Contents

All the imperishable — that’s but a simile, and the poets lie too much.

— Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

1. Dollhouse

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

Another high stoop, a brick facade of a house with maisonettes, a carved door and a bell that makes a typical, pompous and booming sound of a gong. Did they all conspire? This is the seventh, fortunately the last address on the list, with the same audible signal — it turns out, the local wealthy people are completely lacking in imagination and imitate each other.

Allex sighed, glanced at the squares of the windows, shifted from one foot to the other, tapping his thigh with the clipboard with the sheets of paper attached to it. He secretly hoped there would be no one in the apartment — and then he would finally take a break for lunch … He was tired and terribly hungry.

He should at least see who lives in the dollhouse … Allex usually needed a couple of seconds to get the necessary information, he could read diagonally, he looked at the clipboard only before the visit — as a rule, already on the approach. He improvised — because he knew, what was planned in advance would have to be re-acted anyway.

Footsteps were heard behind the door, light and rhythmic. His future interlocutor was some female artiste … Allex knew nothing about films, movie stars, singers or musicians, he was not interested in media life — and today, as luck would have it, he came across one arrogant bon ton, each more bizarre than the last.

One of them even looked askance at Allex’s dusty boots with chipped toes as he walked across the antique handmade carpet … If the person-number-seven on the list is just as arrogant — and the likelihood is high — he’ll just— What will he do? He’ll have to interview her — that is his job.

This was not how he had imagined his first week on the job in a new department, on a new team, on a new investigation. He was once again being sent to do what others would consider boring work — but he could be of real use!

The door opened, and a tall young woman with golden hair and a pale, thin, textured face appeared before him. Allex instantly emerged from the whirlpool of thoughts, for some reason perked up, and it seemed to him that an autumn sunbeam ran across the glass and the facade, the colors became brighter.

Most likely, this is the effect of the combination of hues — the hairstyle and the gray-blue blouse, perfectly ironed, matching the color of the eyes.

Allex was observant, sometimes too much. He habitually absorbed the entire image in front of him, memorized every detail, noted the neutral makeup in the ‘no makeup’ look and the barely perceptible light foundation — which made the lady of the house look very young — the asthenic physique with thin wrists, narrow shoulders, and high set breasts, expressive eyebrows and long eyelashes.

Her eyelashes fluttered, and Allex didn’t even have time to open his mouth to announce the purpose of his visit when the golden-haired artiste said, “Unfortunately, Mr. de Lavender is not at home, but I can tell him that you came.”

Allex blinked and shook his head.

“Wilhelmina Gustavsson?” he said to her. “Agent Allex Serret, FBI. I need to ask you a few questions, it won’t take long.”

Allex reached into his pocket, pulled out the documents and showed them, pressing the clipboard to his ribs under his arm, his jacket bulging at the side, covering the holster. For a moment, a shadow seemed to flicker across Miss Gustavsson’s face, but it immediately took on the friendly, neutral expression, the same that had been a moment ago.

“No need to worry, the questions won’t be about you, but about Dr. Lukas Gasztold. He’s your therapist.”

Obviously, Miss Gustavsson knew that Gasztold was her therapist … A psychotherapist. She went to him twice a week. Allex had gotten used to the fact that Dr. Gasztold’s patients were scared by the badge, by the very mention of the FBI, and couldn’t decide how to talk to him — looking down, as they would usually look at a shabby guy in shabby shoes, too young to be an agent, or looking up, obsequiously, so that Allex wouldn’t get wind of their dealings …

Allex Serret had no interest in the affairs and petty dirty tricks of wealthy clients of successful psychiatrists. His focus was on killers, especially serial killers, especially those who calmly wandered the streets of Baltimore and committed another cruel and terrible crime.

While he’s been going door-to-door interviewing possible — but unlikely — witnesses, his new team has been sent to re-examine the latest crime scene since Special Agent William Gatti has had another epiphany.

“Yes, of course,” Miss Gustavsson replied. “Please come in.”

Allex crossed the threshold of the dollhouse, walked inside along a bright corridor, past a wide mirror in a golden frame, interior items that would fit in the style of a museum, and not a modern city apartment … In the reflection, out of the corner of his eye, he saw himself: a dissonant spot of a green khaki jacket, disheveled chestnut hair — an image that seemed completely out of place, as if from another universe, which ended up in an aristocratic nest not according to plan.

“Can I offer you tea, coffee?”

Wilhelmina Gustavsson, twenty-five years old, lives with her stepfather in a luxurious three-story apartment in the elite Mount Royal Terrace neighborhood of Reservoir Hill. She is a professional singer, has never been convicted of any offenses and has not participated in bon ton scandals, almost nothing is known about her and her past, despite the publicity of her person. Miss Gustavsson has been Gasztold’s patient for four years, has never missed a session and has not even been late … Allex assumed the latter from the portrait formed literally in a few seconds of observing the golden-haired artiste, he did not have to make an effort to notice such trifles.

Miss Gustavsson’s hairdo is a perfect hair, the golden strands down to her shoulders combed and carefully arranged in waves; her low-heeled shoes — she is over six feet tall — shine like new, her blouse and suit pants are custom-made, each fold of the light fabric a detail, a stroke on a work of art; her figure is straight, and her waist is narrow, her movements are fluid, like a cat’s — the one with large ears, a lean body, long bony legs, and no hair …

Miss Gustavsson was much more beautiful than the strange cat, and for some reason Allex stared at her and did not immediately answer the question.

“Tea, please.”

“Black, green, white, red …”

Why so complicated? He should have asked for coffee — or not asked for anything at all … Allex already regretted that he had not gotten down to business right away. He was probably so tired that he had lost his vigilance — and had fallen for that unfortunate tea.

“Black one. Without lemon, without bergamot, without sugar, without anything, but with hot water … Thank you.”

Miss Gustavsson smiled a little wider, condescendingly and understandingly. Allex sighed.

They were still standing in the middle of the spacious living room, with its armchairs with intricately curved legs, its marble fireplace surround, and the cozy attributes that made up a cleaning service’s nightmare on a regular basis.

“Please sit down,” the young woman pointed towards the couch, the pouf, and the coffee table, “I’ll bring some tea.”

Idiot, Allex scolded himself mentally, looking around, sitting on the silk seat for imperial persons, when Miss Gustavsson disappeared into the wide opening of the arch, obviously in the direction of the kitchen, it would be better refuse everything and start working! Now she will only brew tea for half an hour, with ceremony and pauses!

However, the golden-haired artiste, contrary to Allex’s expectations, appeared soon, with a snow-white porcelain set on a silver tray.

“Do you mind if I start?”

“No, of course not, do ask,” the interlocutor responded calmly.

Slender-fingered hands were setting out cups and saucers, the guest was watching. Miss Gustavsson was sitting on the pouf straight and even, as if at attention, perfectly fitting into the setting, like another outlandish thing; Allex could not find a comfortable position, crossed his feet, then bent his leg, the second one at the knee began to twitch spontaneously, betraying his restless nature.

They were like order and chaos, in one room, united by one task — for Allex’s luck, not for long.

“Some of Dr. Gasztold’s records were stolen from his office,” Agent Serret said, “with personal information about his patients. I can’t give you all the details, but the important thing is that the contents of these records, the reasons for the incident, or the identity of the thief may be connected to the investigation of another, very serious crime.”

“What is it?”

Miss Gustavsson held the lid of the teapot, lifting the spout gracefully over the cup, the stream flowing and ringing, bubbling into a growing puddle at the bottom of the bowl. Her eyelashes fluttered, and her gray-blue eyes stared at Allex without looking away.

The knee stopped twitching, Agent Serret smiled conspiratorially, leaned slightly towards the table, examining the pale, textured face.

“Have you heard of the Heartthrob?”

Everyone has heard of him … Those who read newspapers, watch the news, listen to tattle — but Allex, in order not to go crazy from fatigue and boredom, for the first time all day caught the long-awaited chance to relieve tension and fool around.

Miss Gustavsson feigned innocence, blinking her beautiful eyes — but she asked not out of naivety or even idle curiosity … It was an invitation to dialogue.

“Yes,” she replied, her golden head tilting slightly to one side, and Miss Gustavsson returned the teapot to its place.

“So you understand how serious this is,” Allex said. “Four victims found, how many more could there be …”

Wilhelmina Gustavsson took the cup in her hands, the guest repeated after her. Afterwards, Allex asked her the usual questions — what she had been doing on the day of the theft, what in her confidential conversations, recorded by Dr. Gasztold, could be connected with cannibalism, misogyny, ritual sacrifices, people who had spoken or acted suspiciously or strangely …

Allex didn’t notice how time flew by, how the tea ran out, how the questions ran out. Miss Gustavsson looked at him openly, answered calmly, smiled at his jokes — at both of them — and at the end of the conversation asked how many of the psychiatrist’s notes had fallen into the wrong hands.

Agent Serret did not give an exact number, but explained that a small amount confirms the investigation’s assumption that the notebooks chosen were not random — in Dr. Gasztold’s office there are data from several dozen of his patients, past and present, over many years of work. Of course, like every doctor, he encrypts his notes … But the intruder probably knew about it.

Allex put the cup on the table, his stomach howled with the drawn-out cry of a hungry dog, the howl was clearly audible in the pause that hung between the lines.

“I have to go,” the young man said, his eyes wide and smiling, not hiding the incident. “Thank you for your help, Miss Gustavsson.”

He took the clipboard under his arm and rose from the couch, the young woman followed suit.

When Allex came out onto the stoop, having already said goodbye and given her a business card — in case Wilhelmina Gustavsson remembered anything — she called out to him from the door.

“Agent Serret!”

Allex turned around, raised his leg over the step, and the evening wind ruffled his shock of chestnut hair in a cold gust.

“It may be a strange question, but … why do people kill, deliberately commit murder — in situations when there is another choice?”

Agent Serret’s foot returned to the stoop, his young face with a scattering of freckles took on at first a surprised, then a thoughtful and even a little sad expression.

Allex answered honestly.

“For some, murder is the only way to feel control — over a situation, over a person, over anything. The reason is always despair. And broken logic — when in the picture of the world, it is considered completely normal to rip out a person’s heart and eat it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Allex nodded, watching as the door slowly closed and the golden-haired head disappeared into the dollhouse.

He ran down the stairs easily, the wind was getting under his open jacket, his stomach was still growling and demanding dinner, but for some reason his soul was calm and even joyful.

Among the empty-headed rich, there are some who are not hopeless … Miss Gustavsson turned out to be a reward for a hard day of stupid interviews, sidelong glances, and pointless running around to the addresses of Dr. Gasztold’s clients.

It was a pity that they would hardly see each other again. With her, it was … Allex tried to find the right word in his internal monologue. Nice …

He understood perfectly well, he had only watched a beautiful picture — like on TV — with perfectly smooth faces, ironed blouses and shirts to match their eyes, delicious tea, and casual conversation. It was time to get back to prosaic reality — where there was poverty, pain, ugliness, death, and murder.

Allex was glad that not everyone needed to know how crazy the world could be in destroying itself. He loved his job — and accepted its various aspects, from tedious communication with witnesses to operational detention, with shootouts and batch.

2. Swallows Without Chewing

[United States, Quantico, FBI Academy]

“He does it with his bare hands,” Allex said, his mouth full, pointing to the pictures on the board. “He opens the chest with a hunting knife, removing the sternum, without using any special tools — not like a surgeon, but like a pathologist.”

“Like a self-taught man,” Will nodded. “He separates cartilage and muscle to get to the insides, casually, without caring about aesthetics.”

There was indeed little aesthetics in the works of the Heartthrob. The murder and desecration of the body were rather a chaotic act, impatient and crude, haphazardly.

“He is neither a doctor nor a butcher …”

Crumbs fell to the floor, Allex greedily bit into the sandwich, rustling the paper, squinted, looking at the photo, leaned a little closer.

“He got hold of a manual on autopsies and just took what he needed without going into detail,” Will continued. “He has a hard time learning, even reading.”

“Delay in development?”

Special Agent Will Gatti thought for a moment, pursed his lips.

“More like attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.”

Allex hemmed and started chewing again. He didn’t say that his restlessness, his inability to sit still, typical ADHD, were perceived as mental retardation or educational neglect …

“Serret, every time I see you, you’re always guttling!” came from behind them.

“I’m always hungry,” Serret shrugged without turning around. “Can’t help it.”

Beverly Cruz, a forensic scientist in the Criminal Investigative Division, had meanwhile approached, her heels clicking lightly on the shiny lab floor. She stood between Will and Allex, crossed her arms, and glanced at the images on the board.

“Get checked for helminths,” she smirked, turning to the young man.

Allex shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, crumpling the paper with deliberate noise.

“I can at least give you a sample for analysis right now,” he mumbled with his mouth full.

“No, thank you, I have a lot of work to do, without your feces.”

Will was silent, not even noticing their mutual jibes, he was immersed in his thoughts, in the picture of the crime; in the first person he saw the mangled female corpses on the dining tables, he stood over them, resting his knees on either side of the hips of the dead bodies, with his hands stained up to the elbows in blood, his mouth full of slimy flesh, still warm and sweet.

If there was something in his stomach, it would want to come out. How could Serret impassively eat his lunch when he had those disgusting pictures in front of him? Will couldn’t eat at work, even when he was outside the lab or office, he couldn’t get a bite down.

He literally felt the slippery, elastic heart muscle sliding down the esophagus, not completely chewed, in a hurry, in greedy ecstasy, in affect.

“He swallows without chewing,” Will muttered, as if under his breath.

“He probably has problems with his stool. Like Serret,” Cruz agreed.

“My stool is fine,” Allex grimaced. “Even if I eat nails …”

“He has an oral fixation. He doesn’t eat to eat, he eats to swallow,” Special Agent Gatti said, ignoring them. “He’s thrilled by the sensation in his mouth.”

“How lovely.”

“He might have an eating disorder,” Allex suggested, throwing a sandwich wrapper into the basket. “Bulimia, compulsive overeating … In advanced stages, it’s easy to spot by appearance.”

“I’ll check with Dr. Gasztold,” Will nodded. “Whoever got into his office could have been his patient, an acquaintance …”

All four of the Heartthrob’s victims were clients or family members of clients of Lukas Gasztold, a psychiatrist who had assisted the FBI in several other cases. This fact only came to light when Gasztold told Will about the theft of the casebooks, two days after the last body was found. They all lived in the same area of Baltimore, an upper-class neighborhood, and were all young, attractive women with husbands and children.

All of them, first being strangled, had their chests brutally cut open, their hearts torn out, and their lifeless bodies laid on a table in the dining room. The killer did not rape them or perform any sexual acts on the bodies before or after death — at least no traces of semen or other evidence of manipulation were found.

The Heartthrob left no evidence. He would catch up with women at home when they returned alone, play with them a little, letting them break free and run around the apartment in panic, knocking over antique furniture, breaking vases and other curious decorative items. He was physically strong, bigger than them, he knew his superiority and advantage.

He tinkered in the bodies with his bare hands, but killed with gloves. He didn’t want to touch them while they were alive …

Allex stayed in the lab for a long time, sitting on a chair, staring off into space with an unseeing gaze. Just recently, the young man imagined that, having returned to the criminal-investigative group under the leadership of the head of the Behavioral Science Unit, Jack Howard, he would pursue the case of the Maryland Ripper, an elusive serial killer, who, according to the FBI, extracted organs from his victims for cooking … The new butcher was no better, but, fortunately for the investigators, an amateur — the Heartthrob was still learning, he was gradually gaining strength. They would have a chance to catch him — the main thing was to pay attention to detail.

Agent Serret graduated from the FBI Academy in Quantico a year and a half ago, but distinguished himself not by his high score, but by his unique ability to stick his nose into things that weren’t his business, get into trouble, and contradict his teachers. Even during his internship, he managed to stir up an anthill, raise a long-closed case from the archives, prove inconsistencies in the investigation results, and force Howard, who was responsible for this, to take action.

At first, Howard couldn’t believe how an intern, a short guy with a permanently shaggy head, freckles on his pointed nose, actively gesticulating, a real pain in the ass, dared to dispute the expertise of professionals … But he soon became convinced: Serret was right.

He was not publicly thanked or praised, but simply told that his information had been noted and confirmed.

When Allex received his badge and FBI credentials, Howard called him to join the Criminal Investigative Division. Serret was a good profiler, he used his boundless energy for good, he was ready to work without rest, enthusiastically and passionately. He was attentive, as attentive as someone who processes information at the speed of light can be, but at the same time he risks losing the context. Serret was stubborn as a mule, sometimes naive as a child, he could not be intimidated by punishment or words … He was like a tank, he did not know what diplomacy was, but his toothy smile and natural charm gave him a privilege, he could please anyone if he wanted, even with his stupid jokes and pantomimes.

After yet another conflict in a couple of months, Agent Allex Serret was transferred to the Critical Incident Response Group, where his hyperactivity and bullheadedness have found application. He went on raids and detentions, helped negotiate with criminals, got into the thick of things — conflicts and adrenaline were his comfortable environment.

After recent events, Howard reconsidered his attitude towards Serret — he needed a fresh look and help, he didn’t mind Allex being dubbed the FBI clown, the Clown Knight … The head of the Behavioral Science Unit did not miscalculate — with the appearance of Serret, William Gatti found a fellow traveler.

The sullen autistic Gatti, formerly a teacher at the FBI Academy, currently holding the position of a special agent, not going for social interaction, but giving stunning results of profiling, amazingly formed a tandem with the young, noisy and constantly grimacing Serret … They were so different that they complemented each other. They thought differently — and in different ways simultaneously came to the same conclusion.

They were both stubborn and unyielding, they dug their teeth into the work that Jack Howard assigned them. They were both initially met with hostility by the team …

A week ago, when the entire team, including the chief, three forensic experts and Gatti, quickly left for the crime scene, Howard took Serret with him. He expected his men to be confused, but not so much …

“Jack!” Cruz called out, raising her head from the table with the bloody mess spread out on it. “What are the red-haired clowns doing here? We have enough of our own.”

Standing a little way off, holding a pair of deer antlers on a holder to the top of his head, was Serret, engrossed in his examination of something on a high shelf. Jimmy Ross and Brian Bailey, who were carefully studying the floor and the surrounding area, stared at the young man in bewilderment. Will Gatti was oblivious to his surroundings, not even turning in the direction Beverly Cruz was pointing.

The woman held her gloved hand outstretched until Howard reacted. He forgot about the newbie …

“Serret!” he barked. “Put it back!”

Serret shuddered, his young face mugged, his dark eyes flashed. He reluctantly put the antlers on the rack, walked around the obstacle, openly meeting the dissatisfied faces of his colleagues.

“From today on, Agent Allex Serret is a member of our team, no objections will be accepted, you should leave your reservations once and for all, we are working for the common good. Is that clear to everyone?”

Cruz pursed her lips but gave a short, reserved nod, and Bailey and Ross followed suit.

“You know Cruz, Ross, and Bailey, I won’t introduce them. Special Agent William Gatti—”

Jack Howard sighed, he had a premonition of a headache, for a moment he doubted whether he could cope with an autistic person and a court fool …

“Special Agent William Gatti!” the chief called out loudly and sternly.

Ross blinked in surprise, the notebook and pen creaking in his clenched fingers.

Will woke up, looked around the room, and stopped his gaze on Howard.

“Agent Allex Serret is working with us, fill him in on the details as soon as possible.” And then, turning to the young man, making sure Gatti could hear him, he added, “Stay close to Will and follow his logic.”

“Yes, sir,” Allex responded, half-jokingly, half-seriously, rising and falling on his toes, putting his hands behind his back.

“And don’t touch anything!” Cruz hissed at him.

Allex raised his hands to chest level in a gesture of innocence, grimaced, and widened his eyes.

He didn’t want to argue. He was already watching William Gatti, catching every look of his mobile facial expressions, every step. Professor Gatti, a lecturer on ‘evil minds’ and the psychology of serial killers, had the same ambiguous reputation as Allex …

Allex remembered him from his classes; he was truly extraordinary, incredibly smart, but extremely closed, and the students dubbed Gatti — in addition to his feline surname, which translated from Italian meant ‘cats’[1] — the Sullen Dog: for his sullen appearance, conveying the ideology of a loner in every detail.

Professor Gatti was a high-functioning autistic, and his unique, phenomenal ability to see through the eyes of a criminal — called the method of active imagination — amazed everyone: both those who treated his talent with distrust, and those who intended to use the skill for their own purposes, in the interests of the investigation — like Jack Howard.

Allex was a beastie, too, unique but useful. Allex believed in the expertise and professionalism of everyone in the dining room that had become the scene of the Heartthrob’s crime. Bailey’s camera flash whistled and recharged, Ross’s pen rustled across the page of his notebook, Cruz gave directions, frowned, stepped over bloody splatters on the floor.

Will Gatti didn’t notice Allex until Allex stood behind him, close enough to see the picture from the right angle, and voiced his thoughts out loud.

“He serves them on the table … To whom?”

“To himself,” Will replied after a pause. “He looks at them himself.”

“Is he an aesthete? You can eat on the floor if you are very hungry.”

Professor Gatti glanced sideways at the young man, turned slightly.

“You can,” he agreed. “But he wants it on the table. The way it was done in his family.”

“But he’s not expecting his family for dinner, is he?”

Will squinted, trying to figure out if Allex was kidding or being serious.

“He is …” he concluded with a sigh. “But not a family.”

 William Gatti, as a professor at a sommelier school in the Italian vineyards of Barolo, is a character in Stella Fracta’s novel ‘Cats Don’t Drink Wine.’

3. Best Employee

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

“What are you fiddling about with? There are still ten boxes in the back!”

The rustling and crackling of cardboard from the blade of a stationery knife, the hubbub of customers’ voices, the cry of howling children, the beeping of the barcode scanner at the checkout … Everything is as usual. Most commonly, he is simply not noticed, no longer rushed, because he does everything as it should be, has mastered the speed, time, rhythm, place, the routine has become a canvas into which anything can be written — or left a silent void.

Dylan didn’t even turn his head when the senior store assistant — the dark-skinned, corpulent Miriam — called out to him. Sometimes he pretended to be deaf, sometimes mute, and sometimes deaf-mute … Sometimes he put headphones in his ears — but without music, for show — so that no one would distract him for no reason. He pulled his baseball cap almost to the bridge of his nose, his gray eyes-icicles only occasionally scratched the visitors of the sales area: he did not turn around, stood facing the shelving, with his back to the outside world.

The Italian pasta packages were gone, the packs lay in neat rows — but not for long … Soon some degenerate customers would start mindlessly sorting through them, put the goods he had taken in the wrong place, and Dylan would get a reprimand.

The only job worse was that of the cleaning lady, who never stopped washing the shiny tile floors — from dust, water or snow, from scattered cornflakes or a broken bottle of ketchup. Some of the ketchup looked like bloodstains, but only some …

Dylan Vermillion was on the board of the store’s best employees, but he was the only one without a photo — just his name and job title. He didn’t like to have his photo taken, and management didn’t insist … It would be strange to think that this board was of any use to anyone other than the employees. Customers paid no attention to the board, or the employees, or the price tags, they carelessly made a mess of the sales area, dropped blocks of toilet paper, packs of cookies, and rust remover for plumbing on the floor … Dylan cleaned up after them.

A doll with swollen lips was pushing a cart full of groceries, with brightly colored packs of gummy bears and a green leek tail sticking out to the side, typing a text message on her smartphone, not looking at her feet. Dylan was counting down the seconds until she collided with a random obstacle, his broad back in a work jacket motionless, only his arms making mechanical, monotonous movements.

He had been learning this motionlessness for a long time, perhaps even overdone it — and from the outside his muscular figure looked like a statue frozen in a catatonic stupor.

From the opposite end of the shelving, following a dull thud, a scream was heard, then the rustle of falling bags of chips, an avalanche-like sound, interrupted by slaps and crashes from futile attempts to hold back the waterfall of goods.

“Sorry!” two voices exclaimed simultaneously: a male, young, hoarse one, and a female, swishy, stretching out the vowels.

They laughed, rustled, and apparently began to pick up food off the floor. After half a minute of chaotic efforts, the girl, giggling, walked on, occasionally casting interested glances at the guy who remained in place; the guy went in the opposite direction.

As soon as his silhouette appeared in the aisle where Dylan was laying out the juice boxes, a suspicious rustling sound came from the previous scene of the food disaster. The guy in the green jacket turned around, put his palms out as if conjuring the shelving not to collapse, watching with wide eyes as everything fell to the floor again.

“No, no, no … Please, no!” he begged. “Holy shit!”

He covered his mouth with his hands, his pale face turned red, and an absurd squeak escaped from his chest.

He looked around, meeting Dylan’s silent gaze, his eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry!” he blurted, removing his hands from his face. “I tried!”

Dylan, who wanted to call him a clumsy idiot at first, huffed angrily, left the layout and boxes, turning in the direction of the young man. A menacing six-foot figure headed towards the heap of fallen packs, the culprit stood motionless, without fear, but with a guilty look.

He seems to be the only one in the entire history of Dylan’s work in this store who apologized for the mayhem. He seems to be the only one who even looked Dylan in the eye, addressed him — and not the faceless guy in a work jacket and baseball cap who stands in the aisle and prevents him from passing.

“I’ll clean everything up now, just tell me how to stack them so that they don’t fall over again.”

Disheveled chestnut hair lay in messy curls, the jacket was sticking out, the boots had battered toes, a clipboard was tucked under the arm … Dark eyes looked openly and directly.

“In the back rows — everything of the correct shape, in dense packaging; in the front — airy and light. What goes where and on which shelf — is written on the price tags.”

Dylan himself did not recognize his own voice, firm, strict, calm. The guy nodded, his white-toothed mouth smiled.

“I got it,” he said. “Thank you.”

As he bent down and began picking up cardboard boxes and round tubes from the floor, reading the labels, Dylan joined him.

In fact, he didn’t drop the damn chips, that stupid cow with the cart did … He could have run away, blamed it on her, just pretended he had nothing to do with it. He could have — but he didn’t.

He probably had nothing better to do on a late weekday evening, and it was probably his first time here, and he wouldn’t be back — he didn’t look like the son of a rich daddy living in an upscale apartment. He was a delivery guy or a volunteer, too young and too casually dressed to be here for anything other than work.

Dylan didn’t immediately notice the holster under the jacket rolled up on the narrow waist when the guy crouched down, and he didn’t show any surprise. So his boots were like that because he often used them to kick down doors or the spirit out of a criminal’s head. The guy was a policeman … So that’s where the white knight complex came from!

They finished quickly, successfully managing with four hands. Dylan was silent, the shaggy head turned in his direction only a couple of times, but also did not say a word.

Well, of course he’s looking at his scar! Or maybe he’s not looking … The guy was looking into his eyes, his lips were smiling, there were dimples on his cheeks, covered with barely noticeable reddish stubble.

No, he’s not looking …

“Thank you, Dylan! Sorry again,” the knight-policeman said in a friendly, casual tone, extending his hand for a handshake.

Dylan Vermillion blinked. It took him a moment to realize how he knew his name, that it was written on a badge, it was so simple …

His hand was in a fabric glove, he hesitated, thoughtfully, but still took it off. The guy’s palm was strong and warm, powerful, not corresponding to his frail constitution.

He was half a head shorter, though well-built. Appearances can be deceiving …

“It’s alright. Thank you,” Dylan responded.

The guy took a step to the side, and the tall figure of the store assistant backed away, letting him pass further.

“I’m already afraid to move and touch anything,” he chuckled.

“Beware of women with carts,” Dylan chuckled, his expression blank.

The young man made a funny face, winked, walked down the row of stands, and at the turn raised his hands up in mock horror, making way for an absent-minded customer talking on a headset.

Allex bought himself a sandwich that evening at the grocery store near Wilhelmina Gustavsson’s home, which cost half his salary, and it was not nearly as tasty as the one from the cafeteria at work. He spilled hot coffee on his jeans while hailing a taxi, trying to chew, sip from a paper cup, not drop his clipboard, and wave at the same time.

A truly weird day! As soon as he returned to his dorm room at the Academy, two hours away from Baltimore, he fell onto his bed and did not even undress, only with difficulty pulling off his shoes, throwing them in a random direction.

He instantly fell into a dreamless sleep.

4. Undercover

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

The tables were bursting with exquisite dishes, pyramids of coupe glasses with sparkling wine shimmered in the subdued light, glare danced on the earrings, necklaces, brooches and rings of the ladies, on the cufflinks and in the eyes, glittering with gaiety, of the gentlemen. The voices did not stop, enthusiastic aspirated exclamations and feigned restrained laughter were an inherent soundtrack of the dinner party of Dr. Gasztold, a background leitmotif of a vanity fair, where almost the entire bon ton of Baltimore had gathered.

Lukas Gasztold was not only a successful psychiatrist, a dandy in a three-piece suit, with a texture of fabric perfectly matched to the pattern of his tie and pocket square, but also an incomparable cook: every dish at the party, without exception, was prepared by him himself. Each guest considered it necessary to thank him personally, he smiled at each one with his thin lips, his mask-face remained motionless, his dark eyes looked into the very soul like an X-ray.

“Dr. Gasztold!” Phoebus de Lavender emerged from the crowd, raised his glass of wine, golden as his hair, expressing respect to the host of the evening, “Admit it, you have captured the demon with a magic spell, and he is working for you in the kitchen.”

“You got me.”

Last year, de Lavender had been named the county’s youngest benefactor; Joseph Meyerhoff Symphony Hall and the Lyric Baltimore were fed by his money, the Baltimore Museum of Art and the Walters Art Museum were vying for his sponsorship. He was as handsome, smart, and suave as a flawless Forbes cover. He sipped wine with a perfect hand and a perfect manicure, and smiled with perfect lips on a perfectly shaven face.

“And how do you find it?”

Lukas Gasztold pointed with his gaze at the glass in his interlocutor’s hand, de Lavender smirked.

“Non-alcoholic is terrible, a real punishment for prudes, Dr. Gasztold,” admitted de Lavender. “Tasteless.”

He especially emphasized the last word, he said it almost in a whisper.

“Such is the sacrifice for the sake of beauty,” Dr. Gasztold responded meaningfully, satisfied with the result of the punishment for those who chose the fake wine. “Do you want to live forever?”

“I want to live long.”

“I understand, fatherhood comes with a certain amount of responsibility.”

Gasztold’s gaze slid from the benefactor’s face to the right, de Lavender’s protégé, Wilhelmina Gustavsson, approached them a moment later, and both men turned simultaneously.

“Dr. Gasztold, hello,” she nodded. “A wonderful party, I am very grateful for the invitation.”

Wilhelmina didn’t want to go until the very end, but Phoebus insisted. Every time it was the same: empty masks and talk, news, gossip, dust in the eyes … She was a golden-haired doll in a cardboard box, with a transparent front side, attached with clamps to the back wall, and they cut her wrists and ankles painfully, but she had to endure it and not grumble — for it was a sin for her to complain about her fate.

A couple of weeks ago, she signed a contract with a major label, in a month and a half she will be performing solo with a chamber orchestra at the local philharmonic, announcements have already been ordered from top agencies, and her number of listeners on streaming services is constantly growing — because the new music video has made a splash. She is wearing a dress worth as much as a car, and on her tongue are the most delicious snacks and the best world wines.

She lied to Phoebus that she also drank non-alcoholic wine — out of solidarity … Wilhelmina never got drunk, any cold-blooded psychopath could envy her self-control and distancing from the body, any geisha could envy her ability to please.

“We were just talking about the price of eternal life and youth,” said de Lavender, his green eyes looking at the girl. “I want to see the day when Wilhelmina is on the Broadway stage, when she’s about fifty years old!”

“Miss Gustavsson will be on the Broadway stage much earlier,” Gasztold smiled with just his lips.

“Of course,” de Lavender’s hand fell on his protégé’s back, between her shoulder blades, and lingered for a few seconds. “When she’s fifty, she’ll go there as if it were her own home.”

Phoebus didn’t care what Wilhelmina thought about it — but for her, Broadway seemed too commercialized, too mass, even if it was large-scale and loud. Wilhelmina liked classical productions, opera and theater, more than modern musicals — she would have worked with great pleasure in the Paris Opera or La Scala, though she had completely lost the habit of academic vocals, her performance in a pop style was more in demand.

A little later the host of the evening left them to make another tour of the room, de Lavender was carried away by conversation and disappeared from view, and Wilhelmina Gustavsson was on her own. The dishes were truly superb, Dr. Gasztold knew perfectly well what he was doing … The glass of wine was the second, the gaze of the gray-blue eyes slid absently around the space until it caught on a vaguely familiar image, as if from a forgotten dream — a chestnut head and a thin, lean silhouette.

Wilhelmina blinked, raised her glass to her nose, but did not take a sip. Through the crowd of guests on the opposite side of Dr. Gasztold’s living room, she could see Agent Serret — or rather, the back of his head, his back in a white shirt and suspenders, his narrow waist, his firm ass in tight black pants. In his hands was a tray of glasses, on his face was a toothy smile.

Wilhelmina blinked again.

As Serret turned around to allow a passing couple to take their drinks, Miss Gustavsson had already changed her position, leaving her half-finished drink on the refreshment table, moving smoothly along the wall of dark-framed paintings, the wing of a grand piano lid, violinists, a viola player, and a cellist performing Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 3.

Faces changed one another like in a kaleidoscope, through the hubbub of voices and music it was impossible to discern anything unless one got very close. The waiter’s lot was unenviable — he had to constantly move around the halls … A thin-fingered hand in sparkling bracelets reached for the tray and took the glass, Allex nodded automatically and smiled, his gaze met the gaze of a golden-haired young woman.

Agent Serret’s smile grew broader, his dark eyes widened in surprise. The same artiste, Dr. Gasztold’s patient, recognized him too — and looked at him attentively and directly.

For some reason, Allex got excited, his bow tie constricting his throat.

“Good evening!” he said.

“Good evening,” Miss Gustavsson responded and fluttered her long eyelashes.

Agent Serret’s hair was neatly combed, wavy locks slightly shiny from styling product, falling on a high forehead, his face with a scattering of freckles was clean-shaven, on the left cheek closer to the ear there was a barely noticeable stripe from a fresh cut. Without the shapeless jacket and baggy jeans he looked different, only his bold look and former restlessness gave him away.

“I thought, with your profession, there was no free time for part-time work in catering,” Wilhelmina said.

She understood everything perfectly well — Agent Serret was undercover here. It was unlikely that anyone would recognize him in the guise of a well-groomed waiter … This time the shoes were different, black, shining from wax and brush.

“I can combine both,” the young man smiled. “But I won’t get paid for today’s shift.”

Miss Gustavsson took a sip, stepped aside as guests floated past, but made no move to leave. Allex scanned the crowd, but then returned his g