People Who Walk In Darkness (Inspector Rostnikov)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “You don’t take off your leg when you work out,” Panin had said while they showered.

  “Nothing in it rusts or shrinks, unlike the real one next to it,” said Rostnikov. “Besides, I would fall down.”

  “You want to know my secret?” Panin had whispered while they showered.

  “I’m interested in all secrets,” said Rostnikov, rinsing off soap. “It is my passion.”

  “I hate working out. I hate the weights.”

  “Then why do you do it?” asked Rostnikov.

  Panin shrugged, turned off the water, and draped a large yellow towel over his shoulder.

  “There is nothing else to do. I don’t read. I don’t watch much television. I have no close friends.”

  He gave Rostnikov a big, toothy smile.

  “Then . . . ?”

  “It’s the one thing I do well. Besides, something happens when I’m lifting weights. I don’t know what it is, but I get lost. It’s even a little frightening.”

  “Does it feel good?” Rostnikov said, balancing himself carefully as he dried.

  “I don’t know how to say it,” said Panin, thinking deeply. “Not good. Not bad, but when I finish, I feel light, happy, like now.”

  “Meditation,” said Rostnikov.

  “Meditation?”

  “It’s just a word for what you feel. I feel it too.”

  “I knew it,” said Panin, loudly slapping his side with a huge open palm. “That’s why I told you.”

  “What do you want from life, Viktor?”

  “More weights.”

  “I’m sure that can be achieved. Are you married?”

  “My wife died three years ago.”

  “Children?”

  “Two. I would like you to meet them.”

  “I would like to meet them.”

  “My parents are accountants. They are in charge of all the bookkeeping at Devochka,” he said proudly.

  They were both dry now and dressing.

  “How did they come to be here?” asked Rostnikov.

  “My father killed three people when he was a boy. They tried to take his lunch. He beat them to death with a chair. My father got very angry.”

  “It would seem so,” said Rostnikov.

  “My father was sent here instead of to prison or execution. They needed an accountant.”

  “And your mother?”

  “He met her here. She was a bookkeeper. Her family has been here since the mine opened.”

  “And you have no accounting skills?”

  “Ask me the birthday of any famous Russian,” Panin said, popping his shaved head through the hole in his shirt.

  “Maxim Gorky.”

  “March 16, 1868,” Panin said.

  “How do I know you are right?” asked Rostnikov, slowly working his way into his slacks.

  The question puzzled Panin.

  “Because I am. You can check.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Another one,” the giant said eagerly.

  “Fyodor Dostoevsky.”

  “October 30, 1821. You want to check?”

  “No, I know that one. You are a savant, Viktor.”

  They were both dressed then and shaking hands.

  “Again tomorrow morning?” asked Panin.

  “Tomorrow evening,” said Rostnikov.

  Panin nodded solemnly.

  That had been less than an hour ago, and now Rostnikov in his bookish pajamas waited for telephone reports from Iosef and Elena. He had the same questions Igor Yaklovev had written on his whiteboard.

  He did not, however, get to think about them this night for there was a knock at the door. He uttered, “Come in” and the door opened for his brother who, if he noted Porfiry Petrovich’s pajamas, did not reveal it with his eyes.

  “Anatoliy Lebedev has been murdered,” said Fyodor Rostnikov.

  He was holding something in his right hand.

  After his expected phone calls, Rostnikov had hoped to read the 87th Precinct novel he had brought with him, but it would have to wait until much later, if at any time.

  “Where?”

  “In the mines. His body, cut and sliced, was found by a night guard who heard a noise. The guard had trouble locating the sound, echoes in the mines.”

  “When?”

  “Not long, maybe half an hour ago. This was found next to the body.”

  Fyodor held up a lamp, an old covered oil lamp with a wire handle.

  “Let us get Emil Karpo and become one of the people who walk in darkness.”

  Chapter Nine

  “The restaurant. It was delivered to the restaurant an hour past.”

  The speaker was thin, no more than thirty years old, a deep ebony color. He had been one of the men who had engaged Iosef and Zelach in a gun battle and had barely gotten away. In the middle of the table at which he sat were wadded and crumpled remains of pages from Pravda. Resting on the paper was a finger—the small, black finger of a left hand. The curled finger was a matter of debate between the speaker, whose name was Patrice, and the other two young men at the table. They, too, had been in the gun battle.

  The other two men were looking at Patrice for guidance, orders. The problem was that the finger on the table appeared to belong to James Harumbaki, their leader. In addition, the note left with the finger had said that both Umbaway and Roger were dead. The hierarchy was clear. Patrice was in charge, a position to which he did not aspire.

  “You think they have killed Harumbaki?” asked the tallest of the three men.

  Of the three, Biko looked most like a leader. He was erect, decisive in his language, prepared for whatever was to be done. The problem was that he had only one solution for any problem that emerged. Kill. Biko was more than a little crazy, and Patrice well knew it. Patrice also knew that Biko had two wives and six children under the age of ten.

  “I don’t think he is dead,” said Patrice, who had no idea if what he was saying was true.

  “He is not dead.”

  This came from the third man, short, bespectacled, and young, the youngest of the group, named Laurence. Laurence was seventeen. He looked fourteen. He was the most battle-experienced member of the group, having been a shirtless mercenary with a Kalashnikov when he was ten. Now he had an extended family of thirty people to support.

  “That’s not the finger of a dead man,” said Laurence, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve removed fingers from the living.”

  “You can’t be sure,” said Patrice.

  “I can,” said Laurence.

  “He is sure,” said Biko.

  “If we don’t give them diamonds,” said Laurence, “they will send us a toe.”

  “Or his penis,” added Biko.

  “No, that might kill him,” said Laurence.

  Biko and Laurence looked at Patrice, who stared at the finger and said, “Then we answer them by leaving a message. We set up an exchange location. We tell them they must bring James Harumbaki.”

  “We don’t have the next shipment,” said Biko.

  “No,” said Patrice.

  “What do we give them?” asked Laurence, already knowing the answer.

  “Bullets,” said Patrice.

  “James might be killed,” said Biko.

  “We might be killed,” said Patrice.

  “That is true,” said Biko.

  “We will give James’s share of everything for three years to his family,” said Patrice. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” the other two said in near unison.

  Patrice was afraid but not for his own safety. He was afraid he would be killed fighting the people who had James. Then who would look after his parents and grandfather?

  “Where do we meet them?” asked Laurence.

  “The park,” said Patrice.

  “Which park?” asked Biko.

  “East Gate Park on Kamiaken Street,” said Patrice.

  “I do not know it,” said Biko.

  “We had an exchange there under some
statue when I first came to Moscow last year,” said Laurence.

  Patrice nodded to show that this was true.

  “The statue is a good place,” said Patrice. “It is quiet.”

  “See,” said Kolokov, “it doesn’t hurt much.”

  James Harumbaki saw little point in disputing the statement. In fact, the joint where his little finger had been removed really didn’t hurt very much. The crazy, parading Russian had given him two pills and a bottle of vodka. James accepted both with whatever dignity he could muster.

  The bar, owned by a trio of brothers who were well established inside of one of Moscow’s most entrenched Mafias, was crowded. People were laughing, drinking, smoking. Music was blaring, causing a deep headache over James’s right eye. Two very large-screen television sets were on, one over each end of the long bar.

  Kolokov was circling the table, balancing a drink in his hand, talking loudly over the pain, which was almost worse than the loss of a finger.

  “Do not worry,” the Russian said, leaning over the table. “You can always grow another finger. Oh no, I forgot. People do not regrow toes and fingers, do they?”

  Kolokov laughed.

  James was flanked on either side by two of Kolokov’s gang, one of them was the bald man, Montez, who kept his hand upon the Botswanan’s leg.

  “Do they?” Kolokov repeated leaning even closer.

  “No,” said James.

  “No, that’s right,” Kolokov repeated. “They do not, but they can reattach them. All we have to do is get you and your finger . . . Oh, I forgot. I sent the finger to your friends. Pau, how long will a severed finger be usable?”

  “A day or so,” said Montez. “More if it is iced.”

  “Then,” said Kolokov, “we had better get you back to your friends quickly, or you may never be able to play the pipe organ again.”

  “We should not be here,” said Montez.

  “Why not?” asked Kolokov, looking around. “Our guest is not going to try to run. It would be useless and very painful. And he is not going to ask anyone here for help. Who here would help him? Do you see another single black face?”

  Silence.

  “Answer.”

  “No,” said Montez.

  “We are celebrating,” said Kolokov. “The friends of our guest have agreed to turn over to us a fortune in diamonds to get our guest back almost in one piece.”

  “I don’t trust them,” said Igor.

  “Of course not,” said Kolokov. “They mean to . . . what do the Americans call it . . . double crucifix us. I would. They will try. When they do, we remove another one of the fingers of our friend here. He gets weaker. We try again. Being a criminal is not an easy job.”

  Some fresh music blared and a woman, pretty, in her forties, with large breasts, wearing a sleek black dress, climbed on a small stage and began to sing in Russian.

  “What is that song?” asked Kolokov.

  “ ‘Bad Moon Rising.’ ”

  “I know it, but she is destroying it.”

  Kolokov moved through the crowded tables and climbed onto the stage next to the singing woman. James tested the grip of the bald man. As soon as James moved no more than a twitch, the Spaniard’s fingers dug deeply into his thigh.

  “No,” said Montez.

  James went nearly limp. His bloody finger had been rinsed with alcohol and wiped with a towel of doubtful cleanliness. The tape over a small square of bandage was clinging without conviction to his finger.

  Kolokov sang. The woman in the black dress sulked as he nudged in front of her at the microphone. When he had taken the microphone, the bar patrons who were listening had hooted for him to sit down, but they quickly discovered that Kolokov was more than adequate. He was good. He tapped his foot, held the microphone almost touching his lips, and belted out the music. Hoots turned to cheers.

  The three men at the table with James tried to disassociate themselves from their leader. He was a clown, a buffoon. But he was also fearless and smart—at least smarter than they were.

  And then James made a decision. His arms and legs were strong, very strong. The big man at his side could probably crush him, but James surprised him with his sudden strength. James pulled out of his grasp, threw his elbow into the mouth of the man on the other side of him, and dumped the table and its contents into the face and lap of the third Russian.

  Then James ran for the door, leaping over a table.

  The three Russians and the Spaniard were up, but behind in the chase. No one seemed to care or notice very much. Kolokov registered the uproar but kept singing until he saw James dashing for the exit.

  James felt light-headed, but he kept running. At the door, he paused for no more than a quick beat to keep from colliding with Iosef and Zelach, who had just entered. James dashed past them into the night. The pursuers were only a few steps behind.

  The pursuers bumped into Iosef and Zelach, and tried to push them out of the way. Both of the detectives grabbed a pursuer. Iosef slammed Alek against the wall. Zelach punched the hip of Bogdan. Bogdan went down with a wailing groan. Montez ran into the night, followed by the wheezing Kolokov. One of the men now on the floor reached into his jacket. Iosef said, “No,” and held up the gun in his hand.

  Much attention was now being paid to the scene by patrons and the band on the stage.

  “What’s this?” said a bodybuilder type with an accent Iosef thought might be Bulgarian.

  “We’re the police,” said Iosef.

  “So?” asked the bouncer.

  “We’re looking for some black men,” said Iosef.

  “One just ran out of here,” said the bodybuilder. “If you hurry, you can catch him.”

  “He’s not the one we are looking for,” said Iosef, looking at Zelach.

  Zelach shook his head no. The man who had run from the bar was definitely not one of those with whom they had the shootout this afternoon. The detectives had been to five bars based on a vague suggestion by the restaurant owner, Maticonay, who had been shot. Iosef had begun to feel that they had been lied to until they came to this place.

  “Let’s take these two out of here for a talk,” said Iosef.

  The bodybuilder shrugged. It was not his business. He did not even care if they were really the police. He was paid to keep the place relatively calm. He swaggered away as the two policemen helped the men to their feet.

  “That business with the knuckles to the hip,” said Iosef, “where did you get that?”

  “Pressure point,” said Zelach. “I’ve been studying a tape, practicing.”

  “On your mother?”

  “No. On myself.”

  “You are a man of many talents, Detective.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We can . . .” Iosef began, but did not finish.

  There was a gunshot outside, down the street. The detectives immediately abandoned their prisoners and dashed into the night. The two fallen Russians rose and went through the door after them.

  “Wait,” said Alek, holding out his hand.

  “What? It came from that way.”

  “Why don’t we go that way?” asked Alek.

  He was pointing in the opposite direction.

  “Yes,” said Bogdan.

  “If Kolokov gets back, we tell him we escaped from the police.”

  “Yes, that is what happened,” said Bogdan, already believing the lie.

  “Two of them,” said Detective Jan Pendowski as he sat feeding seeds to big, ugly, gray-black crows from a bench on Venetsiansky Island in Hydropark.

  They could hear the balls bouncing on the tables in the Ping-Pong area beyond a mesh fence a few dozen yards away. On nice days like this in Kiev, Jan liked to come out and watch the college girls bouncing under their thin shirts as they swatted at the balls.

  “Two,” said Oxana.

  She sat next to him touching a fingernail to her lower lip, where she sensed an imperfection in her makeup. As much as Jan liked looking at the young girl
s, Oxana Balakona liked to be looked at by males of all ages as they walked by. She had become a model because it had been what she always wanted to be: admired, looked at, wanted.

  “A man and woman,” said Jan. “Moscow detectives. They are looking for you.”

  Oxana turned to face him as he hurled a handful of seeds at a bird near his feet. The bird retreated, not sure if it was being attacked or rewarded.

  “Me?”

  “It appears that the woman who gave you the diamonds has been murdered.”

  He had her full attention now, but he did not look her way. The Ping-Pong balls and the laughter of girls beyond the fence was all-powerful.

  “Murdered,” she repeated.

  It struck Jan, and not for the first time, that while Oxana was clever, she was not terribly smart. She frequently repeated whatever he said as if she were mulling it over or using it as a question.

  “The diamonds,” he said. “They are here looking for them. We must get them to Paris quickly. The two Moscow detectives will find you here. It will not take them long. I’ll guide them in a long search for wild ducks but they will find you if you are here, and going back to Moscow does not strike me as a viable option. They will find you even more easily there.”

  “So, Paris quickly,” she said, deciding to stare down a boy of no more than seventeen who couldn’t help openly and longingly examining her.

  “I have something to tell you,” she said. “Something that is amazingly lucky.”

  “See that one?” he asked, pointing at a bird slightly smaller than the other dozen or so that circled before him on the ground, scurrying out of each other’s way. “Lost an eye. A fight, or disease.”

  “Disease,” said Oxana. “A fashion editor at Paris Match wants me to go to Paris with her tomorrow or the next day for a fashion layout. Perfect cover.”

  “How did she find you, this fashion editor?”

  “An agency here.”

  “She came all the way to Kiev just to find you?”

  “She was here anyway,” said Oxana. “And why would not a fashion editor come here for me? I am one of the very best.”

  “I know,” he said. “I have my own experience of that.”