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

by Julia Gousseva

  “Maybe, he thought they would go away by themselves,” Marina said. “You know how guys are about going to see doctors.”

  “In that case, call this a hunch. Something about his behavior did not seem right. I suspected he was involved either in Grisha’s murder, or in the kidnapping, or both. And now I know that he called a certain phone number a few times the morning of Grisha’s murder. One such call happened right when we were leaving for the boutique.” Nikolai paused.

  “Do you know whose number it is?”

  Nikolai shook his head. “I haven’t investigated yet, but most likely it will come up as a temporary number from a disposable phone.”

  “Who do you think killed him?” Marina asked. “No signs of forced entry and two coffee cups mean it was somebody he knew, of course.”

  Nikolai nodded. “The first explanation that comes to mind is that was somebody who was involved in Grisha’s murder or in the kidnapping, assuming Pyotr was involved as well. But it could be something else, with an entirely different motive, and nothing to do with Grisha or Roman.”

  “What do you know about this knife?”

  “It’s a Kobra, a dagger that the Russian police use. It was developed as an alternative to firearms, for use in urban highly-populated areas.”

  “I would imagine it’s available on the black market?”

  “It’s highly available, yes. Easy to get.”

  Marina nodded. “That’s what I thought. So, it means we would have a hard time narrowing it to a specific group.”

  “All I can say is that most likely the killer was male.”

  “I agree,” Marina said. “Women tend not to kill with knives. Or daggers, as you called it.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” Nikolai said and thought for a moment. “How long can you keep this murder out of the media?”

  “In this neighborhood? Not long.” Marina shook her head. “It will be everywhere by tonight. But I will change some details while this is an active investigation. The least I can do.”

  Marina was right. By the time Nikolai turned on his television for the evening news, the story was on all the major channels. It included many details, mainly irrelevant to the investigation, including interviews with Pyotr’s former classmates, neighbors, and acquaintances. As Marina had promised, the details of the murder and the murder scene were largely kept private. Nikolai was impressed. Marina even managed to plant a false clue: a gun was presented as the murder weapon, and Pyotr’s cause of death was stated as a lethal gunshot wound. Nikolai watched the report attentively, trying to pick up on anything from the numerous interviews that would give him any insights into Pyotr’s life and motives for possible involvement in recent crimes against Roman. So far, there was nothing. Pyotr grew up in Moscow, an only child of two engineer parents, both recently retired, after working most of their lives in the aviation industry. Pyotr held a degree in mechanical engineering but never worked as an engineer. After graduation, he served his mandatory two years in the military and then held a number of security jobs, frequently changing employers. He had worked for Roman for less than six months. As Nikolai listened to details of Pyotr’s life, a theory started developing in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more plausible it became. But he needed to check on a few more things before discussing it with anyone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  At nine the next morning, Nikolai ran up three flights of stairs and stopped in front of a metal-reinforced door of Leonid’s apartment. He rang the doorbell and waited. A few seconds later, he heard footsteps, followed by the jangling of the door chain. The door opened a crack, the chain securely attaching the door to the door jamb, and Nikolai saw Leonid. Leonid nodded to him through the opening. “Thanks for coming, Nikolai,” he said.

  Nikolai wondered if the heavy door and the chain had been in place for a while or if these were recent additions, installed after Grisha’s death. The door slammed shut for a few moments, and Nikolai heard the chain jangling again. Then, it opened wide, and Leonid stepped out into the stairwell.

  The two men shook hands, and Leonid gestured for Nikolai to enter the apartment.

  Nikolai noted comfortable sofas, watercolor paintings, a sparkling chandelier in the foyer, and a large mirror in an antique frame, carefully covered with a white sheet. An old Russian tradition dictated that mirrors had to be covered for forty days after a death, the time when the immortal soul traveled to the other world. Mirrors were thought to be portals between the world of the living and the world of the dead. Leaving a mirror uncovered could trap the soul of the deceased in the world of the living, preventing it from ever finding the peace. Apparently, Leonid followed that tradition. Most people in Russia did, whether they believed it or not. Just in case.

  “The living room is a good place to talk,” Leonid said and opened the dark oak door into a spacious living room. “Karina said to apologize to you. She’s picking up her boys from school. She should be back soon. Come in please. You and I can talk.”

  The furnishings were sparse but tasteful: white leather couches, a crystal chandelier, a glass-topped coffee table, and the latest model stereo in the corner piping soft classical music into the room. The back wall was covered with family pictures.

  “Thank you for coming, Nikolai,” Leonid said again. “Maybe, you can get to the truth of Grisha’s murder.”

  “I certainly plan to.”

  “Have a seat. Couch, chair, whatever is comfortable.”

  Nikolai sat on the couch facing the large picture window. Leonid sat in the armchair across from him. The drapes were pulled to the sides revealing the large golden dome of Christ the Savior Cathedral glistening in the morning sun. For a moment, Nikolai’s gaze was drawn to the Cathedral, the granite embankment of the Moskva River, and the Ivan the Great belfry towering over the red brick walls of the Kremlin.

  “I heard about Pyotr,” Leonid said. “How awful. Will these murders ever end? Who is behind all of them?”

  “We try not to jump to conclusions,” Nikolai said. “They may or may not be related.”

  “Do you think it was a burglary?” Leonid asked.

  “It’s possible,” Nikolai said. He didn’t believe it was a burglary but did not want to disclose any information that might be useful to the investigators. “Pyotr may have kept valuable things in his apartment. Or money. It will take the city investigators a while to figure out if anything is missing. I’m working with them as well.”

  “Thank you,” Leonid said. He sighed. “Poor Pyotr. He was a good guy. I can only hope he did not suffer for too long. Stabbing deaths can be long and painful.”

  “Stabbing deaths?”

  Leonid nodded. “I know he was stabbed, not shot. People talk, and I was close to the situation to hear these people.”

  “How well did you know Pyotr?” Nikolai asked.

  “Not too well.”

  “How long have you known Roman?”

  “Long enough to know that he has plenty of enemies. Not surprising, of course, for a man of his wealth.”

  “Right. Let’s start with people closest to him. Have you met Nikita Egorov?”

  “His old business pal?” Leonid shook his head. “Not personally, but I know enough about that little scheme he ran to tell you that the man is a liar.” Leonid paused for a moment, then continued. “Nikita was a nobody when he met Roman. For a reason I will probably never find out about, Roman took him under his wing, taught him everything he knew, and Nikita. . .” Leonid paused again. “How should I put it? Nikita took advantage of Roman, lied, cheated, stole from him, got rightly convicted, and now he’s playing the role of an innocent victim, trying to blame Roman for everything. He’s a slimy one, that Nikita. I have no doubt he had plenty of shady characters as friends while he was free, and he has many more now.”

  “You think he could have taken a contract out on Roman?”

  “Sure. Why not.”

  “What would be his motive?”

  “Revenge. What
else. Isn’t that the usual motive?”

  Nikolai wanted to say that revenge was far from a usual motive. With the notable exception of so-called crimes of passion, most murders were committed for money or for opportunities to make money, and killing Roman would provide Nikita with neither. And did Nikita hate Roman that much? Enough to risk a life sentence? Nikolai highly doubted it and wondered whether Leonid was being naive or disingenuous. Leonid did not seem like a naive man.

  “He wants revenge that much?” Nikolai said.

  Leonid shrugged. “Why not? He’s a psychopath and he’s furious with Roman, so anything is possible.”

  “What about Filip Samoilov, their third partner?”

  “What about him?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Lately, not much. Last thing I recall is that he was managing The Magic Carpet, a chain of home decor stores that belonged to Roman. They were turning great profit, from what Grisha used to tell me, and then the auditors came. Long story short, Filip got sentenced to six years for embezzlement or some such thing.” Leonid chuckled. “That’s business in Russia for you.”

  “Do you know where he is now?” Nikolai asked.

  Leonid shrugged. “In a penal colony in Siberia, where else?”

  “What’s his relationship with Roman?”

  “Tense, I would guess. There’s no way the two like each other. Filip also probably wants him dead.”

  Nikolai reached into his briefcase and pulled out a file. He leafed through it until he got to the right page and showed it to Leonid. “Is this the man we’re talking about?”

  “That’s him, yes.”

  “Are you aware that he’s currently employed as Roman’s property manager?”

  Leonid leaned in closer. “May I?” He took the printed page with Filip Samoilov’s picture and biography from Nikolai and studied it for a long moment. “Same guy, no doubt.” He handed the page back to Nikolai. “Unbelievable. No more Siberia, huh? The wealthy sure know how to get their way.” He paused for a moment. “That only confirms my theory.”

  “Which theory?”

  “Filip has lots of animosity towards Roman, so he may have ordered the hit on him as well. That’s all I can say.” Leonid shook his head, as if indicating that he had nothing more to discuss with Nikolai.

  “Thank you, Leonid,” Nikolai said. “I appreciate your insights. How are you holding up? And how’s Karina?”

  “As well as could be expected, both of us. We’re ready to fight this till the end. Anything to have Grisha’s killer caught and put behind bars.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As he drove away from Leonid’s apartment, Nikolai kept thinking back to his conversation with Leonid. Even considering that Leonid was distraught after Grisha’s murder, something in his behavior felt odd. It seemed that he was more interested in pinning somebody for the crime instead of ensuring that justice was done. But perhaps, it was common with crime victims and their families. Their suffering was always great, and they longed for closure, often erroneously believing that putting somebody behind bars would alleviate their pain. Sometimes, it did. In most cases, it did not. Both Leonid and Karina had a long road ahead of them.

  Nikolai maneuvered into a parking space and got out of the car. He had one more meeting in the city, and that one had nothing to do with work. He was going to see Olga before he headed back to Roman’s estate. He missed her, and he wanted her to know that this time, things would be different. He would be different. Their separation made him very aware of what he could lose if Olga left him.

  He glanced at his watch. It was ten-thirty-five in the morning. Nikolai was early.

  He turned the corner and entered a small park, one of many small nature refuges in the busy city. The Patriarch Ponds, a small sign proclaimed, a reminder that back in the seventeenth century, three small ponds were created to farm expensive and rare fish for one of Russia’s Patriarchs who decided to make this area his residence. Over time, the power of the Patriarch waned, and the ponds with their fish disappeared. The area became all swamp and mosquitoes and stayed that way until early nineteenth century when a new ruler decided to fill two of the swamps and turn the third one into a decorative pond and a park around it.

  Nikolai passed by a small wooden pavilion. It was empty, like it always was in the summer. In the winter, it was open for the ice-skaters to change before going onto the ice. In his Soviet childhood, Nikolai spent many winter evenings here, ice-skating with his buddies under the brightly-lit trees and only minutes away from the apartment where he used to live with his parents. After he met Olga, they used to come here in all seasons: ice-skating in the winter, watching the snow and ice melt off the pond in the spring, eating ice-cream at the small corner parlor in the summer, and enjoying the brightly colored leaves in the fall. This tiny park was a small oasis in the city: quiet, peaceful, and old-fashioned. Sometimes, Nikolai longed for those days, simpler times, and their young love. Today, he wanted to accept the present. They were both young, and much of their life together was still ahead of them. Especially if I stop behaving like an idiot, Nikolai thought.

  He sat down on a wooden bench. This warm sunny summer morning, the park was occupied by the young and the old. Children too young for school were playing in a small area under the shade of tall poplars. For a few moments, he watched little kids giggle as they ran from the slide to the swings, their parents looking on. He wondered what it would feel like to be a parent.

  Retired folk, mostly men, were gathered around a bench nearby, some standing, some sitting, all looking intently down at the bench. Nikolai did not have to see the object of their attention. From their concentrated expressions and snippets of conversation, he knew that a chess match was in progress. The scene was as familiar to him as the park itself. As far back as he could remember, retired men always gathered around park benches in warm weather to play chess.

  His thoughts turned to the investigation. The more he talked to people, the more confusing the situation seemed. Roman was a wealthy and powerful businessman, and that meant that his enemies were wealthy and powerful as well. Such people and their hired enforcers made no mistakes or false moves; their kidnapping attempts were successful, and they did not hit wrong targets. Of course, even the best hitmen could err, but it was rare. This case was turning into an Agatha Christie novel, with everyone around Roman seemingly having means, motive, and opportunity to kill him. Pyotr’s murder complicated things even more. Nikolai believed that his murder was not a coincidence, but so far, he had no proof, just theories.

  Something made Nikolai turn, and suddenly there she was, standing in the shadow of a tall poplar tree, watching him. The sun’s reflection off the water cast a soft glow on her face, making her look younger. Olga brushed an errand strand of long dark hair from her face and waved.

  Nikolai smiled as he walked to her.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Olga.” He leaned in, put his arm around Olga and kissed her on the cheek, watching for her reaction. Was he being too presumptive?

  But she just smiled and said, “I don’t mind coming here. I like the Patriarch Ponds, and I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too. Very much.”

  He took Olga by the hand, and they stood there for a long moment, just looking at each other. She was even more beautiful that the last time he saw her.

  “Shall we go?” Nikolai said.

  Hand in hand, they walked to the Behemoth Cat Coffeehouse on the corner, named after the demonic shape-shifting cat character in Master and Margarita, Olga’s favorite novel by Mikhail Bulgakov. The cat’s most memorable appearance in the novel was in the opening scene where a casual conversation with a stranger started a sequence of dramatic events. The opening scene took place right here, at the Patriarch Ponds.

  The interior of the coffeehouse was rustic chic, with its plain white-brick walls decorated with hand-painted pictures of the famous black cat next to guitars, samovars, and various ornamental arrangem
ents of twigs and small branches. The menu displayed at the entrance was written in white chalk on a blackboard, with a large drawing of the cat. The decor and the literary focus were definitely aimed at tourists but the food was good. Nikolai had been here before, and he knew that the menu was varied and elegant, with many choices for breakfast and lunch.

  The young hostess in a black skirt and white blouse showed Nikolai and Olga to a table in the corner and handed them the menus. Nikolai helped Olga into her chair and sat across from her. In the soft light of the restaurant, Olga’s eyes looked especially bright and sparkling.

  “My treat,” Nikolai said. “The least I can do after acting like a dummy.”

  “Thanks,” Olga said. “My treat next time then. And I’ll choose a place.”

  “Next time sounds wonderful,” Nikolai said. He picked up the drinks menu and glanced at it. “Maybe, black currant tea to start with?”

  “We could share a large teapot,” Olga said.

  Nikolai called the waiter, a slender man who looked to be in his early thirties, and placed their tea order. The waiter came back minutes later carrying a silver tray with a glass teapot, two porcelain cups on saucers, and a bowl with fresh black currants. The waiter set the tray on the table and left. Nikolai poured two cups and placed one in front of Olga.

  “Just like the old days,” Nikolai said and immediately regretted it. He didn’t want to sound too sentimental or make Olga feel that he was moving too fast.

  Olga took a sip of her tea and put down the cup. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Not like the old days. In the old days -- and I mean the really old days -- when we were both in school, this would never happen. Don’t you remember what life was like? The only place to have good tea would be in our moms’ kitchens, not in a nice cafe. Nice cafes were either non-existent or completely unaffordable.” She paused, probably waiting for Nikolai to object.