Three Stations: An Arkady Renko Novel

by Martin Cruz Smith

  Maya rushed to the bar sink and threw up.

  “So you know.” Matti swayed on his feet. “To these people you’re no one special. To them you’re just a bitch who talks too much.”

  They came the next day, two men in coveralls and boots in an ancient Volvo station wagon. Maya immediately labeled them “the Catchers.” She was ready, with Katya in one basket and nappies in another, as if they were setting off on a day trip. The men would have thrown her and the baby in the rear of the wagon at once if their car hadn’t rattled and limped for the last kilometer with a flat tire and a hole in the muffler. When the mechanic at the garage said that he could replace both the tire and muffler in half an hour, the Catchers decided to have lunch in the air-conditioned comfort of the lounge.

  The question was what to do with Maya. They couldn’t keep her in the car while it was on the lift and they didn’t want her mixing with her coworkers; in fact, the Catchers didn’t want her back in the club at all. It was Matti who suggested the bus shelter, where Maya would be in plain sight and serve as an object lesson. The men looked up and down the road and at the waist-high grass around the shelter and returned to their cabbage and sour cream.

  Maya herself was relieved to be in the bus shelter. It was her special place. The rest of the world had receded and left her with only Katya and the trilling of a million insects. She had never really listened to them before. She had never prayed before.

  “Good news and bad news,” the mechanic reported to the men in the lounge. “The new tire is on but we are having a small problem with the muffler. The bolts were rusted for good. I used a lubricant, ratchet and wrenches. Next I’ll use a hacksaw. I might need another twenty minutes.”

  “You might need a gun stuck up your ass.”

  Maya decided that she would keep the baby alive as long as possible but that, if need be, she would kill it herself rather than let it be tortured.

  “Cheers!” Matti raised a glass of vodka. The Catchers ignored their glasses although he had filled them to the brim. “No? What if you take turns? A single Finn versus two Russians? Those are fair odds.”

  “Fuck you,” said the Catchers, and they lifted their vodkas.

  The sound of an engine overlapped insect song and a bus emerged from the heat waves of the highway.

  “Just a tiny one.” Matti poured the next vodka only to the brim.

  It was an army bus of recruits, all Sir Galahads when they saw a girl sitting at the shelter.

  The Catchers bolted from the lounge. “You said there was no bus service. Now here’s a bus and our car is up on a fucking lift.”

  “There is no bus service,” Matti said. “There is an army camp nearby. Sometimes a bus or truck of theirs rolls through.”

  The bus doors opened and Maya boarded tentatively, as if the bus and soldiers might dissolve at her touch.

  The Catchers ran across the parking lot. One drew a gun but the other told him to put it away.

  Matti motioned, go, go.

  At the start Maya endured a hundred questions. After a while the soldiers relaxed in the glow of a good deed and she rode to town unharried.

  An outdoor market surrounded the train station. Maya’s money was in her room at the club, but her tips from the night before were more than enough to buy two canvas bags, blue jeans, a secondhand leather jacket and a dye job at a station salon while the women on the staff admired Katya. Only then, transformed, did Maya approach the ticket counter and purchase an overnight ticket to Moscow. Hard class. She had never been to Moscow but she believed it was a good place to hide.

  “Miracles are happening. Our luck has changed,” she told the baby as the train pulled out. Maya laughed from exhilaration. She had been entrusted with the most precious item in the world and she had successfully protected it. From this point on everything was going to be different.

  Katya stirred. Before she started crying, Maya went out to the vestibule at the end of the car and put the baby to her breast. Once the baby’s first urgent scrambling settled down, Maya allowed herself a cigarette. She would not have minded if the moment went on forever, watching fields shine in the moonlight, smuggling her baby into the world.

  Maya didn’t hear a drunken soldier join her until the door clicked shut behind him.

  That was ages ago, Maya thought. Two days at least. Well, bitches were as bitches did. She closed her eyes until Zhenya was asleep, then she took the last money in his day pack and left the casino.

  14

  Arkady called Victor from the dancers’ dressing room and told him that the murder victim they called Olga had been identified as Vera Antonova, age nineteen, a student at Moscow State University, and suggested that since this was the detective’s case, he might want to come by the Club Nijinsky and take part in the investigation.

  “I can’t leave. I’m getting a tattoo.”

  “Now? At this hour?”

  “No problem. The parlor is open all night.”

  Arkady didn’t know what to say. He paced back and forth in the narrow, brightly lit comma of space that was afforded dancers. A makeup counter was littered with used tissues, jars of foundation, powder and rouge, cold cream, lipstick and mascara. It was hard to imagine six women squeezing into the room, let alone changing from one costume to another.

  Victor said, “I’m sober, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  Arkady still didn’t know what to say. He noticed snapshots of boyfriends and family wedged into mirrors; none seemed to have any connection to Vera Antonova.

  “Who identified her?” Victor asked.

  “A journalist who writes about the club scene, then several other people. It seems that besides being a student, she was a dancer at the Nijinsky.”

  “Too bad.”

  “But why are you getting a tattoo?”

  “You can’t hang out in tattoo parlors without getting something. By the way, Zurin called looking for you about a letter of resignation that he expected. He said that as far as the prosecutor’s office is concerned, you have been suspended. You are no longer an active investigator. Any pretense otherwise and he will have you detained.”

  “Arrested?”

  “Decapitated, if he had a choice.”

  “When can you get over here? You’re the one who always says the detective leads and the investigator follows.” As he talked Arkady rapidly opened and shut drawers. He saw Ecstasy in the form of candies, clear capsules and green peas, yes. Clonidine or ether, no. With so many mirrors reflecting each other, he seemed to share the room with multiple desperate men with lank hair and eyes deep as drains, the sort of figure who might wander the streets on a rainy night and cause people to roll up their car windows and jump the traffic light.

  Victor was saying, “You can’t rush an artist. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Does the tattoo hurt?”

  “It stings a little.”

  “Good.”

  Isa Spiridona was graceful and gray. Arkady remembered her from the Bolshoi, briefly as a prima ballerina before she was injured. He would have thought she might continue as a ballet mistress, teaching young dancers to elevate their leg or their elbow thus and so. Instead she was a choreographer at the Club Nijinsky with a desk crammed between a rack of costumes and stacks of CDs and DVDs arranged around a balsa-wood model of the club interior that showed runways, dance floor and ministages. Arkady poked it with his finger.

  “Where are we in this model?”

  “I don’t discuss any of the club’s operations. Please don’t touch.”

  “I’ve always loved models.” He stooped for a better view. “Does the service elevator go up and down?”

  “No, it’s not a dollhouse. Don’t touch, please.”

  “Where did you say we are?”

  “Here.” She pointed to the third level; there were five levels altogether. “Have you shown this picture to any of the dancers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without coming to me first? Dancers are ch
ildren. I don’t want them sobbing before the audience is out the door. Stay away from the girls. If you have questions, call me tomorrow and I’ll make some time for you.”

  Tomorrow had arrived hours ago, Arkady thought. As for time, he only had until Zurin caught up with him.

  Spiridona’s phone rang and she sat to take the call.

  “No, I’m not alone. There’s an investigator here, but he’s leaving… totally useless and scaring the girls… Wait a second. He’s not bright enough to take a hint.” She gave Arkady a wave of dismissal. “Can’t you see I’m working?”

  “So am I. May I have Vera’s photograph, please?”

  “Oh.” Spiridona found it in her hand and thrust it at Arkady. “Now will you go? I can’t believe you showed this to my dancers.”

  “But I didn’t show them this.”

  He dug into his jacket and gave Spiridona a different photograph and watched her gaze swim over the filthy mattress, Vera’s half-stripped body, the butterfly tattoo resting on her hip.

  Spiridona hung up. “I don’t understand.”

  Arkady said, “Neither do I.”

  “Dear God, how could this happen?” She dropped the picture as if it were a spider. “Who could do this to her?”

  “I don’t know.” He described the circumstances in which the girl was found: “Dressed like a prostitute, tattooed like a prostitute, on a prostitute’s bed, carrying a prostitute’s knockout powder.”

  “I can’t explain it. It isn’t the Vera I knew.”

  “Who was?”

  “A free spirit, you could say.”

  “Sexually free?”

  That drew a wistful smile. “Everyone is different. In a ballet company there are three or four genders. Vera was popular from the first and men and women were drawn to her like bears to honey. She was ambitious. She could have had any of a dozen millionaires, so why would she be selling herself at Three Stations?”

  “Do you know who those men are?”

  “I can give you a list but it would be incomplete and out-of-date. She was a fickle girl. She roomed at the university. You should talk to her roommate there.”

  “What was she studying?”

  “Languages. Foreign affairs.”

  Arkady was impressed. Foreign affairs was usually reserved for the elite. It was hard for Arkady himself to believe but he had once been a member of Moscow’s “Gilded Youth,” when dinosaurs ruled the earth.

  “How did she get on with the other dancers?”

  “Fine.”

  “No particular enemies?”

  “No.”

  “No particular friends?”

  “No.”

  “You interviewed her before taking her on as a dancer?”

  “Of course. This is not the Bolshoi. I am more of an ornament than a teacher and the girls do more or less what they want. But this is also the Club Nijinsky. People expect a different wild and crazy theme every week but also, for the amount of money they’re paying, a touch of culture. Not too much, maybe ten seconds’ worth. Some pirouettes or a tableau vivant. Girls line up to be a Nijinsky dancer, to have all those wealthy men admiring you, enamored of you.” She lit a cigarette and dramatically exhaled smoke that twisted into arabesques. “Worshipping you.”

  “Is her family in Moscow?”

  “Her parents died in the terrorist bombing of the Metro. Her brother died in the army. He hung himself.”

  “Why?”

  “He was gay.”

  Which said quite enough. Hazing new recruits in the Red Army was routine. For “homos,” torture.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Around New Year’s. She was upset but nothing unusual. She was a focused person, that’s why this”—she indicated the photo of Vera in the trailer—“makes no sense at all.”

  “Did she dress well?”

  “Nothing cheap or shoddy.”

  “But no diamonds.”

  “No.”

  “So tonight you had your dancers pose in all five basic ballet positions except the fourth. Was that supposed to be Vera?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t someone take her place?”

  “Vera often showed up at the last moment. I admit I made allowances for her. The girl was carrying a full scholastic load. I respected that.”

  “Did you report her missing?”

  “If she had been gone a week. She led an active social life. That’s part of being young, isn’t it? The energy?”

  “Did she ever use drugs?”

  “None of my girls do or they’re dismissed immediately. I won’t have it.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Thursday afternoon at rehearsal.”

  “The exact hours?”

  “From two to five. We only rehearse twice a week because, as I told you, the dancers for the most part create their own choreography. All I ask is that they don’t fall off the runway.”

  “Her mood was…”

  “Upbeat always.”

  “Please remind me, the theme for this weekend was…”

  “Abused children. Girls in particular. I put together costumes that mixed different elements, such as Lolita, Hello Kitty, Japanese schoolgirls and the ballet phase in little girls.”

  “I saw it. There seemed to be something missing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whatever Vera would have represented. You can look at the photograph if that will help you remember.”

  Her eyes darted as briefly as possible to the photo.

  “I suppose you could say she looked like a prostitute.”

  “Did the dancers choose which costume to wear or did you assign them?”

  “I assigned them. I saw them as an ensemble.”

  “Do you recognize what Vera was wearing when she was killed? The skirt, the top, the boots?”

  “One can’t be certain.”

  “What is your first impression?”

  “It does look like the costume.”

  “That you selected for her?”

  “Yes, but they weren’t supposed to take the costumes home. Why would she wear it at night anyplace as dangerous as Three Stations?”

  “Has she recently mentioned any travel plans?”

  “None.” Isa Spiridona corrected herself. “None that I know of.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might wish her harm? A former lover? A jealous colleague?”

  “No. The career of a dancer is brief enough. One wrong step, one fall, one trip.”

  “As distinct from a fall?”

  “Yes. That’s why dancers are so superstitious.” Her attention returned to the photo. “The tattoo is new.”

  “Since when?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Thank you. That helps with the time line.”

  Spiridona pursed her lips. “You are kind to put it that way.”

  Arkady gave her his card. “In case you recall anything else. It’s probably best to call my cell phone. I’m never in my office.”

  Leaving Madame Spiridona’s office, Arkady had to press against the wall as three Chinese dressed in black and carrying loops of cable hustled out of the service elevator. The elevator sat there, doors open, practically an invitation. Arkady entered and pressed five.

  When the doors opened, he stepped into a world painted black. Platforms, catwalks, rails and hooded lights designed to disappear. Below was the world of color, where beams of light dyed the air red, blue and green. A globe glittered and spun as dancers waved to an endless pulsating beat. From five floors above, it all seemed virtually remote.

  Petrouchka sat on a middle catwalk looking sad as only a clown could be. He idly kicked his legs over the side and ignored Arkady’s arrival.

  “I know why you come up here,” Arkady said.

  “Why?”

  “To be alone.”

  Although his costume was baggy, it couldn’t hide the clown’s muscularity any more than greasepaint could hide his co
ndescension. “That’s right, and yet you’re here.”

  “You’re the man who flies on the wire,” Arkady said.

  “You’re still here.”

  “Well, I’ve never seen a stage from this angle before.” As his eyes adjusted, he saw a spaceship, a chandelier, a baby carriage—props of yesterday’s entertainment, suspended from the ceiling. On the catwalk next to Petrouchka lay a harness and neatly coiled wire and rope.

  “What will it take to get rid of you?”

  “A few questions,” Arkady said.

  “About what?”

  “Flying.”

  “I don’t think it’s for you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, there are two kinds of fliers. A two-wire flier is hauled around like a suitcase, safe and slow. The one-wire flier goes where he wants as fast as he wants. This is a one-wire rig.” He looked Arkady up and down, “You are definitely a two-wire man.”

  “You mean a man on the ground at the other end of the wire?”

  “A man. Or a sandbag.”

  “What is your name?” Arkady asked.

  “Petrouchka.”

  “You’re still in character.”

  “Always. The same as you. You are a policeman, aren’t you?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “You’ve got that ‘doormat of the world’ look.”

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Did you know Vera Antonova?”

  “I don’t know. Who was she?”

  “A dancer here at the club.”

  “No, I’m new here myself.”

  “You’re not from Moscow?”

  Petrouchka lit a cigarette. The match was wood, and rather than blow out the flame, he let it drop into the canopy of floodlights.

  “Some clown,” said Arkady. “Do you want this place to burn?”

  “For every question, a match. That’s the game.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “See, that’s two.” The clown struck another match and let it drift down toward coiffures, bare shoulders, décolletages. Arkady knew it was unlikely any live flame would get that far, but all it took for a disaster was one person screaming “Fire!”

  “Will you stop?”

  “And another.” Petrouchka struck a third match and let the flame get good and set before letting it drop. “More?”