he had to part with her right away.
Petelina offered the suspect a seat on her couch.
“Mr. Grebenkin, last time I did not ask you about the whereabouts of your daughter Ekaterina Grebenkina.”
“I wouldn’t have told you then and I won’t now,” Grebenkin scowled. “Leave her alone.”
“I didn’t ask you because we did not discover the keys to your apartment in Saratov among your personal belongings. You had given them to your daughter.”
“Nothing of the kind. I lost them.”
“In that case, Katya must have found them.”
“What are you referring to?” Grebenkin tensed.
“I sent an order for her arrest to Saratov. This morning, Ekaterina Grebenkina was delivered to Moscow.”
“You arrested her?”
“She is under suspicion of the premeditated murder of Elizaveta Malyshko.”
“And how many… how many years could she get?”
“I’m afraid that you won’t see your daughter for a long while. The only thing I can do for you is arrange for a brief visit under my supervision.”
The detective walked across the room and opened the door.
“Bring her in.”
Katya Grebenkina entered the office under guard. She gave Petelina an evil look and fixed her father with her gaze.
“Uncuff her,” the detective ordered and addressed the girl: “You may have a seat beside your father.”
“Ratted out by my own pappy,” the girl spoke through clenched teeth, plunking down in the couch. “Wish you’d killed me instead!”
“I wanted to help, Katya.”
Petelina took an envelope from her table and showed it to Katya.
“Recognize this? You sent it to yourself, to be held for pickup under the name of Lisa Malyshko. I’m afraid I have to disenchant you.” Petelina pulled the stamps from the envelope and held them up before herself, as if admiring them — then, tossed them to the floor. “You murdered Lisa Malyshko over a handful of forgeries!”
“What? It can’t be!”
“Here are the real ones!” Petelina slapped her hand down on the envelopes she found on Keelp-Kostromin.
Katya rushed up to the desk. Her eyes smoldered with rage.
“Show me,” she demanded.
“I’d like to draw your attention to the fact that you did not deny murdering your friend. The only thing that troubled you was that the stamps are counterfeit.”
Katya froze as if she had encountered an invisible barrier. Her barely contained anger was straining with all its might to burst over her hapless face.
“I — ”
“Don’t bother. Your father already told us about how you killed Malyshko.”
“Why you smelly old bastard! You moron!”
Katya darted back to the couch and assailed her father. The enraged girl pushed him onto his side and began to scratch at his pate and face pitilessly. Grebenkin tried to restrain her, while Petelina adjusted the video camera to record this implicit confession to murder.
The detective spoke very rapidly.
“Katya, you lured Lisa up to the roof in order to commemorate Stela Sosuksu. You sat together on the barrier and had a drink of brandy. You were wearing gloves. As you lowered the bottle to the floor, you grabbed Lisa by her feet and flipped her backwards. You expected your father to identify the corpse as his alleged daughter.”
“Because he’s a dumbass!”
“Afterwards, you returned to the apartment and acted like you just woke up. You began to paint your nails to cover up the smell of the brandy.”
“You rat! How dare you snitch on me?” The girl lost the last vestiges of her temper.
“Katya…”
“You abandon me when I was a baby and now you betray me?!”
Petelina pressed the intercom button. Two guards came running into her office.
“Separate them.”
The cops pulled Katya away and helped the scratched up Grebenkin to his feet.
“Katya, I didn’t — » the bewildered father began stammering an explanation.
This was not among the detective’s plans. Petelina smothered the man’s muttering with a bombastic command:
“Take him away and see that he gets medical assistance! This instant! Leave her. There’s no need for handcuffs. I’ll manage. Move it!”
Elena Petelina was left alone in her office with Ekaterina Grebenkina. The girl was breathing heavily and looking fatefully at the forged stamps littering the floor.
Her tantrum had exhausted itself, the detective decided. Now, she needed to offer the cornered girl a way out of her quandary. Petelina led Katya to the desk and poured her a glass of water.
“Have a seat, drink some water and calm down.”
The girl drank and caught her breath. At last, she frowned at the detective from beneath her brow.
“I understand you perfectly, Katya,” Elena began gently. “If my parents had abandoned me, I too could have become a prostitute. How else can one make money without an education, without a home..?”
“I came to Moscow to be a model. I went to the agency — ”
“And encountered that bastard, Birdless,” Petelina used Manuylov’s nickname.
“He is a bastard. Like all men.”
“They only want one thing from us.”
“They’re impossible! Every night you bend over backwards and every day the money just goes to pay the landlord and the pimp. And then you better have a pretty outfit. The old farts can’t get it up without brand name lingerie and stockings.”
“It’s disgusting. The only thing I’d think about would be how to escape such a cabal.”
“Me too. When that geezer, Keelp, asked me to steal the envelope with the stamps from the general, I figured that he wouldn’t bother over mere kopeks. That was my chance to start a brand new life! And in order to make sure that no one would look for me, I decided to disappear.”
“And become Lisa Malyshko?”
“It was one and the same. Lisa decided to arrange a surprise for me. She dug up my dad. But I couldn’t give a damn about him! I told her as much — you need one, take him! So she went to see him pretending to be me. Then later, he got obsessed with coming to Moscow. So I made my choice.”
“From desperation, I understand,” the detective helped the girl with her confession.
“Lisa met him in front of the building and wanted to introduce me. Like a surprise or something. I offered her to have a drink, to steel ourselves — and anyways, we were gonna commemorate Stela.”
“Did Stela jump on her own?” inquired Petelina, purposefully skirting the words “death” and “suicide.”
“On her own. She was impressionable, the dummy, just like Lisa. It even occurred to me that Lisa might do the same thing one day. Well, and…”
“You sat down, had a drink, you bent down and…”
“It was a cinch. I told her that I had a different surprise. I jerked her legs up and Lisa fell… She never liked her life anyways!”
“Sure,” wincing inside, the detective forced herself to agree for the sake of the girl’s confession.
“After that it was like you said. The old moron identified her as Katya Grebenkina, while I took Lisa’s passport. We’re both young in our photos — good luck telling us apart. Not to mention that we both wear makeup these days, whereas back then we were lanky and awkward. Plus the passport was about to expire anyways. I was going to get a new one with my photo in it.” Katya fell silent for a bit and then asked, “What’ll happen to me now?”
“Well, there are mediating circumstances. We are going to draft a sincere confession and an acknowledgment of remorse. You will get the minimum sentence. Most of our judges are women. They will take your fate into account.”
“And the stamps..? Are they really counterfeit? Keelp did demand that I bring them to him. And later came looking for me.”
“Tarmo Keelp has already been arrested.”
“Really?”
“He is a conman. He used rare stamps to pay for embezzled housing. His first two payments were authentic, but the third payment consisted of the most valuable stamps, so he switched them with forgeries he had someone make for him in China. He wanted to trick the general but knew that when the general would try to exchange them, the forgeries would be discovered. Meanwhile, the general has a son who is off his rocker. If he had found Keelp, things would have gone bad for the conman. So he devised a plan. You were to meet him at the bar with the stamps and they would ‘accidentally’ burn up. In front of witnesses. Then Keelp would claim that you had stolen the stamps on your own initiative and tried to sell them to him.”
“That piece of… like all men.”
“He’ll get his. Get to work on your confession. I’ll think about what we can do for you.”
69
Left alone in her office, Elena Petelina returned to her protocol of Tarmo Keelp’s interrogation. The “Estonian’s” former name — Aleksandr Kostromin — did not appear in the document. This was the primary condition for the wily conman’s sincerity. Petelina had not guessed wrong. The shocking story that the conman had told her continued to electrify the detective.
In “95, having outfoxed the mob boss Boyarin, Sashka Kostroma fled from St. Petersburg to Tallinn. He arranged a fictitious marriage, changed his name and, after several years applied for an official Estonian passport. Keelp began returning to Moscow in 2010. The city was awash in money and the conman had no trouble finding opportunities to exercise his talents. He had aged and his look had changed and he was certain that he would not be recognized. Keeping in mind the extreme tendencies of his “unsatisfied clients,” Keelp leased two neighboring apartments and knocked down a secret passage between them. Eventually, it came in handy.
Tarmo Keelp confessed to his fraud with the counterfeit warehouse, revealed his cunning scheme for embezzling apartments designated for servicemembers and was prepared to betray his high-ranking confederates — all to remain Tarmo Keelp.
“Let’s not go digging up the past. Everyone thinks that Sashka Kostroma lies resting at the bottom of the Gulf of Finland. Let it remain that way,” Keelp begged the detective.
Were it not for the story with the stamps, Elena Petelina would never have considered a plea bargain.
“You forgot about the most important thing.” Petelina pointed at the rare stamps. “How did you come by Brikman’s stamps? He and his wife were murdered, after all.”
“Alright,” Keelp made his decision. “I will help you solve that murder.”
He asked for some coffee and began to tell his story.
“It’s quite dangerous — fatally dangerous — to double-cross a goon like Boyarin, and yet doing it was an extreme bit of fun. I took it even further and stuck the pig with my cane-blade. After you pull a stunt like that, all you can do is take to your heels and vamoose! Naturally, I had worked out my escape to Estonia beforehand. But before leaving St. Petersburg, I decided to do one more job. Valentin Brikman was a jeweler by day and a fanatical stamp collector the rest of the time. In the early “90s St. Petersburg was flooded with phony Turkish gold and, as it happened, Brikman decided to dabble in the metal around this time. It didn’t go well for him. Using a fake intermediary, I played him for a huge amount of money and then appeared and helped him resolve the situation. Brikman was left penniless but alive. Not a bad outcome in those years. Disconsolate, the Jew reckoned me as his savior and showed me his collection.”
“You understand the world of philately?”
“Detective Petelina, I understand everything that is valuable. Would you like me to tell you how much your earrings cost?”
Elena unwittingly touched her gold earring with its cubic zirconium and reddened.
“Stick to the topic at hand, please.”
“I can see right away that you won’t take a bribe. You’re after something else entirely. Your weakness is your desire to find the culprit and bring him to justice. Isn’t that so? I can see in your eyes that I’m correct. And so, I will bring you your killer on a silver platter.”
“All I’ve heard so far are your plans to rob Brikman.”
“Robbery is not my line of work. Murder — doubly so. Abduction I’m more partial to. And yet deception — deception is what my heart truly — ”
“Get to the point, Mr. Kostromin.”
“Keelp! That’s what you put in the paperwork, right?”
“Please continue, Mr. Tarmo Keelp.”
“I like doing business with you, Detective Petelina. And so, I asked Brikman to appraise a diamond. I told him that it was an urgent matter and that I would come by very soon. Oh, an important detail: Brikman lived in an old building near Nevsky Prospekt. His apartment was on the fourth floor, right under the attic. So before appearing for my meeting, I snuck up there — the attic — with a stray kitten.”
“Wait, a real kitten? Why?”
“One second and you’ll conceive the genius of my conceit. I pried off a brick in the ventilation shaft above Brikman’s apartment. My plan was to bind the kitten’s hind legs and lower it down into the shaft. Imagine the stink that the frightened critter would raise.”
“Why such cruelty?”
“It was part of the plan. I would show up at Brikman’s place. We would retire to his office to appraise the diamond. At this point, a plaintive cry would come from the wall. Initially, only Brikman’s wife would notice it. She would find the cry’s source — the kitchen vent. The crying would begin to irritate the woman. She would start fretting and helplessly call her husband for help. Brikman would be angry but would leave his office. Several minutes would be all I’d need to take the most valuable of the stamps. My escape to Estonia was scheduled that same day.”
“Brilliantly simple,” Petelina encouraged Keelp to go on.
“Why, of course! When a true master gets to work… Ahem, well anyway, the job did not go as planned. Upon removing a few bricks, I heard an agitated conversation — an argument underway down in Brikman’s apartment. The murderer was demanding the collector’s stamps.”
“The murderer?”
“Unequivocally. So, there I am, eavesdropping: The murderer is making demands but Brikman isn’t giving in. Their argument grows. I start hearing the sounds of a struggle followed by the sound of a knife stabbing flesh. Twice or thrice. My hunch is confirmed by the sound of a body falling to the floor. Brikman’s wife comes running in response to the noise. The murderer doesn’t spare her either! I am starting to panic! Why take a person’s life, after all, when you can obtain the stamps surreptitiously? I am getting ready to leave when I hear the apartment door open down below. The killer comes out — but instead of descending the stairs, he begins ascending to the attic!”
With his handkerchief, Keelp dabbed at the cold sweat that had appeared at his receding hairline. It was as if he was reliving the terror of those minutes all over again.
“I barely have time to conceal myself in a corner and freeze, when the murderer appears carrying a suitcase. He is no more than five yards from me.”
“Did you get a good look at him? Would you be able to identify him?”
“You bet, detective.”
“Senior detective. What makes you so certain?”
“Because I already knew him.”
“So — who murdered the Brikmans?”
“Please hold on a little longer, senior detective. My testimony will be of no use to you if I don’t tell you about the evidence. And so: I freeze and see the murderer hide the suitcase in the attic. He takes off his bloodstained windbreaker and places it and a large kitchen knife into a gray bag with an Adidas logo on it. I can’t help but shudder at this point and the killer turns in my direction. He is armed with a knife — while my only means of defending myself is the head on my shoulders. Once again, it doesn’t fail me: I recall that I have a kitten in my bag with me. I release the poor critter and the kitten takes of running and mewling. The murderer relents and, after a bit, leaves the attic down another set of stairs. Ooof! At last I can breathe freely. My first instinct is to scram. But I also want to glance into the suitcase — after all, I can guess what’s in there.”
“The stamps?”
“You too are interested? Listen then. My hands are gloved as they click open the clasps. And there before me is Brikman’s entire priceless collection!”
“A suitcase full of rare stamps?”
“Yes — organized in albums, folders, packets. An immense amount of money! I want to take the entire suitcase but understand that doing so might attract attention. So I pick out the most valuable items. Just a few paper-thin envelopes. And yet, their value is twenty times greater than what I leave in the suitcase.”
Keelp’s face shone with joy, as though he had just acquired the treasure. The detective decided to bring her soaring conman back to earth.
“It’s an engrossing tale. But why should I think that it wasn’t you who killed the Brikmans? It’s not hard to concoct some mythical killer.”
“I haven’t finished telling you everything, Detective Petelina. When I emerged from the building with the stamps, I remembered the murderer. What would he have done with that bag containing the knife and windbreaker? He wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave them in his own yard. He wouldn’t go out to Nevsky, say, to catch a trolley or the subway either. He’s a local, which meant he’d take the alleys and yards and find some quiet place to dispose of the evidence. Accordingly, I took a similar path.”
“You found the bag?” Petelina guessed.
“I looked in every dumpster and finally caught sight of a gray Adidas bag.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I hid it in a different place. And then returned it to the building’s attic the next day. I understood that if I was caught with Brikman’s stamps on me, I’d go down for the murder. The bags contents represented my exculpation. It contained the knife with the killer’s prints on it.”
“The murderer didn’t wear gloves?”
“Nope.”
“Why not do you think?”
“Brikman knew his murderer very well and had no reason to fear or suspect him. Their argument was over money and the killer acted without premeditation.”
“Who was it? Who murdered Brikman?”
“I already mentioned that the knife was a kitchen knife. This is not a weapon that a professional would use.”
“Brikman’s acquaintance was another collector?”
“He was too young to be a true philatelist. Have you really not figured it out by now?”
The detective fell into contemplation, recalling the case’s evidence, while Keelp went on dropping hints.
“A kitchen knife is not designed for stabbing. Its hilt has no guard. Accordingly, when the killer stabbed his victims, the knife met a rib and slipped along his hand. That is, the killer sliced his fingers. I would assume that he still has a scar there.”
Petelina looked down at her desk in concentration. She no longer saw the papers or the laptop on it; her mind and intuition were synthesizing what she had heard with what she knew into one image. Suddenly, her eyes widened. The detective saw the murderer.
70
The endless doubts tormenting Elena Petelina over these last few days — days leading up to her rendezvous with Gomelsky — had only grown. How could she act lawfully and help her loved ones at the same time? How could she bring the culprit to justice and keep her reputation at the same time? How could she act fairly and keep this affair from becoming a betrayal at the same time?
Oh Lord! Are there not people out there who are true to their principles and happy at the same time? To them, the world must be divided in two parts: This is black — and this is white. This is right — and this is wrong. This is a lie — and this is the truth. And what if one can effect justice but solely through a lie? And what is justice, if even during an utterly fair trial, the lawyer and the prosecutor disagree in their perception of justice? To say nothing about the victim and the criminal…
Petelina looked at her watch. The workday had long since drawn to a close. It was too risky to put off her meeting with Gomelsky. She had to go.
The detective left her office and got into the car. On her way home, she turned into a shopping center, descended down to the underground parking lot and circled several times in search of the black Infiniti. And there it was!
The double-parked Infiniti adjusted itself, relinquishing one of the spots for her. Petelina parked her car. She took a minute to gather her wits and adjust her mood. Then, she got into the tinted Infiniti.
“Greetings, oh terrible Noose.”
“Hello, Denis.” Elena smiled at Gomelsky gently.
“Did you bring it?”
“I did as you requested. There is no longer even a passing mention of the bullet and its shell in the case paperwork.” Elena placed a bag containing the pancake-shaped bullet and shell casing from the Yarygin Pistol in the console between the seats.
“There’s a good Noose,” Gomelsky smiled crookedly.
“Denis, I accidentally came across the tragedy that befell your parents. What a brutal thing to happen to your mother and father. Please accept my condolences.”
“That happened long ago.”
“Today, I was interrogating a certain Mr. Keelp — imagine my surprise when we found some ancient stamps sewn into his suit’s lining.”
“So he had them on him..? The bastard!”
“You know him?”
“What kind of stamps did you find?”
“Well, I assume they are from you father’s collection. I wanted to consult you first.”
“Do you have them with you? Show me!”
“Here are the copies.” Petelina produced several folded pages from her purse.
The lawyer grabbed the papers and began to anxiously riffle through them.
“These stamps belong to me. They are mine!”
“The investigation is still underway. They will most likely become evidence in a criminal case.”
“To hell with the case! Give me my stamps!”
“They are evidence. The stamps can lead us to your parents’ murderer.”
“The murderer? What did Keelp tell you?”
“He’s keeping silent for now. But you know that I’ll crack him eventually. Oh, by the way, give me those video copies like you promised.”
“Yes, eventually you will…” the lawyer mused pensively. “Alright, here’s the deal, oh infamous Noose. I couldn’t care less about the bullet and the idiot who shot the pimp: You can put him away if you catch him. Instead, if you want that video, give me my stamps back. All of my father’s stamps! Tomorrow and no later! And without any further investigation.”
“You’re not interested in finding the murderer?”
“That won’t bring back my parents. The stamps, on the other hand, are memories — my memories.”
“When I lost my brother, I spent eighteen years looking for him. And he returned.”
“Are you suggesting that being a lawyer, I could push the investigation along or even find the man myself?”
“The murderer must be brought to justice.”
“That’s all very well, but all I want is to forget that horror! Return the stamps to me — and we will be even!”
“The stamps are that important to you?”
“Do you have the slightest idea how much they’re worth?”
Elena dropped her eyes, scooted closer to Gomelsky and placed her hand on his knee.
“You will get your stamps,” she said. “I promise.”
“And you will get your video.”
“Denis, I watched the video and I remembered… I remembered our meetings. And suddenly I understood that I was never as happy as when I was with you.”
“Happier than even with your cool-hand operative?”
“I’m over him.”
“So what do you want then? Stop fluttering your eyelids and come out and say it directly.”
“I want to get back together.”
“And I want those stamps.”
“I’ll let you have them — as a present. Tomorrow. Along with a woman who is starving for you.” Elena tried to inject the kind of caramel into her voice that would make the man melt.
“To be honest, I’ve been thinking of you too. You have such gentle lips.”
Gomelsky squeezed Petelina’s breast and drew the woman to himself. Their lips melted in a kiss. Elena ran her fingers through Gomelsky’s hair as her little tongue entered his mouth — arousing and exhilarating him. When they unclenched, Elena blushingly wiped off her tongue and fingers with her handkerchief.
“Tomorrow, I’ll come over to your place,” Elena promised. “It’ll be Saturday. I’ll have time to get ready — so that you won’t be left disenchanted.”
“Don’t forget the stamps.”
“I can wear nothing but them.”
“Don’t touch them with your bare hands. I will show you a certain stiff object that is much better suited to your touch.”
“I am all anticipation. I can barely wait.”
Elena smiled gently and, opening the door, passed into her own car. She examined the moist handkerchief on which she had deposited several hairs from Gomelsky’s head and deposited it into an evidence bag.
The Tadpole will have to put in some overtime, thought the detective. I sure hope there’s enough of Gomelsky’s saliva and hair here for an adequate DNA sample.
71
Leaving her warm bed in the morning, Elena got into the shower, turned on the tap and shuddered from the gelid rush. Her mind cleared. The last vestiges of heavy sleep washed away down the drain along with the streaming water — without, however, bringing her any peace of mind. The cares of the coming day, the showdown that loomed before her, drew ever more into focus until they became a cliff face that she would have to risk her life storming.
By and by the water warmed up. Elena reached for the shampoo. Damn those ugly gender norms. In order to triumph today, she would have to look and play the part of a stunning vixen. After the shower, the woman examined herself in the mirror and came away satisfied.
Putting on a bathrobe and winding a towel round her head, Elena passed into the kitchen. The boiling kettle muted her daughter’s footsteps. Elena noticed Nastya only once the girl had already sat down at the table, propped up her cheeks and fixed her yogurt with a deathly stare.
“Nastya, you want I make you some porridge?”
“Today’s match decides whether we make it out of our group.”
I’ve got a decisive match too, thought Petelina.
“If we lose, we’ll be eliminated.”
It’ll be worse than that for me.
“The coach has kept Vera on as skip, but has entrusted me with the most important final throws. Can you imagine?”
“I told you that everything would work out.”
“But Vera keeps huffing and puffing and giving me the most difficult tasks.”
“You’ll manage, Nastya.”
“Mom! How can you not understand? If I make one little mistake, Vera will say that we lost because of me!”
“Yes, that does sound like a problem.” Elena sat down at the table beside her daughter.
“Do what I have to and let things turn out the way they will?” Nastya asked looking up.
Petelina took a moment to think. Do I really act as I should every time?
“It’s no different than letting the current carry you like it carries everyone else,” she admitted honestly, remembering how she always tried to choose her own path.
“Like everyone else… Isn’t that bad?”
“No, it’s merely normal. If you want to be successful, it won’t be enough. There is the standard move that the opponent expects — but you can always deviate, be more complex! Choose the unexpected throws.”
“It’s risky.”
“I know.” Elena gently tussled Nasty’s hair. “But you know, I’ve been convinced for a long time that you can’t win without taking a risk.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am,” Petelina looked the girl in her eyes.
A rainbow passed along Nastya’s face. The girl looked up at the towel on her mother’s head.
“I think I’ll wash my hair as well.”
“Sure — I got dibs on the hairdryer though!”
Having left Nastya in her grandmother’s care — and heard out the woman’s rebukes about how normal people spend their Saturdays relaxing — Elena Petelina rushed off to work. She couldn’t wait to make personally sure that the invaluable evidence had come in from St. Petersburg.
The first thing Petelina did was stop by the forensic lab. The disheveled Tadpole was so occupied with his work that he didn’t even respond to her greeting. To the uninitiated it could seem that the expert was simultaneously conjuring over his reagents, peering into his electron microscope and working on his computer.
The detective approached the well-lit table upon which lay the kitchen knife with its dark-brown stains, the windbreaker with its dark spots and an ancient Adidas bag. It was astonishing that the bag had survived all those long years in the attic. Aleksandr Kostromin had done a good job of hiding it before his flight to Estonia. Now, at long last, these bloodied objects would become the key to the mystery of the Brikmans’ murder.
“Did you manage to isolate the DNA?” the detective asked curtly.
“You owe me some chocolate,” replied Ustinov without looking up from his microscope.
“I came prepared.” Petelina place two gold-wrapped “Golden Brand” chocolate bars on the table beside the kettle.
Misha glanced at the offering from the corner of his eyes and couldn’t help but smile.
“I will do my best, Detective Petelina. As soon as I have something, I’ll let you know.”
“I won’t distract you.”
At the door to the lab, Petelina ran into Vasilich. The scowling skeleton was sitting with his legs crossed in his office chair. A new wisdom graced his ribcage: “Life is but a moment between the past and me.”
We will all look like him in time, the woman wistfully agreed.
The detective went up to her office. She opened her safe, retrieved a plastic bag with stamps and began to examine it in the palm of her hand. To think that — in the valuation of Keelp-Kostromin — these small, unassuming pictures were worth about ten million dollars!
Another woman may have segued from such a thought straight into a fantasy of a beach house, a beautiful car, diamond-encrusted jewelry and a wardrobe chock-full of exquisite clothes and shoes. The only thing that occurred to the detective’s fixated mind, however, was the need to obtain the autopsy report for the stamp collector and his spouse.
Petelina stuck the stamps in her purse and glanced at her new watch, which had just that morning been delivered to her from a website. She was quite fond of her new toy.
Lyudmila Astakhovskaya entered the office.
“Hi! I’m never late to a business meeting,” smiled Astakhovskaya, noticing Petelina looking at her watch. “Did you decide you couldn’t wait for your paycheck?”
“I have to look dazzling today.”
“Are you trying to bedazzle a man?” Astakhovskaya asked. “Nothing is more simple. Let’s take a trip to the store.”
“You don’t care who the man is?”
“Trust my extensive experience in the matter: Men are all the same. The only difference is several inches — here or there.”
Elena had to purse her lips to stifle her snort. For the first time that day, she felt some relief from the otherwise relentless anxiety.
72
The last thing Denis Gomelsky wanted was for Alex Bayukin to have even the slightest idea of where he lived. Today, though, the lawyer had no other choice. Alex and he pulled up to a modern highrise built of granite and parked across from the gated entrance. The lawyer had an apartment on the tenth floor of this residential complex which was called “The Cliff.”
“Let me show you something real quick,” the lawyer said, turning on his tablet. “It’s an article by that journalist Lugantseva. It includes a link to a video from a dashboard camera. Take a look.”
While Alex was reading the article and watching the video, Gomelsky offered his commentary.
“Looks like you didn’t manage to do things incognito. You were recorded by a passing car. Here’s the instant when you grabbed Valeyev’s hooker. They’ve dropped the charges against him, by the way. Now the detective is looking for the man who assaulted the girl. She’s looking for you, Bayukin!”
“You can’t see my face in the video!”
“And you didn’t drop your passport at the scene either! The trail is cold and the detectives are all at their wits’ end!” Gomelsky grabbed his head in mock panic. “The worst part is that the case has been assigned to the same detective who was working the pimp’s murder.”
“But you promised to get me off the hook.”
“I still will. But things are more complicated now. You’ve crapped the bed yet again.”
“I did everything as you ordered!”
“And don’t you dare mention that to anyone! I am your lawyer and no more.”
“To hell with you and your damned detective! I’m going to get out of Moscow!”
“That’s not the way out, Alex. Sooner or later you’ll be found. There’s a better way.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you get a good look at the woman I met down in the shopping center parking deck last night?”
“Sure, just as you ordered.”
“She is the detective in charge of your case.”
“A chick?”
“Chicks sell overpriced jeans in boutiques — this is the Noose! She gave me the cartridge you left behind at the pimp’s murder scene.” The lawyer held up the evidence bag. “There’s no more mention of this or your Yarygin Pistol in the case. And today she will bring me your dad’s stamps.”
“Really?!”
“Yup. She dug up the old Estonian who slipped away from us.”
“Why that’s awesome!”
“Oh Alex. Women are inconstant. They are susceptible to their emotions and petulant. Today I’ve bridled her, but tomorrow she’ll kick and rear up and reopen the case all over again and charge you with murder. Are you catching on?”
“You’re saying the woman can’t be trusted.”
“Precisely! So the plan is as follows. This evening, you will sit here in a car and watch that gate. Just don’t get any closer than here — there’s a camera up there! The Noose will leave my place and get in her car. You will follow her. Her house is half an hour away, so after about fifteen-twenty minutes, when she stops at a light, you will pull up next to her, lower your window and shoot her.”
“Should I shoot to kill?”
“Yes. Then you’ll be free. No one else will be able to reopen the case against you. As payment, I will give you a share of the stamps worth one million dollars.”
“They all belong to my father as it is.”
“And who said that you have to give them back to the general? He’ll be put away pretty soon anyway. Then you’ll have the money and his apartment.”
“What car should I use to follow the little lady?”
“Here’s three thousand dollars. Go to a dealership and buy something nice and cheap. Without a registration. Ditch the car once you’ve made the hit. The car will probably be a stolen one with swapped license plates anyway. Make sure to wear gloves and you’ll be clean. This detective, the Noose, has put away many guys. If anyone looks, they’ll be looking at them.”
“Will she come out after dark?”
“Yes. I will keep her occupied until then.”
“Alright, looks simple enough, I guess.”
“Just remember, Alex: no more phone calls between us. Whatever happens after she leaves my house, you have to get rid of her.”
Denis Gomelsky let Alex out of his car, parked the car in the underground lot and took the elevator to his apartment. For a while, he wandered around the different rooms, unable to find a place to settle.
The Noose decided her fate herself, the lawyer told himself. She has Keelp and he, the bastard, knows a thing or two — otherwise, how would he have my dad’s stamps? The Noose has stuck her nose into long-forgotten St. Petersburg business and left me no choice. She is shrewd and meticulous and more than capable of digging up the truth. When she was expressing her condolences last night, there was a hidden rebuke in her words. Eh, hidden is too strong a word! The Noose asked straight out why I didn’t want to find my father’s killer. She must suspect something. And where there is suspicion — a formal indictment isn’t too far behind.
Gomelsky splashed some brandy into a snifter and drank it to the dregs.
“I have to take her out of the picture,” he whispered.
73
Elena Petelina unlocked the door and entered the apartment. Lyudmila Astakhovskaya followed behind her. The women’s hands were full of shopping bags bearing the names of various brands. Elena dumped the purchases on the couch and plunked down beside them.
“Ugh… am I really going to wear all of this?”
“Take a look in the mirror,” Astakhovskaya advised.
“Why?”
“Your eyes are all aglitter.”
“That’s just fear.” Elena dug a pair of black stilettos from a box. “My feet hurt just looking at them.”
“The precarious stiletto is a necessary part of the image you’re going for. Didn’t you want the man to lose his mind when he sees you?”
“And check out these seamed stockings!” Elena tore into another bag. “I don’t remember ever even wearing a pair.”
“All the worse. Full fashioned stockings will make any tomboy seem feminine and in your case, they’ll make you seem, well, jaw-dropping. Come on — get dressed. I’ll go make some fresh coffee.”
“I don’t have a coffee machine. I prefer Turkish,” Petelina warned.
“A classic. That’s my style.”
Elena undressed and began working through the bags of new clothes. As the clothes’ fabric slipped over her body — gently squeezing this or that part of her body — little titters of pleasure traveled up the woman’s spine. She felt herself becoming younger and slenderer. The thin underwear, the seamed stockings, the black pencil skirt and damask, button-down blouse — all took up their rightful places, embracing the woman’s body.
For the finale, Elena put on the shoes and stood up. She felt as if she were soaring: Everything that she was used to seeing around her descended, as though bowing before her. The high heels forced the woman to arch her waist, straighten her shoulders and stick out her chest.
The thick aroma of fresh coffee wafted in from the kitchen. Elena cantered after the scent, trying to accustom herself to the higher center of gravity. When she saw the sage Astakhovskaya, she couldn’t help but smile. Elena recalled the exact same feeling of happiness when, for her sixth birthday, her parents had decked her out in a festive dress with ruffles and frills, a magnificent bow in her hair and new gold-buckled sandals on her feet. Stunned, the boys gaped at her, while her girlfriends suddenly seemed sad about something.
“Let’s go see what the mirror says,” beckoned Astakhovskaya.
The women passed to the entryway where the mirror was hung on the closet’s door. Astakhovskaya turned on all the lights.
“Turn around,” she said. “Okay. Let’s straighten out this seam down here and unbutton one more button up here… Excellent! You’re a goddess!”
The Goddess of Investigation, an echo surfaced in Petelina’s mind. This is exactly how she must look to catch the culprit off his guard. All Greek gods were beautiful.
“Truly beautiful clothes makes a woman look more beautiful dressed than undressed. The trick is to choose the kind of outfit that will switch the guy’s brain right off. Isn’t that what you’re counting on after all?”
“Well…”
“Then don’t forget to paint your lips the same color as your blouse and apply a touch of perfume to your wrists and neck,” Astakhovskaya reminded.
Elena reveled in the sight of the stunning woman in the mirror before her and simultaneously reproached herself: She had transformed herself for the sake of a lowlife — not for the sake of the man she loved. No, the detective corrected herself, I’ve done it for the sake of the decisive battle.
Her phone blared to life from a nearby chair. Petelina grabbed it. She had been expecting a crucial call all day. Please, please let the Tadpole succeed, she prayed.
“Detective Petelina, the DNA samples returned a match,” the forensic expert reported wearily. “I’m sending you the official findings.”
“Thank you, Misha,” said Petelina with relief.
The detective was now convinced that her shopping trip had not been in vain. The Goddess of Investigation had helped her make the right move in this deadly game.
74
Wearing a snide, triumphant smile, Denis Gomelsky ushered Elena Petelina into his apartment. He took her raincoat from her and beheld the woman in her full beauty.
“Would you look at that! You are super-sexy!” the lawyer could hardly contain his excitement.
“Shall we make the trade and go our separate ways? Or shall we..?” Elena shot Denis a coquettish look and touched his arm.
“Damn! Go right on through. This I did not expect. And what a view from behind! A stylish woman!”
“Didn’t I say I’d surprise you?” the detective asked.
She passed along a broad, mirrored corridor into a spacious living room that opened into a well-equipped kitchen. A gigantic TV with towering speakers occupied one of the walls. Facing it stood a corner sofa and a circular coffee table. The room was illuminated by a crystal chandelier and an array of wall sconces. Luxuriant drapes and valances framed the four corner windows.
Elena passed along the windows, taking in the view outside.
“Classy,” she approved. “I see that defending officials is a lucrative occupation.”
“Why do you think corruption cases take so long? Every month brings any lawyer worth his salt several acres of rural real estate.”
“Dim the lights. I don’t feel comfy in so much light.”
“This is a smart house. Here’s the remote. Adjust the place as you see fit.”
Gomelsky showed her what button did what. Petelina turned off the chandelier, leaving only the wall lamps. She moved elegantly, pausing at the most favorable angles and smiling mysteriously. She remembered Astakhovskaya’s injunction that in order manipulate a man she had to be a desirable woman.
“Wine or champagne?” the lawyer fussed.
“Champagne, of course.”
Elena was in no hurry to take a seat. Her high heels and narrow skirt emphasized her primness and elegance. She roamed around the room, spreading the fragrance of her perfume and giving Gomelsky ample opportunity to swallow the hook of lust as deeply down his throat as possible.
A cork popped. Gomelsky filled two flutes with champagne and approached the woman.
“What shall we drink to?” he asked, handing Elena the glass.
“To us. May we both get what we want.”
“Right, by the way! Totally slipped my mind: Did you bring my stamps?”
“Of course, Denis. They’re in a bag in my purse.”
The lawyer downed his champagne and scurried to the foyer where Petelina had left her purse. The detective had no doubts that he would check its contents for any clever gadgets she may have planted there.
“These are my father’s stamps. I have searched for them for so long. You can’t imagine what they mean to me. They represent my family’s heritage.” Gomelsky returned to the living room, examining the bag’s contents. “Is this everything that Keelp had on him?”
“You’re free to search me if you think I’ve kept some to myself.”
“Not a bad idea.”
“Our glasses are empty.” Elena clinked her nails against the flute.
Gomelsky put the stamps aside, brought over the bottle and poured some more champagne. Elena reckoned that she had spent enough time twirling in front of him and decided to move on to the next stage of her seduction. She lowered herself onto the low sofa. The high heels lifted her knees, forcing her skirt to bare her thighs even further.
“You got what you wanted — now how about me?” she hinted flirtatiously.
“You mean the video? You can have it.”
“Not just that, Denis. There are all sorts of things that a woman desires.”
Gomelsky drank the champagne and sat down beside Elena. His hand alighted on her knee.
“Listen, what do you say we get back together? You’re good in bed and when we take what you do into account… A skillful attorney together with a diligent detective is a frightful combination. You have to understand, an ordinary life — that’s roughly down here,” Gomelsky indicated the level of the coffee table and then raised his palm toward the ceiling, “I want to live up there.”
“You prefer to talk business?”
“It’s a lawyer’s nature to seek profit in every situation.”
“And it’s a fanatical detective’s nature to see criminals in every person. Even in those who are quite familiar to her.”
“Who’s that now?” Gomelsky tensed a little.
“My father. For many years, I was terrified that he had killed my brother.”
“But your brother turned up.”
“Fortunately.”
“We’re talking about the wrong thing.” Gomelsky embraced the woman around her waist and kissed her neck. “Completely the wrong thing — pussycat.”
“Hold on — it’s not interesting this way.” Elena slipped out of his arms and stood up. She flashed her eyes slyly. “You know, I’ve always wanted to try to do a striptease. But I never had a worthy spectator until now.”
“Whoa. I am all ears — and eyes.”
“I want to go put on a hat of yours. Oh, and I know what music I’ll use too.”
Elena went to the foyer and returned wearing her raincoat and a man’s hat slanted on her head. She turned on her phone and placed it on the coffee table. Joe Cocker’s smoky baritone began crooning “You Can Leave Your Hat On”:
Baby take off your coat.
Real slow…
Elena moved her hips smoothly to the music, rocking her chest and turning on her heels. She slowly lowered her raincoat and fluttered her eyelids from under the brim of her hat. At the right beat, she whipped off the coat entirely and flung it to the floor as Gomelsky clapped delighted…
Now take off your shoes.
I’ll take off your shoes…
Elena happily freed her feet, the shoes flying in different directions. Gomelsky was smiling sweetly, gesturing her to go on…
Baby, take off your dress.
Yes, yes, yes…
You can leave your hat on…
Elena spun around, lifting and lowering her skirt and wiggling her hips. Her fingers had begun to unbutton her red blouse, button by button. A black bra with a steep plunge began to appear. Lena squeezed her breasts together and bent toward Denis. Her tongue licked her half-open lips. Gomelsky tried to touch her breast, but Lena slapped his hand away with a smile and backed up dancing. She took off her blouse entirely and twirled the red fabric above her head. The lawyer wheezed excitedly.
Suddenly, the song cut out mid-verse. The phone began playing another male’s voice, similarly hoarse:
“I hid in the attic and saw him stick the bloodied knife and windbreaker in a gray Adidas bag. His right hand was wounded. During the stabbing, his hand had slipped along the blade, cutting his fingers. I would imagine that the Brikmans’ murderer still has a scar there. On the lower phalanges of his right hand. An even line on the inside of the palm.”
“What the hell is this crap!” Gomelsky flew off the handle. “What is this?”
“The testimony of a witness who saw your parents’ murderer.”
“It can’t be!”
“He was in the attic at the time of the murder. As you know of course, the suitcase was discovered up — ”
“Who is this witness? Is it that goddamn Keelp?”
“How did you know?”
“Did my name come up?”
“No. But he described the young man in great detail. Then, I found a photo from your student years.”
“That means nothing! So many years have passed — Keelp can’t possibly remember everything perfectly.”
“What are you all in a tizzy about? You need to find the person who murdered your parents. I’ve decided to help you.”
“You gave me the stamps — and that’s enough!”
“Let me see your hand.” Elena threw on her blouse and approached Gomelsky.
“Here — look all you want!” The lawyer flashed his palm.
“Not that one, silly. The right one.”
Gomelsky squeezed his right fist even tighter.
“You don’t have to show it to me if you don’t want to. I got a good look at it last night when we met. A thin, even trace where the knife blade passed.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“Agreed. Actually, I’d be completely happy forgetting about that conman’s testimony, if…”
“If what?”
“If you give me a share of the money. Say, half the value of those stamps I just gave you.”
“If I agree to that, it’ll mean that…” Gomelsky glanced at Petelina’s phone and exploded: “Why you really are a Noose! You bitch! You’re trying to record a confession! This is entrapment!”
The lawyer jumped up, hurled the phone against the floor and crushed it with his foot. This, however, was not the end of it. Having caught his breath, Gomelsky tossed the broken phone into the kitchen sink and turned on the tap. A torrent of water enveloped the phone. Gomelsky splashed some water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirrored door of a hung cabinet and looked down. It seemed to him as if the droplets covering his cheeks were tears — and the ones covering his hands blood.
The lawyer squeamishly dried himself with a towel, avoiding the thin scar that crossed the lower phalanges on the fingers of his right hand. Not a day went by that the long-since healed scar failed to remind him of his bloody argument with his father.
“Half of the stamp money and a new phone.” Petelina met him with ice in her eyes. She had already buttoned her blouse and put on her shoes. “All I want is money.”
“What a pathetic thing to want. I, for example, want you too!”
Seemingly offhand, Gomelsky approached the window and looked down from the tenth floor. He spied the old Daewoo that Alex had bought in preparation for tonight’s assassination.
Nothing’s changed. I am still in charge of this situation. Alex is down there, just waiting for the Noose to leave the building. Gomelsky calmed down and congratulated himself on his foresight. All the stamps will be mine alone. That lunatic Alex is lying in ambush for the Noose. She’s done with! Till then, though, she is damned sexy. Why not savor one last leap..?
Abruptly, the lawyer threw his arms around the woman’s waist and pulled her close. The hat tumbled from her head as Gomelsky whispered breathily into her ear:
“What’d you get dressed for? Your striptease turned me on. Can you feel it?”
“Let me go! You’re hurting me!”
“What are struggling for? Your Valeyev killed someone too you know.”
“Too?” Elena did a double-take.
Gomelsky loosened his grip, rolled his eyes and cracked a self-satisfied smile.
“I was at home that day,” he replied as if in a fog. “The dumbass detectives didn’t find the killer.”
“Because he turned out to be smarter than them,” Elena played along carefully.
“‘Smarter’ is an understatement.”
Gomelsky slid his hands down and began trying to unzip the skirt. Elena kissed him on the corner of his lips.
“Denis, you’re as turned on by a female body as I am by a male intellect,” she whispered. “Tell me more.”
“Where’s that damn clasp? I want to see you in stockings damn it.”
“Let me do that myself. So are you going to tell me?”
Gomelsky released the woman and retrieved a bottle of expensive cognac from the bar. Unwilling to bother with a glass, he took a swig straight from the bottle. Three yards away, the woman’s fingers played with the blouse’s buttons — unbuttoning then buttoning them.
Yes indeed, I am smart — smart and calculating. I made it all happen all on my own. Even back then, in August of “95, I did what any resolute and confident man would do. Chicks line up in droves to get at guys like that.
Denis Gomelsky took another swig of the cognac and, feeling pride swell in his chest, decided that the time had come to brag a little. He had been holding onto this burden for far too long.
75
No, I shouldn’t call her. Lena’ll blow me off over the phone. Instead, I’ll show up with an enormous bouquet of flowers and beg for her forgiveness: Lena, I am sorry, forgive me. No. That won’t be enough. I have to tell her something about love: Lena, I love you! Only you and no one else! I’ve loved you since we were in school! Marat Valeyev worked up his courage as he drove up to Elena Petelina’s house. And let Mrs. Gracheva be there — or Nastya — I’ll still say these words.
As it turned out, Mrs. Gracheva and Nastya had just come home. The grandmother and granddaughter were in the lobby, waiting for the elevator. Nastya was holding a curling broom in her hand and had a backpack slung over her shoulder that had “Russia” embroidered on it in red, white and blue thread.
“Whoa. Those flowers are awesome! Are those for me, Valeyev?” Nastya hopped ecstatically.
“Was your captain’s salary enough?” quipped Mrs. Gracheva. “Or are you ‘protecting’ some florists?”
“They’re for mom,” Nasty nodded knowingly, noticing Valeyev’s embarrassment. “You could’ve congratulated me too. I won the match with my last throw!”
The narrow little elevator announced its arrival. The three passengers arranged themselves in its corners, ceding the center to the festive bouquet.
“That fragrance smells artificial, like chemicals,” Mrs. Gracheva scrunched her nose.
Nastya kept peeking out from under the bouquet.
“The coach kept Vera on as the team’s skip,” she chattered, “so she wouldn’t whine — but he trusted me with all the last throws! They’re the most important ones! Imagine — I had to first sweep like crazy and then make my throws. Breathing rate, heart rate — they make it hard! And you know what else I came up with?”
“Holding your breath?” ventured Valeyev.
“You’re so silly! The entire match, I was throwing the curling rocks into the house from the right. I tried from the left one time and it didn’t work. The opposing team noticed. And then, in the last end, we were losing by two rocks. So I provoked our opponents into placing their guards on the right side. They fell for it! For the final throw, I came in from the left! A double takeout! We got three points and won! You should’ve seen their faces!”
“You outfoxed them,” Valeyev praised the girl, even though he hadn’t understood half the terms she had used.
“Mom helped me. If the opponent is confident, you have to pull the wool over their eyes, and then hit them when they least expect it.”
“Your mother is very smart.”
“Smarter than some, that’s for sure,” Mrs. Gracheva couldn’t contain herself.
Elena was not in the apartment, which made Mrs. Gracheva very happy and upset Valeyev. Stumped, Marat froze in the middle of the entryway, not knowing what to do with the flowers.
“I’ll put the flowers in a vase,” Nastya fussed. “And I’ll tell her that they’re from you. Or, if you like, I can write a note. That would be so romantic.”
“Oh, but our little Lena has gone out for a date,” Mrs. Gracheva’s voice came in sing-song from the other room.
“What do you mean, date?” Valeyev poked his head into the living room.
“She got herself a new skirt, shoes, even a blouse!” Mrs. Gracheva picked through the empty bags and snipped-off labels with interest. “And what is this? Full fashioned stockings. My oh my! And lingerie. So expensive!”
“Lena wore that?”
“Well the packages are empty. Yesterday she got a new watch too. You should’ve seen it!”
“Where did she go?” Valeyev asked unhappily.
“Why, and who wants to know? What are you, my sonny-in-law? I shan’t answer questions like that. There are men for whom women are happy to dress up. We like things to be pretty — not short and quick in the office closet.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Why, about you, colonel, sir. Oh, apologies, you are still only a captain. You should head home, Marat. And take your flowers with you. Otherwise, Sergey might see it — and he won’t be happy.”
“Lena went out with Sergey?”
“Well, you don’t put on clothes like that to go meet some girlfriends…”
The doorbell rang. Nastya ran out to get it.
“Daddy!” her voice rang joyfully.
Valeyev’s heart convulsed. He was sure he was about to see Elena with her former husband. But Sergey Petelin entered the room on his own. He too had brought an enormous bouquet of flowers.
“I’m here to see Lena,” he smiled mawkishly. “To thank her. The missing shipment was returned. She worked it out.”
“So Lena isn’t with you?” Marat and Mrs. Gracheva muttered simultaneously.
The silence lasted for quite a while. Mrs. Gracheva was the first to come to.
“That Lena!” she tsked. “Would you just take a look at her!”
Nastya was holding a vase in each hand and glancing with fascination from one bouquet to the other.
“One’s for mom and one’s for me. I choose this one!”
Leaving the building, Marat Valeyev dialed Elena’s number. His former classmate, Sergey Petelina stopped next to him.
“So what?” Sergey asked once Marat had put his phone down.
“She turned her phone off.”
“She’s not answering her office line either. Where is she?”
“What do you care? I’ll figure it out on my own.”
“Oh come on now! She’s my wife.”
“She’s your ex-wife!”
“Lena is the mother of my daughter.”
Unable to object to this, Valeyev he headed for his car.
“Where are you going?” Sergey called after him.
“I’m going to find Lena.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“I don’t need help.”
Marat shut his car door. Leaving the courtyard, he could see Sergey Petelin’s car in the rearview mirror, turning around to follow him.
The Saturday streets were relatively empty. Soon enough, Valeyev drove up to the Investigative Committee. On the way, he had called the Tadpole and learned that the forensic expert was in his lab.
“Start your cunning little program,” entering, Valeyev cut right to the chase, “I need you to locate Lena.”
“Detective Petelina?”
“Who else? Trace her phone and tell me her coordinates!”
“Valeyev, have you considered using the phone the way it was designed to be used? Like, calling, for example?”
“Spare me your wisdom, Misha. Or I’ll turn you into a second Vasilich.”
“Did something happen?” the expert grew worried, clattering on his keyboard.
Valeyev avoided mentioning that it was his jealousy which spurred him on.
“Hopefully, nothing yet,” he conceded honestly.
“One second I need to trace Mayorov, another second I need to find Petelina. It’s you, the detectives, who need to be doing this,” buzzed the Tadpole, working. “I’m sitting down here day after day, not a moment left for my personal life.”
A map of Moscow popped up on his screen. The forensic expert zoomed in on the requisite quadrant.
“Half an hour ago, Petelina’s SIM card popped up here. There’s been nothing since. By the way, I never removed Mayorov’s tracker. His cell phone is in the same district!”
“What’s there?”
“Give me a sec.” The Tadpole hit some keys and read the information that appeared. “A residential complex for businessmen called ‘The Cliff.’ If she’s in one of the apartments, good luck finding her though… Although…”
“You know something?”
“Earlier today, I put together some background info about a lawyer named Gomelsky for her.”
“Again that lawyer!”
Valeyev punched the air and accidentally snagged the chair with the skeleton. The office chair rolled back and smacked against the wall, causing Vasilich to drop his jaw in displeasure. Mikhail Ustinov, meanwhile, delved into his databases.
“I don’t know if it’s just a coincidence, but there is a D. Gomelsky who lives in The Cliff.”
“What’s the apartment number?”
Marat memorized the address and hurried to his car.
I must have missed something over the past few days of not seeing Lena. Is she really so angry with me that she’s decided to break up? Or is she being propelled by her female vengeance? I’m completely guilty, no doubt about that, but why would she go to Gomelsky’s house? What are they up to?
These were the questions that occupied Valeyev’s agitated mind, despite the bitter answer suggested by the labels from the seductive clothes that he had seen in Lena’s apartment.
Damn it! How easy it is to get an easy girl into your bed and how painful it is to realize that the woman you love can do exactly the same thing.
Valeyev’s burning envy gave him no respite, impelling him onward. He flew to his destination like a car zooms to the edge of a cliff — the only salvation, a sudden sprout of wings. And yet, wings are reserved for angels — and he was much too great a sinner.
76
“I graduated from law school in “95. Back then, I was still Denis Brikman.” Gomelsky kept swigging the cognac without putting down the bottle. “Theoretically, I had immense opportunities before me, but after a long search, my choices narrowed down to being a law clerk at the local Public Housing and Utilities office. I checked it out. A dilapidated desk in a basement, a typewriter with sticky keys and a salary that would be enough for one suit — with wrinkles all down its back. No — this was not the future I had dreamed of.”
Elena Petelina unbuttoned her blouse and turned on her heels quickly. The red fabric spiraled and rose, baring her tanned stomach.
“But you found a way out,” exhaled Elena.
“The only way in those days was through bribes. A guy I knew offered me a prestigious position in a large company with a nice office — for a sum of money, of course. But where could I get it? My family didn’t have any extra cash. My father, a jeweler, had been duped by a guy who’d sold him fake gold. My mom hadn’t worked in years. All there was were my dad’s stamps. I knew how much they were worth and so I asked him to sacrifice a few paltry crumbs from his collection for the sake of his son’s career. But my father dug his heels in. The fanatical collector didn’t want to part with even a single stamp. I promised to pay him back! But he just kept saying, ‘Money is just a bunch of paper — a stamp is a treasure.’ After that conversation, dad locked his office and made sure to always keep the key on him.”
- Басты
- Fiction
- Sergey Baksheev
- Dangerous Evidence
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