FINDING KATARINA M.

by Elisabeth Elo

  “What happens now? How are we going to find the killer?”

  “We?” he repeated.

  “You,” I amended.

  His hands disappeared into the pockets of his jacket. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Will you? Really? Because I’d like to stay informed.”

  A business card was produced and set in front of me with a snap of authority. “Call whenever you want. Just remember, these things take time.”

  I had to play a frantic game of catch-up the next day—dashing over to the hospital for bedside visits, squeezing disgruntled patients whose appointments had been cancelled the day before into already tight office hours. I was in full-on work mode, which meant that lunch was a cup of Dannon yogurt and a Keurig coffee at my desk, and my personal feelings, including my feelings about my murdered cousin, were, of necessity, swept aside.

  Mid-afternoon, I dialed Ruggeri’s direct number during a break between patients, got no answer, and left a voicemail. I knew I was pushing it: how much could he have accomplished in the twenty-four hours since we’d talked? Hadn’t he said, These things take time? But time was a luxury we didn’t have, because with every passing minute, Saldana’s killer was getting further away. Getting away with it. That could not be allowed to happen. I churned with rage just to think of it.

  My next call—to the Russian Consulate in New York City—was answered by a thickly accented receptionist. Identifying myself as Saldana Tarasova’s cousin, I asked whether the Tarasov family had been notified of her death. I planned to contact the Tarasovs personally, I said, but not until they’d heard the news through official channels.

  My call was transferred to an office inside the consulate, and after explaining myself a second time, I was put on hold. A stirring Russian folk song thundered on speakerphone for many minutes until the call was either automatically or purposefully disconnected. I redialed immediately, and this time got a long automated menu. When the recorded message ended, I pressed zero to speak to an operator, got dumped into voicemail, and requested a callback. I knew enough about Russian bureaucracy that I didn’t actually expect to hear from them, and I wasn’t wrong.

  That evening, at my condo on the fourteenth floor of a downtown apartment building, I poured a glass of pinot noir and leaned wearily against the frame of the sliding glass door that opened onto my small balcony. The heavy clouds that had been amassing all day opened up as I stood watching, and a drenching rain began to fall. The potted geraniums soaked it up, their reds and pinks turning vivid in the watery gray light. Washington Monument, where I’d walked with Saldana just three days ago, was a tall shadow in the distance.

  An image of Saldana’s remains laid out on the stainless steel bed took shape against this dismal backdrop. Her skin waxy, drained of blood; her lips pale, nearly white; yet her beautiful hair still richly black, still with a silky shine. The cut across her neck drew and riveted my appalled attention. I’d sliced into living flesh with sharp knives many times, and had forgotten the wounds almost immediately, because they were merely the entrance into the body, no more important than a door was to a house. The murderer’s cut was different—brutal, aggressive. It had been opened to let blood drain away, to let life escape. It went against everything I stood for, everything I believed. It made every cell in my body revolt.

  Why hadn’t I taken my vulnerable young cousin at her word, opened my door and my heart immediately, willingly provided the safe haven she’d clearly needed? Why, instead, had I hastily erected a wall of cold words and colder procedures to separate us? What was wrong with me?

  I chugged the rest of the pinot noir, went into the kitchen, poured another big glass, and rifled clumsily through a stack of take-out menus by the phone. Sometimes it’s better not to think too much. Decided on Thai. Again. I was about to dial the restaurant when the intercom buzzed. It was the doorman, calling to say that I had visitors—two men who’d given their names as Jason Zelnick and Mark O’Mara. The names meant nothing to me, so I told the doorman not to send the men up: I’d take the elevator down to meet them instead.

  The lobby was spacious and glassy, decorated with sleek modernist furniture and inoffensive abstract paintings in neutral tones. Two clean-shaven men were seated next to each other on one of the smooth leather couches, not talking, not thumbing phones. They wore jackets and ties, and couldn’t have been more than thirty. Collapsed umbrellas dripped on the floor next to their polished leather shoes.

  My stomach soured a little. Ever since Detective Ruggeri had asked for my alibi, the spectre of becoming a suspect in the investigation had been hovering over me. I’d told Ruggeri that the doorman had seen me entering the building that evening, but, in fact, there was a good chance he hadn’t, as I’d hurried past the reception desk to catch a waiting elevator, and couldn’t remember if I said hello to him. An alibi wasn’t an alibi if there was no corroborating witness, and I hadn’t seen or talked to anyone else that night.

  The men rose to greet me, introduced themselves in subdued voices, and showed me badges. CIA. A chill went through me. Not for my own sake this time, but for Saldana’s family’s. Was the idea of a Russian plot not so far-fetched after all?

  I invited the agents up, figuring I had no choice. They remained silent in the elevator, flanking me in a way that made me tense. I wondered if they were carrying guns. I ushered them into my living room, where the glass door was still open. The rain was pounding the concrete balcony, and the sheer curtains billowed in gusts of fresh damp air. I switched on a couple of lamps and offered the men coffee, which they politely refused. They’d taken seats next to each other on the couch, both leaning forward, elbows planted on knees, presumably unwilling to let soft cushions distract them from their important business.

  “What’s this about?” I asked, taking a seat on the other side of the coffee table.

  “We understand that you met with a Russian national a few days ago,” O’Mara said. His cheeks were rosy and his blue eyes were calm. He had a large square head that sat bluntly on his shoulders like a boulder at rest in its appointed place.

  “You mean my cousin, Saldana Tarasova, who was murdered Saturday night.”

  “That’s correct, ma’am. We’d like to ask a few questions about your relationship with Ms. Tarasova and what transpired during your meetings with her on Friday, July twenty-second, and Saturday the twenty-third.”

  “You must have spoken to Detective Ruggeri of the NYPD.”

  “If you’d just answer the question, ma’am.”

  “I’d be happy to. But first, what’s this about?”

  Zelnick broke in. “Perhaps you could start by telling us when you and Ms. Tarasova first met.” His voice was deeper than O’Mara’s. His eyes were hooded, hard to read. One of his shoulders dipped a little; it was almost a slouch.

  “Friday night,” I said.

  “You mean to say that you had no contact with her before that time?”

  “None whatsoever. She showed up at my office sometime Friday and waited hours to see me. I met with her at around six p.m. I’d never seen her before. I didn’t even know she existed.” I sounded defensive, I realized. I took a deep breath and tried to relax.

  “Why don’t you walk us through that evening,” O’Mara suggested mildly.

  “Well, she came to my office Friday, as I said.” And just as I’d done the day before, I spilled everything I knew.

  “She was scared,” I concluded. “But she couldn’t say why. She sensed something was wrong, and was terrified she’d never see her family again.”

  I paused. O’Mara had been scribbling notes as I talked, while Zelnick had kept his hawkish eyes trained on my face. His unwavering gaze was starting to unnerve me; without thinking, I flashed him a hostile look.

  “You didn’t know anything about this Russian family until Friday night? Never heard of them before?” he said, making it sound ridiculous.

  “Correct.”

  Zelnick and O’Mara exchanged a glance.
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  I said, “Look, can I ask what this is about?”

  O’Mara piped up. “This is a routine procedure, Dr. March. When a foreign national dies in suspicious circumstances on American soil, we usually write a report.”

  “Wouldn’t it be the FBI who did that?”

  “In these kinds of cases, our jurisdictions often overlap,” he replied.

  “These kinds of cases? What does that mean?”

  Zelnick cut in, “Dr. March. We appreciate how cooperative you’re being. We have a few more questions, and then we’ll leave you alone. Did Ms. Tarasova give you anything? A package or envelope?”

  “No.”

  “Did she allude to any sensitive information she had, information that others might want?”

  “No.”

  “Did she say anything about the Russian government?”

  “We didn’t discuss politics.”

  “Is there anything you want to add about your conversation with Ms. Tarasova? Anything that seemed strange or unusual to you?”

  This is what they always say. A routine script.

  I said, “No, I have nothing to add. But I do have some questions of my own, if you don’t mind. The NYPD detective thought my cousin’s death was probably an interrupted burglary. I know I’m not a specialist in this area, but a couple of details don’t make sense to me. The murder weapon, for example, and the way it was used. How many petty thieves carry wire garrotes and know how to kill with them so efficiently? Why was her computer stolen, but not her money or jewelry? And what about the fact that she was planning to defect?”

  I expected O’Mara and Zelnick to react somehow, if only to share a glance or jot a note, but they kept their eyes trained on me impassively, their expressions perfectly neutral.

  Zelnick finally said in a humoring tone, “What specifically is your question?”

  “I’m asking if it could have been an assassination. By the Russian government. Or someone.”

  “We have no reason to suspect that, Dr. March,” O’Mara said placidly.

  “If you did, would you tell me?” Stupid question. Of course they wouldn’t.

  Neither one replied.

  “Okay, guys. I get it. But be straight with me for a minute. My mother wants me to go to Russia to meet these new members of our family. She’s sick and dying and I’m inclined to humor her. Should I be worried? Is there any reason I shouldn’t go?”

  O’Mara gave a wide smile, happy to have good news to share. “No, ma’am. As I said before, this is just a routine inquiry. Feel free to go about your business as usual.”

  I looked to Zelnick, who seemed to be the one in charge. “And you agree?”

  He nodded curtly. “You’re fine to travel. If something changes, we’ll let you know.”

  He stood up, and O’Mara closed his notebook.

  I showed them to the door, took their raincoats out of the hall closet. “If there’s anything I can do to help…”

  After shrugging on his belted trench coat, Zelnick reached into his pocket and handed me a business card. “If you remember some detail later on, you can reach me at this number.”

  They took their umbrellas and walked down the carpeted hallway to the elevator.

  I closed the door, affixed the chain, and went out on the balcony. The rain had let up; drops were plopping intermittently on my railing from the balcony above. The sky was a turbulent dark gray, the lights of the city lending a faint orange glow to the cloud cover.

  Zelnick and O’Mara emerged from under the awning over the front entrance and walked in lock-step along the discreetly lighted walkway to the street. They crossed the street and turned right. Parking was horrendous in this area, and I wondered where they’d left their car. Or had they taken the metro from their CIA office, wherever that was?

  I glanced at the business card I was still holding. It showed only Zelnick’s name and phone number, no CIA insignia. It occurred to me that I actually knew nothing about the two men who’d just been in my apartment. They could have been anybody: their quickly flashed badges could easily have been fakes.

  Careful. Your imagination is running away with you.

  Nevertheless, a part of me was tempted to run down and follow Zelnick and O’Mara through the foggy streets, just to see where they went. Luckily, the saner part of me realized that spying on spies was bound to be folly. I was simply overwrought from the whole affair. I slid the door closed against the damp night and went back to ordering Thai.

  I called Ruggeri again the next day. Patients were backed up in the waiting room, but they could wait.

  To my relief, he picked up the call, and launched into a progress report. Interviews with the small number of people who’d known Saldana in New York hadn’t turned up any promising leads, and the crime scene hadn’t yielded much information either. When I pressed him to share the autopsy and forensic results, he bluntly informed me that my expertise was not required. The NYPD had a well-trained staff of experts and was perfectly capable of handling homicide investigations on its own.

  “By the way, did you talk to the CIA about this case?” I asked.

  “I passed on your concerns to them as a matter of course.”

  I was relieved: my suspicions about Zelnick and O’Mara could be put to bed.

  “Take my advice and go on with your life, Dr. March,” Ruggeri counseled. “I know that can be hard for people who are used to being in charge. But there’s really nothing more you can do.”

  “Will you be sure to call if there are any developments?”

  “I absolutely will,” he said in a tone of finality.

  Too much finality, I thought.

  I decided to try the Russian Consulate in New York City one more time. I was put on hold, transferred to another department, and another, and another, each time repeating my simple request. Had Ms. Tarasova’s family been notified of her death? The bureaucrats seemed to find my inquiry both bizarre and nonsensical. At no point did anyone admit that they even knew who Ms. Tarasova was. Maybe they were seeking to avoid international legal wranglings, or maybe they considered the incident to be dirty national laundry best kept to themselves. Maybe they just didn’t care, maybe they were covering up, or maybe a gag order had been issued from above. Or maybe they truly had no clue what I was talking about. The possible reasons for their apparently colossal stupidity were endless. But one thing was certain: a lone American citizen was not about to penetrate the consulate’s thick defenses. Eventually, I was instructed to submit my concerns in writing to the Office of the Deputy of Public Affairs at the Kremlin, and that was the end of the goose chase for me. I expected to get answers from Putin’s Kremlin about as much as I expected to ride a unicorn to Narnia.

  There was nothing left to do but contact Saldana’s mother directly, trusting that the consulate had done its job. At first, I was stymied because I didn’t have her number. Then it dawned on me that I could Google NYC dance companies until I found one presently hosting a visiting Russian artist. This eventually brought me to the Marcus Glasson Dance Company, where the artistic director, badly shaken by what had befallen his guest artist, was more than willing to cooperate. He said he’d spoken to Saldana’s mother the day before: she had indeed been informed of the murder, though he couldn’t say by whom. As her English was rudimentary, and his Russian was nonexistent, their conversation had been short. Nevertheless, he found her to be remarkably calm, under the circumstances. He gave me her number, and the next morning at 6 a.m.—7 p.m. Russia time—I took a deep breath and made the call.

  The initial reactions of parents who lost children ran the gamut from unrelenting hysteria to catatonic depression. There’s no way to predict how any individual will respond. Lena Tarasova seemed to fall squarely in the middle of the spectrum. She was simply sorrowful, which was, I thought, the most painful place to be. She knew who I was right away and accepted my condolences graciously. I talked about the day I’d spent with her daughter, how much I’d enjoyed her company. Opening up
a bit, she described Saldana’s kindness, her remarkable talent in dance, how hard she always worked, and how much she loved her family and friends.

  Then the conversation took an unexpected turn. Apparently, the Russian Consulate had given Lena hardly any information about the homicide. She’d called the NYPD, but her English wasn’t good enough for her to understand what she was told. Could I provide her with the details?

  I gently shared what I knew, conscious of how upsetting some of the facts might be. She listened without interruption, then pressed me to elaborate on certain aspects of the crime: Was I sure Saldana was garroted? How did I know? Was the murderer in the room when Saldana entered, or had she been followed there? Had the door been jimmied open, or had the murderer somehow interfered with the electronic lock? Which items were stolen, and what was left behind? Were any other rooms in the hotel burglarized that night?

  The questioning was so thorough and specific that I felt like I was being professionally debriefed. I couldn’t help wondering whether Lena had the same suspicions I did.

  I decided to venture in. “The police are treating it as an interrupted burglary, but they can’t be sure. Some details do seem unusual.”

  After a long pause, she said, “What do you mean?”

  What should I say? Is there any chance your daughter was assassinated by your government? I settled on, “Saldana told me about her plan to stay in America after her visa expired.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There was no such plan,” Lena said.

  So that’s how it was. My aunt was going to keep her secrets, and I supposed I had to honor that.

  I said, “I just want you to know that…I wish I’d done more to help. I mean, right away—the day we met. Instead of putting her off.” It was embarrassing to hear myself babbling my guilt. Was I looking for absolution from this bereaved mother? Was that fair?

  “You couldn’t have known what would happen,” she said in a gentler tone.

  “It was brave of her to come. I was surprised to meet her, of course. It was, well…astonishing to find out about you and your son and…your mother.” A flush crept up my face. The fact that they hadn’t contacted us until they’d needed our help still rankled a bit. I had no idea whether they wanted a relationship with us at all. And now, with Saldana gone, the situation was even more complex. Nevertheless, I blundered on.