“You know why we are here?” Rostnikov asked gently.
“You have found the killer,” she said. “Come in. Would you like some tea, coffee? I don’t have too much to eat or drink at the moment. I’ve had little time to shop.”
“I’ve already had tea,” said Rostnikov.
“Thank you, no,” said Karpo.
Raisa moved to sit heavily on her small bed.
“It is not the man I described, is it,” she said. “Not the man in the coat.”
“No,” said Rostnikov.
He and Karpo stood before her. She looked up at them, nodding in understanding.
“May I sit?” asked Rostnikov.
She pointed to one of the wooden chairs. Rostnikov sat with some difficulty, holding onto the table to keep from toppling backward. Karpo continued to stand.
“You were on the cleanup crew at the Leningradskaya Hotel last night,” said Rostnikov, looking at Raisa, who showed only a distant blankness. “You work there regularly in addition to doing shifts at several hotels.”
“Yes,” she said.
“In fact, you were working the hotels on the nights when five Tatar and Chechin Mafia men were murdered,” said Rostnikov.
Raisa shrugged.
“We have the records and a newspaper photograph of you carrying your dead son who was killed in a gun battle between the two gangs.”
“I should have protected him with my body,” she said, shaking her head. “I keep seeing it, feeling myself trying to think.”
“There was no man in a coat,” said Rostnikov, “was there?”
Raisa shrugged again and looked up at Karpo. There was no sympathy, no condemnation in the pale face of the policeman.
“No,” she said.
“Would you like to tell us what happened, or shall we keep fishing?” asked Rostnikov. “I fish fairly well, but it helps if the fish cooperates. It is less painful for the fish and the final results are the same.”
Raisa Munyakinova began rocking forward and back, looking at the floor as she spoke.
“I made up the man in the coat and told the night manager of the health club that he was there, and later that he had left. The night manager seems to believe that he saw this man. You want to know why he believes?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“Because I am nobody,” she said. “My son was a nobody. I am a drudge, a woman with no face who cleans men’s hair from toilet seats and mops up vomit and sprays showers that smell of alcohol. They don’t look at me. They don’t see me. I’m sure the monsters who murdered my little boy forgot about him in minutes, if they ever thought about him at all.”
“Why did you take the body of Valentin Lashkovich to the river and how did you do it?” asked Karpo.
“I knew someday it was possible that a smart policeman would figure out as you have that I was working in each hotel on the night of the executions,” she said. “I wanted to make it look as if he had been killed and dumped in the river, killed somewhere other than the hotel. I’m very strong. The death of my baby made me even stronger. I shot him and he staggered through the door and into the pool. There he died. I pulled his body out of the water and put it in a garbage can, covered it with garbage and a few torn towels, and put the can on a two-wheel lift I knew was in the cleaning supply room. There is an old man named Nikolai at the back door near the loading dock. I am as invisible to him as I am to everyone else. He asked me nothing, even opened the door for me. I told him I was taking the garbage out. I sometimes do that. So did the other women. I hurried, but I did not run. I saw few people on the streets. I dumped the body and the garbage in the river and hurried back. Nikolai didn’t even notice that I had been gone far longer than was needed to dump garbage.”
“The gun?” asked Rostnikov.
Raisa kept rocking.
“The gun,” Rostnikov repeated gently.
“I bought it from a neighbor’s husband,” she said. “I know I paid far too much for it. I didn’t care. He showed me how to use it. He’s a cab driver. He has more guns.”
“Do you know where it is now?”
“I threw it in the gutter on the way home last night.”
“Then you decided you were through killing?” asked Rostnikov.
“I decided I needed a new gun,” she said. “If I go to jail for a hundred years, I will live, and when I get out, I’ll kill every man who was on the street the day my only child was killed. He played the violin. Did you know that?”
“No,” said Rostnikov.
“A little boy who played the violin beautifully,” she said, looking at the impassive Karpo. “Little boys who play the violin should grow up to play in orchestras, concert halls. They should not be shot in the head by monsters who do not even care what they have done. Do they hear music, these monsters?”
“No,” said Karpo.
“No,” repeated the woman. “And now?”
“Now,” said Rostnikov with a sigh as he stood awkwardly. “You come with us to Petrovka. There is a place where you can sleep tonight. Tomorrow, we shall see. Take some things with you.”
Raisa stood up, nodding dumbly. She was standing in front of Emil Karpo, looking into his eyes.
“I did what had to be done,” she said. “You understand?”
“Yes,” said Emil Karpo. “I understand.”
Chapter Twelve
IOSEF STOOD IN DIRECTOR YAKLOVEV’S outer office. Seated to Iosef’s right were the soccer coach Oleg Kisolev, Yevgeny Pleshkov, and Yulia Yalutshkin, who sat erect and quite beautifully calm, smoking an American cigarette. Pleshkov, now quite sober, once again the politician, looked at his watch. There were only three chairs in the outer office where Iosef waited with his prisoners. Even had there been another, Iosef would not have sat. He was on the brink of his first real success as an investigator. The suspects were before him. The evidence was inescapable, and though he had no great fondness for the Yak, he did respect his ability, intellect, and ruthlessness. Yaklovev would follow through.
“I have a committee meeting at the Kremlin in one hour,” Pleshkov said to Pankov, who sat behind his desk trying not to look at Yulia Yalutshkin, or, at least, not let anyone know he was looking at her. “And I have an important speech to prepare. One that will have great consequences for our country.”
“The director will see you shortly,” Pankov said with what was intended as an ingratiating, apologetic smile.
Oleg Kisolev was neither a politician nor a prostitute. He was very bad at hiding his emotions. Now he sat slightly slumped, his tongue running over his lower lip, glancing frequently at the forbidding door of the director of the Office of Special Investigation.
After ten minutes, the Yak opened his door and stood looking at the three people seated against the wall across from him.
“Vighdyeetyee, come in,” the Yak said.
The three rose from their chairs, with Pleshkov leading the way and Yulia and Oleg behind him. Iosef started in after them, but Yaklovev held up a hand.
“Wait here, Inspector Rostnikov. I will call you in later. Pankov, no visitors, no calls unless there is a real emergency.”
“Yes, Com … Director Yaklovev.”
Pankov still had no idea what he would do to determine if something was an emergency. If he believed in a god, Pankov would pray. All he could do was hope.
Yaklovev entered his office and closed the door.
Iosef looked at his watch. He had been running madly through the night, gathering information, evidence, listening to Paulinin ramble at two in the morning. Iosef wanted to be with Elena. He had not seen her since the dog had attacked her. By the time he had arrived at the doctor’s office and rooms, Elena had already left for home. He had no time to go see her, but the fact that she could go home was a good sign. She might be wondering where he was and what was so important, if he really loved her, as he claimed, that he could not get away for a few minutes to see her. No, that was not Elena’s way. Many others Iosef had known would ha
ve been hurt by his absence, pouted, complained. Not Elena. At least he did not think so.
There was nothing to be done at the moment. Iosef did what his father did. He took out a paperback, a German translation of three plays by Tom Stoppard. Iosef shared his father’s passion for reading but not American mysteries. Iosef’s favorites were plays, particularly those by Gogol, all of which he had read many times. Reading now would not be easy. How was Elena? What was going on in the Yak’s office?
There was no point in talking to Pankov, who had returned to the paperwork on his desk. Pankov was sweating, though it was not particularly warm in the outer office.
Iosef sat in the chair where Yulia Yalutshkin had sat. He could smell a faint scent of perfume. Iosef opened his book and tried to read Jumpers.
Inside the office Yaklovev directed his guests to sit in the chairs he had placed in front of his desk. When they sat, Yaklovev went behind his desk and stood with one hand on the neat, five-inch pile of yellow folders held down by a lead paperweight with the likeness of Ivan the Terrible looking up at him. Beside the files was a small battery-operated tape recorder, which the Yak made no effort to hide. He handed the pile of files to Yevgeny Pleshkov and sat behind his desk, hands folded on top of it.
Yulia reached for a cigarette and said, “Nyeht lyee oo vahss speechyehk, have you a light please?”
The Yak said, “Smoking is not permitted in my office.”
Yulia shrugged and lit the cigarette herself. Pleshkov looked up to watch how Yaklovev would deal with this typical Yulia Yalutshkin behavior. The outcome might well affect Yevgeny’s own method of dealing with the duplicate Lenin behind the desk.
“Miss Yalutshkin,” the Yak said calmly, hands still folded before him. “If you do not stop, I will have Inspector Rostnikov take you to an uncomfortable and possibly very dirty cell. All that you have with you will be confiscated and two policewomen will check you and all of your body cavities for weapons. I understand that they are not gentle. Is your defiance worth the outcome?”
Yulia looked at her cigarette, shrugged, and looked around for an ashtray. “
“Not in my office,” said the Yak. “Take it out to Pankov and get back here immediately, please.”
Yulia stood, glaring at Yaklovev.
“Now,” said the Yak. “I have much to do and I am growing impatient. I do not wish to waste our time on childish behavior.”
“Damn you,” said Yulia, striding to the door and exiting.
Yevgeny began examining the files—the photos, letters, reports on the body of the German, the evidence of what Yevgeny and the others had done. It was not just his career that was in jeopardy. It was his very freedom.
Yulia came back in, making a show of closing the door slowly.
Oleg wanted no quarrel with the man behind the desk, but he dearly wished he had something to occupy him or pretend was occupying him while he waited what would surely be his turn.
Yulia sat, and as Yevgeny finished each file he handed it to her.
The room was silent except for Oleg shifting in his chair and paper being slowly shuffled. After five minutes, Yevgeny and Yulia returned the files to the Yak, who again piled them neatly with the Ivan the Terrible paperweight on top of them.
“We have the physical evidence downstairs,” said the Yak. “The wooden stake, the body with its crushed skull and the wound to the neck, and, as the report you just read clearly indicates, much, much more.”
“You have your supposed evidence,” said Yevgeny Pleshkov. “What do you want of us?”
“Perhaps to save you,” said the Yak. “If you cooperate. First, I want a statement from each of you about what actually happened. Now, if you refuse, I will be forced to proceed with legal action, which the press will certainly hear of. Yevgeny Pleshkov first. The truth.”
“You said you may be able to save us,” said Pleshkov.
“The truth, now. We will see what can be done,” said the Yak, hands still folded before him. “You have examined the evidence report. You have little choice.”
Yaklovev turned on the tape recorder and nodded at Pleshkov, who looked at Yulia and Oleg and began to speak. Pleshkov’s statement was the longest. The others reluctantly confirmed and added some of the details that Yevgeny, in his alcoholic daze, had forgotten. The box with the photos and tapes, the fight with Jurgen, the attempt to destroy the evidence were all laid out with excuses from all three presenting the statement. The German attacked first and would have killed Pleshkov, who was only defending himself. They had burned the body in panic, to preserve Yevgeny’s reputation.
“I was drunk, in the apartment of a …” Pleshkov began.
“Prostitute,” Yulia supplied.
“Yes,” said Pleshkov. “I had just killed a man who had attacked me. I would be destroyed.”
When they were finished speaking, the trio waited for Yaklovev to probe, ask questions. Instead, he turned off the tape recorder. Yaklovev took out the tape and replaced it with a fresh one. The taped confession went into the desk drawer. The Yak spoke slowly, not turning on the tape recorder.
“Your story does not explain the evidence. I believe that evidence clearly shows that the following took place: Oleg Kisolev and Yevgeny Pleshkov went to the Yulia Yalutshkin apartment where the German and Yulia Yalutshkin were waiting. There was an argument. I don’t know what it was about. The German, Jurgen, said he wanted to talk to Oleg. Yevgeny Pleshkov was drunk. Oleg asked Yulia to help Yevgeny to the elevator. She did. When they were gone, the German threatened to expose the fact that Oleg Kisolev is a homosexual.”
Neither Yulia nor Pleshkov showed any sign of surprise at the Yak’s revelation, and Oleg was now sure that they had known before. Yevgeny had hinted at his knowledge of his friend’s sexuality in the past, but Yulia clearly knew. For how long? Had Yevgeny told her?
“Exposure of your homosexuality,” said the Yak, looking at Oleg, “would end your career. You refused to give in to the German’s threat of such exposure. He attacked you. You fought. There was a box. You struck him in the head with it. It broke. You found yourself holding a small, sharp piece of the shattered box. The German attacked again. You struggled. Somehow the pointed end of the piece of wood went deeply into the Germans neck.
“You ran to the elevator. Yulia stood there impatiently. Yevgeny Pleshkov was in a stupor. You told Yulia to take him to a hotel. Neither Yulia nor Yevgeny learned about the death of the German till the next day. When Yulia and Yevgeny were going down in the elevator, you returned to the apartment where, to protect Yulia, you took the German’s body to the roof and you burned it. You did not murder the German. His death was an unfortunate accident. Your motives in burning the body were honorable. Now, I will turn on the tape recorder and you will—of course providing it is true—tell this version of what happened. If you would like to discuss this with each other before I turn on the tape recorder …”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Yevgeny Pleshkov. “Will it, Oleg?”
“No, Yevgeny,” said Kisolev softly, his head down. “It will not be necessary.”
“Good,” said Yaklovev. “Then we will begin.”
The Yak turned on the tape recorder and nodded at Oleg, who began speaking very softly in a monotone. The tape recorder was a very good one. It picked up every word of Oleg’s confession and Yulia and Yevgeny’s confirmation, which established their innocence in the death of the German. The entire relation of this version of what had happened took about the same time as the version that was on tape in the Yak’s drawer.
When the three had finished, the Yak again asked no questions. He turned off the tape.
“What I require now,” said the Yak, “is a complete list of Yulia Yalutshkin’s clients. One of them might be able to confirm the German’s violent tendencies.”
“No,” said Yulia.
“Yes,” said Yevgeny emphatically. “You will provide the list. Don’t you see what the possible consequences of refusal might be?”
> “Yes,” Yulia said, glaring at the Yak, who sat calmly looking at Pleshkov.
“Then,” said Yaklovev, “I can see no reason to hold any of you. Yulia Yalutshkin, you can go into the outer office where Pankov, my assistant, will provide you with a pen and paper to write the list of your clients. If the list is not complete, I shall have to review your version of events very carefully.”
“It will be complete,” said Yevgeny Pleshkov.
“In that case, Yulia Yalutshkin, you may go in the outer office and begin making the list. You may smoke there if you wish. Oleg Kisolev, you may leave. On your way out, tell Inspector Rostnikov that I would like to see him.”
Oleg Kisolev rose, clearly dazed by what had happened. He looked at Yulia, who led him to the office door and opened it. A few seconds later, Iosef entered the Yak’s office, closing the door behind him. Iosef approached the Yak’s desk, looking at Yevgeny Pleshkov, hiding his curiosity.
“Take this, Inspector Rostnikov,” the Yak said, handing him the second version of what had taken place. “Give it to Pankov. Tell him to transcribe it and give a copy to you, to me, and to Chief Inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.”
Iosef looked at Yevgeny Pleshkov, who appeared to be his well-known, often-seen old self, confident, alert, with what might be a knowing smile.
Iosef took the tape, waited for more information or some questions. There was no more. He left the office, again closing the door behind him.
There was silence in the Yak’s office for several minutes.
“It seems that I owe you a great deal,” said Pleshkov.
“Yes,” said the Yak. “I would say that you do.”
Maya was packing when Porfiry Petrovich arrived. Pulcharia was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to get through a book about bears. The child had looked up when Rostnikov entered the small apartment. She squinted, smiled, and went back to her book. She would, he knew, soon need glasses, which was odd since neither of her parents nor her grandmother wore them.
The baby appeared to be sleeping.
Maya closed the door behind Rostnikov. She was wearing a very plain amber dress and her hair needed brushing.
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