In the Crosshairs: Russian Historical Thriller (Nikolai Volkov Book 2)

by Julia Gousseva

  “Was the motorcyclist by himself?” Marina said, her tone more insistent.

  “I can’t tell for certain but I don’t think so. There was a Volga parked next to the fence, and the motorcyclist talked to the Volga driver briefly. They could have been acting together.”

  Marina nodded. “They were.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We found the Volga. It was abandoned outside of the Moscow Ring Road.”

  “Do you know who the owner is?”

  “Yes, but it’s a dead end. The owner reported it stolen a few days prior to the incident. But we still ran background checks on him, just in case, and did not find anything suspicious. He wasn’t involved.”

  “I see.”

  “When we found the vehicle and ran the plates, we discovered a mismatch. It’s the oldest trick in the book but still effective to make vehicle identification more difficult for the police. In most cases, the owners of vehicles whose plates have been switched have no idea. Nobody checks license plates on their own cars, right?”

  “I do.” Nikolai shrugged. “But I’m paid to be paranoid.”

  Marina smiled for the first time that morning. “The owner is a physics professor at the Moscow State University. No criminal record, no suspicious activity, and nothing to connect him to the crime. His story checks out.”

  “So, we are back to the blank page,” Nikolai said. “A stolen vehicle is all we have.”

  Marina nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Any prints inside the Volga?”

  “None whatsoever. It was scrubbed clean.”

  “Whoever stole it knew what he was doing. You think the same people who tried to kill Roman tried to kidnap his child?”

  “It’s possible,” Marina said. “Quite likely, actually. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A thick cloud came over the sun, and it immediately got dark. Marina took off her sunglasses. Her expression was an odd mix of concern, focus, and something else that Nikolai couldn’t readily identify.

  “We need to take a different approach here,” she said. “If Tatiana was not followed from the estate to the boutique, it means that somebody knew she was going there. Do you know when she decided to go? Was it a scheduled appointment to pick up that garment?”

  “It wasn’t. The boutique called her the same morning, and she got ready to go right after. Not much lead time at all.”

  “Who knew that she was going?”

  “Besides me? Roman, of course. The conversation took place in the breakfast nook off the kitchen, so Ekaterina was there. When Tatiana said she wanted to go and take Anastasia with her, I strongly suggested to her and Roman that I should accompany them. Tatiana agreed, and Roman called Pavel to drive her. That’s it.”

  “What do you know about Pavel?”

  “Not much.” Nikolai did not want to share his thoughts. His observation that Pavel seemed to be a little too interested in Tatiana and her baby was only a hunch. He seemed to have a lot of those lately. Nikolai wanted to follow up on that hunch himself before he shared it with anyone else. Intuition was not evidence, and he certainly did not want to imply improper behavior on Tatiana’s part and aggravate an already tense situation. Plus, Pavel seemed interested in Ekaterina as well. Perhaps, he simply needed a girlfriend.

  Nikolai looked at the gate. Vasily was still alone. Pyotr was gone. Again.

  “Could you excuse me for a moment, Marina?” Nikolai pulled out his phone and punched in Pyotr’s number. There was no answer, so he left a message for Pyotr to call him back as soon as he got the message. Leaving his post for such a long time was unacceptable, no matter what the reasons were.

  Vasily stepped over to the door next to the gate and held it open to let in a young blond woman wearing a short summer dress. It was Alyona, the salesgirl from the boutique. She carried a stack of glossy magazines under her arm and a dress bag in the other. She walked quickly despite her uncomfortable looking high heels. She waved to Nikolai and quickened her pace.

  “Nice day, isn’t it?” Alyona said as she came to the gazebo, her smile big. “Hi Nikolai. Did you forget who I was?” She pouted in a mock way at Nikolai.

  “How could I,” Nikolai said. “Good morning, Alyona. Do you remember Marina Petrova, the investigator with the city?”

  Alyona’s smile quickly faded, giving way to a serious and concerned expression. “Oh, that was one scary thing. Nikolai, you were such a hero. If it weren’t for you, who knows what would have happened to Tatiana’s baby. That poor thing.” She turned to Marina. “Do you know who that awful man is, on the motorcycle? It’s frightening.”

  “Not yet,” Nikolai said.

  “We’re investigating,” Marina said. “Can we help you? Are you looking for someone?”

  “Me?” Alyona said. “Oh, yes, of course. I brought the dress that Tatiana was supposed to pick up the other day and some new catalogues for her to look at. It’s still June, but before we know it, autumn will be here, and we’ll all need new autumn clothes.”

  “Of course, we will,” Nikolai said.

  “I should probably go see Tatiana, “Alyona said. “She’s expecting me. Nice seeing both of you again.”

  “I’ll walk you inside,” Nikolai said.

  Marina glanced at her watch. “Thank you for talking to me, Nikolai. Please call me if you think of anything else.” She got up and headed down the path leading to the front gate.

  Nikolai followed Alyona into the house. As soon as they walked inside, Nikolai heard Tatiana’s voice before he saw her. She was in the middle of a conversation. Her tone sound friendly, informal, and a little flirty.

  Nikolai slammed the door behind them a little louder than he needed to make sure Tatiana heard them come in. He did not like surprising people when it was not needed. Tatiana was leaning over the stroller, adjusting Anastasia’s blanket with one hand. Her other hand held her cell phone.

  “Alyona’s here to see you,” Nikolai said.

  Tatiana looked up and smiled at them. Anastasia fussed in her seat and threw off her blanket. Tatiana tried to comfort her and pick up the blanket. Her phone fell to the floor. Nikolai picked it up and handed it to Tatiana.

  “Tanechka, what’s going on there? All that commotion is giving me a headache,” a male voice said through the phone. It did not sound like Roman. Nikolai wondered who she was talking to.

  “Could I call you back?” Tatiana said into the phone, then listened for a few moments. “Even better. See you at the Dvorik then. Friday night. Yes, nine works.” She clicked off and turned to Alyona. “Thank you for bringing the catalogues. Come on in. Let’s sit on the couch and discuss things. Do you have the men’s one, too?”

  “Sure do.” Alyona smiled.

  “I’ll leave you ladies to your business,” Nikolai said.

  Friday night at nine, Tatiana had said. At the Dvorik.

  Great choice for a restaurant, though a bit too popular and too public for a married woman to meet with a man who was not her husband. Nikolai needed to be there when that meeting took place so he could accomplish one small but important task, a task that would most likely confirm his suspicions. And he knew exactly how he would do that. But right now, he had another issue to resolve. Nikolai walked outside and followed the shaded path from the house to the gate. He wanted to see if Pyotr was back. But only Vasily was there. Still alone.

  “Where’s Pyotr?” Nikolai asked him.

  “He’ll be right back,” Vasily said. “Stomach problems again, I guess.”

  “Did he ever check them out? He seems to be sick a lot.”

  “I don’t know,” Vasily said.

  “Is he around here? Or did he leave?”

  Vasily did not answer.

  “Did he ever come back to work today?” Nikolai asked.

  “He always comes to work.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Vasily hesitated for a long moment. “No, he didn’t. I tried
calling.” He pointed to his cell phone. “But no answer.”

  “Has he ever missed work before?”

  “No, never.” Vasily shook his head. Then, his expression suddenly changed, as if some mental barrier he had constructed between himself and Nikolai was lifted. “I’m getting worried about him. It’s not like Pyotr not to call and not to show up. It’s not like him to disappear. I’d go check but I can’t leave.”

  “I can go check on him,” Nikolai said. “Give me his address.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  After a short drive, Nikolai eased the RAV4 to the curb by a small park and gazed through the trees at Pyotr’s apartment block. It was a typical five-story building with three separate entrances, each for its own section of the building. The address Nikolai had for Pyotr indicated that he lived in the middle section of the building, on the third floor. Thus, the entrance Nikolai would need to use was the middle one.

  Nikolai spent a few minutes sizing up the area. Nice enough, with typical small grocery stores, newspaper and ice-cream stands scattered among apartment buildings. The buildings were constructed in groups of four, two and two facing each other and forming a large rectangular space below. That space was filled with smaller buildings of schools, kindergartens, and miniature playgrounds.

  This area was a short drive from Rublyovka mansions, but it was a completely different lifestyle, more Soviet Russia than New Russia. No millionaires lived here, that was for certain. The neighborhood reminded Nikolai of the one where he grew up. Like most Moscow neighborhoods of Nikolai’s childhood and youth, it was quiet, unassuming but comfortable and familiar, with two or three generations sharing the same apartment.

  Nikolai watched all three entrances for a few minutes and didn’t see anyone enter or exit. He glanced at his watch. It was close to eleven o’clock. He pulled a pair of white disposable gloves out of his car’s storage compartment and slid them into his pocket. Then, he stepped out of the car and crossed the street. He glanced right and left, checking to see if he attracted any unwanted attention. Two mothers sat on a bench, talking, their young children digging in the sandbox. The janitor, a dark-haired man in his late forties or early fifties, was sweeping the leaves off the sidewalk. Nothing seemed out of place, so Nikolai strode up the sidewalk to Pyotr’s building, came up to the middle entrance, and pulled open the front door.

  Luckily, there was no intercom and none of those complicated locks that most buildings in the center of Moscow tended to have nowadays, so seconds later Nikolai was inside the cool darkness of the building. Once inside, he paused for a moment to put on his gloves. He wasn’t concerned about leaving the prints on the front door: too many people used it. Pyotr’s apartment would be a different matter, if he would even need to use his gloves there. It was unlikely, but Nikolai liked to be prepared for all events, including unlikely ones. He quietly climbed the steps to the third floor and stopped in front of apartment twelve. Pyotr’s apartment. He put his ear against the door and listened to the sounds of muffled conversation coming from the inside. He couldn’t make out the words, but the voices sounded agitated. Nikolai pulled his Makarov out of his shoulder holster and pressed the doorbell. A melodic chime reverberated through the apartment. The voices kept talking with no sign that anybody inside heard the doorbell. Nikolai pressed the doorbell again and listened.

  He heard the chiming again but no footsteps.

  Nikolai put his hand on the door handle and jiggled it. He expected it to be locked but it wasn’t. Seconds later, Nikolai was in a small foyer with a coat rack, a mirror, and a wooden chair. Two doors led out of the foyer. One door opened to the tiny hallway that most likely led to the bathroom and the kitchen. The other door was closed. From the layout of the apartment, Nikolai guessed that the closed door led to the living room. It was an easy guess, as Soviet architects were not known for their originality when it came to apartment buildings.

  Nikolai tiptoed to the closed door and opened it, his Makarov at the ready. Immediately, he saw the source of the conversation. It was a small television set placed on a low table in the corner. On the screen, three men and two women were engaged in an animated discussion of a Dostoyevsky novel. Next to the television stood an old china cabinet. To its right was a plain dining table with four chairs, their upholstery in dire need of cleaning. A couch was pushed against the opposite wall. Above the couch hung a small rug depicting a forest scene with a family of deer in the foreground. Next to the couch was an open door presumably leading to a balcony.

  “Hello?” Nikolai called out.

  No answer.

  He took a cautious step inside.

  “Pyotr? Are you here?” Nikolai asked, but he felt he already knew the answer.

  Keeping close to the wall, Nikolai crept around the perimeter of the living room towards the balcony while keeping his eyes on the living room door. The balcony would be the only place for somebody to hide. Two more steps, and Nikolai was at the balcony. It was quite narrow and not more than two meters in length. And it was empty. Nikolai stepped back into the living room, closed the balcony door behind him and locked it.

  Then, still carefully watching the living room door, he tiptoed back around the room, into the small foyer, and onto the hallway. He took a few minutes to check the tiny bathroom. A small glass shelf contained the usual assortment of soaps, shampoos, and lotions. A small threadbare hand towel hung on the rack by the cracked mirror.

  Nikolai stepped into the kitchen. Next to the wall stood a small table and three chairs but only one was occupied. Pyotr was slumped down on it, his eyes were closed, and his head rested against the back of the chair. Two empty coffee cups were on the table.

  “Pyotr? Are you all right?” Nikolai asked. For a moment, he could not tell what was wrong with Pyotr, and then he walked around the table and saw it. A wooden handle of a Kobra dagger was stuck in the back of Pyotr’s neck, right at the brain stem, and blood was still dripping on the floor.

  “Pyotr? Can you hear me?” Nikolai said. Just in case, he felt for a pulse.

  None.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nikolai put away the gun and took out his phone. Marina picked up immediately.

  “You need to come see something,” Nikolai said. “Right now. Pyotr’s health problems are much more serious than a stomach flu.”

  “What happened? And where are you?”

  “Pyotr’s apartment.” Nikolai gave Marina the address. “He’s dead. Apparent homicide.”

  “I’m turning around right now,” Marina said. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  Nikolai put the phone back into his pocket. He had seen plenty of dead people before, and he had killed a few himself. But his military and post-military experiences did not make this moment any easier. Nikolai barely knew Pyotr but he couldn’t help thinking about things that Pyotr would never get to experience, plans he would never get to make or accomplish, the future that he longer had. Nikolai realized that these thoughts were not original. They were the same ones he had had before and that other people have in similar circumstances. But the lack of originality did not make them less true.

  Nikolai turned away from Pyotr and started looking around. He was searching for anything that would give him a clue about Pyotr’s killer and his motivation. Nikolai was quite certain the killer was a man. When women killed, they rarely used military-issue daggers. And the killer was somebody Pyotr knew: thus, there was no sign of forced entry. The door was unlocked when Nikolai came in, so most likely Pyotr opened the door for the killer. And they were on friendly terms. Thus, two coffee cups. Nothing looked out of place, so robbery was not a likely motive for the murder. What was the motive?

  Nikolai took one more look at Pyotr and got to work. He checked the kitchen cabinets, the hallway closet, and the tiny cabinet in the bathroom. There was nothing of interest that could help the investigation or even hint at the reasons for Pyotr’s murder. The kitchen cabinets were filled with mismatched dishes, old-fashioned silverware, probabl
y inherited from Pyotr’s parents or grandparents, and a typical bachelor’s array of food items: canned herring, beer, glass jars of condensed soup, and unopened packages of spaghetti. The hallway closet was filled with hats, scarves, umbrellas, and coats of varying warmth, from light autumn and spring ones to much heavier ones for the winter.

  Nikolai moved back into the living room and methodically checked the drawers of the dresser. Socks, sweaters, t-shirts, and old pants. He reached under a pile of sweaters and found a small box. It was filled with jewelry that seemed valuable, some looked like it dated back to the pre-1917 time in Russia. Nikolai closed the box, put it back into the drawer, and walked into the hallway.

  He heard a loud whoosh of the elevator doors through the thin walls, followed by the sounds of quickly approaching footsteps, the click-clack of high heels on tile. He peered through the eyehole and opened the door.

  “Where is he?” Marina’s tone sounded urgent.

  “In the kitchen.”

  After one look inside, Marina stepped back into the hallway. “I need to call forensics, but I want to check Pyotr’s phone before they get here.”

  “Best thing I’ve heard all day.” Nikolai walked back into the kitchen and carefully pulled Pyotr’s phone out of his front pocket. He read off the list of recently dialed numbers and contacts. Marina wrote them down.

  “Done,” he said when he got to the bottom of the screen.

  Marina pulled out her phone, dialed, and talked while Nikolai carefully replaced the phone in Pyotr’s pocket.

  After finishing her conversation, Marina turned to Nikolai. “Remind me why you came here.”

  “Pyotr left work today without telling anyone. This wasn’t the first time he left the post, all under the same pretext of stomach problems. And you know what the odd thing is?” Nikolai thought for a moment. “He was gone on the morning of our trip to the boutique, too.”

  “And that’s why you came?”

  “That behavior was suspicious, and I did not believe his stomach problems explanation. Too frequent and too severe. If they were real, he would have gone to the doctor.”