Red Ink

by Greg Dinallo

  “He?” Shevchenko taunts, surprising me. “Have you detected something that rules out a woman?”

  “No. It was just a figure of speech. You have reason to suspect it was?”

  He smirks, still toying with me; or so I suspect until he shifts his flashlight to the victim’s left wrist. A metallic glint appears. “Sergeant.”

  The sergeant crouches to the body, pushes up the shirt cuff, and removes a gold wristwatch. He slips it into an evidence envelope and follows it with a wedding band; then he checks the victim’s pockets, taking a fold of rubles from one and a leather wallet from another, handing the latter to Shevchenko.

  “Well, I guess robbery wasn’t ‘her’ motive,” I joke, delighted the intrigue remains.

  “Vladimir Vorontsov,” Shevchenko says, scanning the victim’s driver’s license. “Correction. Vladimir Illiych Vorontsov. I wouldn’t want to be accused of withholding information from the press.” He examines the wallet’s contents, pausing curiously at a plastic laminated card that he palms before I can get a look at it. “Who found him?”

  The sergeant grins. “A puppy. His owner was walking him after dinner. She lives in the same wing as Vorontsov. Said he’s a widower; his daughter and grandchildren moved in with him a few months ago.”

  Shevchenko nods and walks toward the building at a brisk pace. “Took in his daughter and grandchildren,” he muses sarcastically as I follow after him. “Evidently, the new government hasn’t solved the housing shortage or divorce rate yet.”

  “Evidently, you preferred the old system.”

  He shrugs. “I had a life then.”

  “A life?”

  “Yes, a life. If the KGB was still in business, they’d be handling this and I’d be home with my wife and daughters.”

  “Care to guess where I’d be?”

  He chortles, entertaining visions of the gulag, and starts up the steps to the entrance. “You want a story? This rush to democracy is pushing violent crime through the roof. Six hundred thousand more incidents this year than last. Write about that. Just don’t forget to mention the Party always claimed it went hand-in-hand with capitalism.”

  “Come on. It contradicted their propaganda, so they denied it existed.”

  “No. No, this used to be the safest city in the world, Katkov. Everyone was so terrified of the KGB, they toed the line, and you know it.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “True. There’ll always be a few—dissidents.” He spits it out like an expletive, and puts a shoulder into the massive wooden door.

  I haven’t been in these buildings in over twenty-five years, but nothing’s changed. The creak of hinges, the hiss of steam, the orange glow of chandeliers—I’m overwhelmed with familiar sensations as I follow Shevchenko across the lobby into an elevator. The slow-moving lift deposits us in a third-floor vestibule. He steps to a door and presses the buzzer. A petite woman in her early thirties appears. She seems gentle and refined: salon-styled hair, silk blouse, designer suit, clearly a woman of privilege.

  “I’m Senior Investigator Shevchenko,” he says, displaying his militia badge and identification. “This is Mr. Katkov. He’s a journalist. May we come in?”

  “Why, is something wrong?”

  “Vladimir Vorontsov is your father?”

  She nods, her eyes widening apprehensively.

  “I’m afraid it’s very bad news.”

  The color drains from her face as she leads the way to a living room decorated with elegant European furniture, silk draperies, and Persian rugs. It’s a grand room. Very grand—my entire apartment could easily fit inside it—and very much like the one where I played as a child. I’m so caught up in the memories that a few moments pass before I reach a sitting area at the far end of the room where Shevchenko is briefing her.

  “My God,” she wails when he finishes. “Why would anyone do something like that?”

  “I’m hoping you can help us find the answer, Mrs.—”

  “Churkin. Tanya Churkin,” she replies, overcome with grief. “He was late. I knew something was wrong. I just knew it.”

  Shevchenko nods with understanding and directs her to a chair. “You said he was late?”

  She nods sadly.

  “On returning from where?”

  “His lodge meeting. He gets together with his cronies. They drink. Relive old times. You know.”

  “And where is this lodge?”

  “In Khimki Khovrino near the Sports Palace.”

  “Quite a long drive,” Shevchenko observes. “Did your father have any enemies you know of?”

  “No. No, he was a good person.”

  “No ex-wife, no girlfriends, jilted mistresses, anything like that?”

  Her tear-filled eyes flare with indignation. “No. And I don’t like what you’re insinuating,” she snaps, her back straightening in the chair.

  “I meant no offense, Mrs. Churkin. Someone shot your father in cold blood. The motive is crucial to tracking down his killer.”

  “The answer is still no. He was devoted to my mother. She died about a year ago. He still isn’t over it. I don’t want his good name sullied by you”—she shifts her glare to me—“or anyone else.”

  “That’s not why we’re here, Mrs. Churkin, I assure you,” Shevchenko replies.

  She nods, her lips tightening into a thin line.

  “Now, can you think of anyone who might want to hurt him? Anyone he didn’t get along with?”

  “No. He was well liked by everyone.”

  “What about his coworkers?” Shevchenko glances at me out of the corner of his eye and produces the laminated card he palmed earlier. “According to this, he was employed at the Interior Ministry.”

  My brows twitch with intrigue. Mrs. Churkin’s fall. She nods sadly.

  “In what capacity?”

  “As a foreign trade representative. He was usually posted abroad to one of our embassies; but lately, he’s been working out of Ministry offices here in Moscow.”

  “Did he ever take work home from the office?”

  “Sometimes. His things are inside.” She stands and leads the way to a study that overlooks the river. One wall is covered with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, another with citations and photographs that span a long career in government service: Vorontsov with various heads of state, with generals and dignitaries, with world business leaders, on the fringe of a large group gathered around Brezhnev, with a smaller group that includes Gorbachev and Shevarnadze, with Boris Yeltsin and former U.S. Ambassador Strauss.

  Shevchenko crosses to a desk where several neat stacks of papers are aligned. After a perfunctory review, he slips the official-looking documents into a briefcase that he finds next to the desk. “Someone will have to identify the body, Mrs. Churkin. You may do it now, or tomorrow at headquarters. I imagine you’ll want to come by to claim his personal effects.”

  The finely tailored woman hesitates, chilled at the thought. “Yes. Yes, I think tomorrow would be better.”

  “Should you need to reach me in the meantime . . .” Shevchenko gives her one of his cards with the defunct red star insignia. Then, briefcase in hand, he leads the way from the apartment into the elevator. After the door closes, he pulls a flask from inside his trench coat, thumbs the hinged cap, and takes a long swallow. Vodka may be colorless, odorless, and tasteless, but my senses are undeniably tantalized. Shevchenko notices my hungry stare. “Long night,” he says, offering me the flask.

  “Thanks, no,” I reply, though my throat craves the long, satisfying burn. “But I could use a ride.”

  “Sorry. I’m returning to headquarters.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  He glares at me as the elevator door opens, then charges through it into the lobby. By the time I catch up, he’s bounding down the steps outside the building.

  “Come on, Shevchenko,” I protest as we cross the parking area. “You’ll get home to that little family a lot sooner with some help; not to mention the time you’
ll save answering my questions now.”

  “Unfortunately, there are other reporters in Moscow, Katkov. I’ll still have to answer theirs.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “You suggesting I deal with you exclusively?”

  “I expected a senior investigator with twenty years on the force would demand it.”

  “Twenty-four years.”

  “All the more reason. Of course, if what I’ve heard about your itch to make chief is wrong . . .”

  He opens the door, tosses the briefcase inside the Moskvitch, and whirls to face me. “I’m up to my ass. I don’t have time to play games. You’ll clear every draft with me prior to publication. You’ll remove anything I find objectionable, anything I want withheld from the public, anything that might threaten to derail the investigation. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, Katkov.” He slides behind the wheel, slams the door, and jerks his head, indicating I get in.

  The House on the Embankment fades in the mist that hangs over the river. There’s little traffic at this hour, and about fifteen minutes later we’re approaching Militia Headquarters, a crenelated fortress near the Hermitage Gardens. The uniformed sentry at the entrance to No. 38 Petrovka recognizes Shevchenko and raises the gate arm, allowing the sedan to enter without stopping. Six stories of dark brown sandstone tower over a treeless courtyard paved with cobblestones. It’s a forbidding presence.

  The senior investigator’s office is on the fourth floor, deep in a maze of depressing corridors. Gray-green walls, poor lighting, a small, rain-spattered window, and a scarred desk, on which Shevchenko drops Vorontsov’s briefcase, do little to change the mood.

  “No motive—no suspect,” he announces, reciting the axiom glumly, as he begins sorting the documents.

  “You’ve eliminated thieves, mistresses, neighbors, which leaves, what? Professionals. It would be fair to allege it was the mafiya. Some kind of a hit. No?”

  “No.”

  “Come on. He was killed with a pistol.”

  “Would you have preferred a shotgun?”

  “A hand ax. I understand it’s the most commonly used weapon in homicides.”

  “Because firearms are illegal and hard to get. There’s always an ax handy.”

  “Unless you’re a professional. Then it’s—”

  The phone rings, interrupting me.

  “Shevchenko,” he answers wearily. His shoulders sag as he listens. “Yes, I’m still here. . . . I’m sorry, I meant to. I didn’t get a chance. . . . Yes, I know it’s late. Tell them I’ll see them in the morning. . . . Katya, I’m doing my best. It’s hard to—Katya? Katya?” He sighs and slowly lowers the phone.

  “Old lady’s pissed off at you, huh?”

  He glares at me. “Stick to business, Katkov.”

  “Fine. I was about to say, it’s rather obvious we’re looking at a premeditated murder here.”

  “I didn’t say that and don’t write that I did. I said cold-blooded murder. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there are pieces that still don’t fit.”

  “Removing the body from the car . . .”

  Shevchenko nods smugly before adding, “And the sack of sundries on the seat.”

  “What makes that a problem?”

  “Time. He leaves the office and goes shopping at one of those trendy emporiums that sell Western goods. The end of the working day. Their busiest time. He’d have to take a number and queue for at least an hour, maybe two. Then time to drive all the way to Khimki Khovrino, time to eat, drink, and be merry, and time to drive home. All in time to be killed sometime before eight forty-eight. I’m sure dispatcher"—he pauses and retrieves a report from his desk—"Vera Fedorenko recorded the time of the call accurately.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I say offhandedly, thinking the son-of-a-bitch never misses an opening. “Far as the body being removed from the car is concerned, maybe Vorontsov dragged himself out.”

  “With half his cranium missing?”

  “A reflexive action. Like a chicken without a head. Whatever, I still think somebody shut him up.”

  “No comment.” He tosses a document aside, and begins perusing another. “Not until I know exactly what he was up to at the Interior Ministry.”

  “Well, since you work for the Interior Ministry, I’m sure you have your ways of finding out.”

  “And I’ve no doubt you have yours, Katkov. You’ll let me know what you turn up.”

  “I’ll let you know who buys my story. You can read what I turn up.”

  He bristles, then checks his anger in reaction to something in the documents. “I don’t think we’re going to need sources to find out what he’s involved in.”

  “You found it?”

  “Privatization,” he says with the disdain usually reserved for the word capitalism. “These reports were prepared by the Committee for State Property.”

  “The committee empowered to sell State property. The committee overrun by corrupt bureaucrats ripping off the industries they’ve been managing.”

  “Fucking hypocrites,” Shevchenko exclaims, nostrils twitching at the stench of scandal. “They buy businesses with money stolen from the Party and make huge profits reselling them to Western corporations.”

  “For dollars—dollars that never enter the economy, as I understand it.”

  “It’s called capital flight, Katkov. There are dozens of deals here. From high-tech to agriculture, and everything in between.”

  “So, which one was poor Comrade Vorontsov trying to rip off?”

  Shevchenko shrugs and smiles enigmatically. “Maybe all of them. Maybe none.”

  “None?”

  “None. I don’t get paid to jump to conclusions like you, Katkov. I get paid to assemble and evaluate facts.” He kicks back in his chair with a prescient air and ticks the points off on his fingers. “A man of apparent stature and integrity. Rampant political corruption. Documents that cover a broad range of State industries. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. Your point?”

  “It’s possible Vorontsov had the documents because he was reviewing them.”

  “A watchdog?”

  Shevchenko nods. “He’s probably as dirty as they come; but it’s also possible he died because he was about to blow the whistle on someone.”

  “But someone blew it on him first.”

  “Someone with a lot to lose.” He looks off for a moment, then grins at a thought. “You know what’s really intriguing about this?”

  “Impress me.”

  “The motive. I mean, why do Russians kill each other, Katkov? Love, hate, politics—”

  “—a bottle of vodka.”

  “Precisely. That’s been about it up until now. Now, we have greed. Money. That’s a brand-new one.”

  3

  The Zhdanov-Krasny metro line zigzags beneath the city from the suburbs in the northwest, to the power corridors of central Moscow, and on to the industrial districts in the southeast. Lyublino, a working-class enclave where breathing is more hazardous than smoking, is a long way from the House on the Embankment. Indeed, this drab, polluted area I call home is at the end of the line in more ways than one, which means I can sleep on the train without missing my stop.

  But I’m not sleeping tonight.

  Despite the hour, my mind is racing to recall all I’ve learned about the privileged life and violent death of Vladimir Illiych Vorontsov. I can’t write fast enough. Item by item I scribble it down in my notebook, along with the endless questions that come to mind:

  Was Vorontsov a watchdog, or not? If so, which State assets did he suspect were being illegally sold?

  Who were the buyers? The apparatchiks who managed those assets? Officials in the Interior Ministry? Foreign consortiums? All of the above? Ministry officials in collusion with outsiders?

  Whom did Vorontsov report to? Who were his subordinates? Was he clean or dirty?

  It w
ill take weeks, maybe months, to answer them all. The longer the better, as far as I’m concerned. This is a major scandal. At the least, I’m looking at a lead story and a series of follow-ups.

  The train bends through a curve with a chilling screech and rumbles into the station. I slip out the door before it fully opens and charge up the escalator into early morning darkness. The frigid air is thick with noxious fumes billowing from the industrial stacks across the river in Brateyevo. I light a cigarette, thinking there’s probably more sulfur in my lungs than on the matches, and head south beneath crackling power lines that stretch to the horizon.

  Five years ago, after my last imprisonment for subversive writings, I moved from Perm 35 in the Urals to an apartment in Lyublino to write about the deadly living conditions. To my horror, the air smelled like sulfazine—a vile, fever-producing drug used by prison quacks to cure alcoholism—and I couldn’t wait to finish my work and leave; but principle and poverty have conspired to keep me here. The baroque mansion where I live stands in gratifying defiance of the State’s monolithic housing units, and the caretaker, whose family owned the house before the State divided it into dozens of cramped apartments, always allows me a few months’ grace on the rent.

  The harsh industrial odor gives way to the scent of perfume as I enter the vestibule. Vera’s delicate fragrance draws me up the twisting staircase, gradually blending with the strong smell of coffee. “Hi,” I say brightly, as I come through the door. “Sorry to be so late, but—”

  That’s strange. The sofa, where I expect to find Vera curled up with a book, is empty. The blanket she keeps tucked around her legs, tossed aside. My dog-eared copy of I Claudius is on the end table next to a butt-filled ashtray and a half cup of black coffee.

  “Vera? Vera, you here?” I slide back the curtain that separates the sleeping alcove from the main living area. No Vera. The bedding hasn’t been disturbed. I’ve just taken off my parka when I notice the bathroom door is closed. The tub. She probably took a bath and fell asleep. It wouldn’t be the first time. I open the door slowly to avoid startling her, but the tub is also empty. Signs of Vera everywhere, but still no Vera.