by Dianne Emley
Davidovsky sniffed and pressed his lips together. “You said you hadn’t heard from Fillinger for five years. Why did you come all the way to Moscow to see this man after such a long time?”
“He’d seen an interview with me in the Wall Street Journal and found out I’m an investment counselor. He needed investment capital to start a chain of art galleries in Moscow. I know people looking for places to invest their money. He contacted me. It happens every day.”
“People don’t travel so far for such a thing.”
“Some people do.”
“Tell me again about this big art deal and Enrico Lazare.”
Iris pounded her knee with her clenched fist. “Why do you keep asking me these same questions over and over? The Russian Mafia wanted protection money from Todd. Why don't you go after them? Or can’t you? I heard the Moscow police are in their back pocket." She immediately regretted the comment. It was tough talk coming from a woman wearing a sexy cocktail dress who had no money, identification, or even a coat to cover her bare arms, having left everything in the hotel bar when she ran out to investigate the shooting.
Davidovsky looked at her evenly, his eyes hooded. "Miss Thorne, I had not heard of Todd Fillinger before today and I resent your suggestion. If Fillinger was afraid of the Mafia, he was running with the wrong crowd. You say he was the middleman in some art deals. In Russia it can be dangerous to be a middleman."
Iris abruptly stood in a show of bravado. “I’ve had enough. I’m an American citizen. You can’t hold me like this for no reason. I demand that you call the American Embassy. I’m hungry, I’m cold, and I need to use the restroom.”
Davidovsky gave Iris a long, steady look, his face expressionless as if he were trying to decide if she was lying, or telling the truth but holding something back. Or maybe he was just trying to make her uncomfortable.
So much had happened so quickly, Iris hadn’t had time to feel scared. It now occurred to her that the situation was grave. She met Davidovsky’s stare, engaging him in his game of chicken. Suddenly she felt shaky, light-headed, and sick to her stomach. Part of it was caused by lack of food. Still meeting the detective’s eyes behind his drooping lids, she shivered and rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms. She thought of Garland. Since she’d arrived at the police station, she hadn’t felt like crying until then. The tears welled up and she swallowed hard to keep them down. She managed it, but not, she realized, before Davidovsky had seen her distress. She looked at the dingy, buckled linoleum floor, regained her composure, and faced Davidovsky again. “I demand to speak to the American Embassy.”
Davidovsky, still keeping an eye on her, spoke to Dmitri in Russian. They shot unnerving glances at her as they spoke.
“Miss Thorne,” Davidovsky leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his belly. “Please sit down. The more cooperative you are in answering our questions, the sooner you can leave.”
Iris dropped back into the chair, tugging on the hem of her dress.
There was a quick knock on the door and then it opened. A diminutive man wearing a well-cut navy blue suit and a tidy fringe of hair around his shiny, bald pate entered the room. He had a neat, narrow face with sharply angled features, like a fox. He nodded without speaking to Davidovsky, who nodded back a bit stiffly. He didn’t seem happy to see the visitor.
After a small bow to Iris, the man walked across the room, pulled a wooden chair away from the wall, sat, and casually crossed his legs. Iris noticed that the starched cuff of his white shirt bore a monogram stitched in navy blue. He was wearing a large gold identification bracelet on his left wrist and an expensive-looking gold watch on his right.
Davidovsky began speaking to the visitor at length, apparently updating him on what had transpired so far. The man alternately knitted then raised his eyebrows as he listened, occasionally looking at Iris with a pleasant expression that revealed little. His finely detailed lips had a natural lift at the edges, as did his eyebrows, making him appear as if he was smiling even in repose.
While Davidovsky was talking, the man pulled a gold cigarette case and a gold lighter from his jacket pocket. He clicked open the case and held it toward Iris who shook her head, then took a cigarette and lit it.
The detective grimaced as he spoke, as if he were delivering bad news. He lifted his hands with resignation. It was clear to Iris that he was being deferential to the other man.
The man patiently and attentively listened until Davidovsky had finished, after which he directed a few questions in Russian to the detective who passed them on to Iris.
"This big art deal that your friend Fillinger talked to you about, this art was owned by someone in Moscow?"
“I don’t know.”
“Fillinger must have spoken to you of the Club Ukrainiya."
"No."
Davidovsky made a comment to the small man who said something back.
"But he told you of Nikolai Kosyakov?" Davidovsky asked Iris.
“No."
Davidovsky looked at the man, apparently seeking guidance.
Iris volunteered, "You should find Todd’s partner, Enrico Lazare. He could tell you about the art deal."
The man eyed Iris skeptically and in a way that made her uncomfortable, in spite of his apparent cheerfulness. She tugged on the hem of her dress again then tightly crossed her arms over her chest, hunching against the chill in the room.
He rose to tap ash into the overflowing glass ashtray on the desk. He slowly sat back down, looked at Iris with green-black eyes, then surprised her when he said in perfect and careful English, "I find that hard to believe, Miss Thorne."
"Well, believe it. Believe everything I’ve told you. I have nothing to hide. Now it’s time for you to take me back to my hotel." She rose and took a step toward the door.
Dmitri quickly moved from the filing cabinet to block her exit.
Iris didn’t sit back down, but stood in the center of the room. She put her hands on her hips.
The fox-faced man openly studied Iris’s legs. “You and Todd Fillinger were lovers.”
Iris boldly leaned toward him. "We were friends. Furthermore, I don't see what my relationship with Todd has to do with anything."
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope from which he took several sheets of folded stationery and what appeared to be a photograph. From another pocket he produced a pair of wire-rimmed half-glasses which he placed on his nose. As he scanned the pages, the edges of his lips curled even more. “Paris. No finer place to fall in love. Wouldn’t you agree?”
In horror, Iris realized he was reading the letter Todd had sent her. She took a step toward him. "That’s my letter! It was in my hotel room."
Ignoring her, he got up and handed the letter to Davidovsky.
Davidovsky smiled as he looked at the photograph of Iris and Todd in front of Le Café des Quatre Vents. “You were lovers after all."
"Yes, and so what?"
The small man again sat and fastidiously crossed his legs. Her rancor seemed to amuse him. He drew on his cigarette and waved it in Iris’s direction. “Miss Thorne, you would be more comfortable sitting down, wouldn’t you agree?”
Scowling, Iris returned to the hard chair.
Davidovsky’s questions became more pointed. “Why are you in Moscow, Miss Thorne? You expect us to believe you came all this way to investigate investing in art galleries with a man you say you haven’t had any contact with for five years?"
“Yes, I do.”
The door suddenly opened and a tall, slender man with a long face and lank blond hair came in. He didn’t wait to be acknowledged. "I'm Dean Palmer, consular officer with the U.S. Embassy."
Iris tipped her head back on her shoulders and murmured, “Thank God.”
“You took Ms. Thorne into custody three hours ago. I’m sure she's told you everything she knows about Todd Fillinger's murder."
“Actually, we were just starting to make progress," Davidovsky said.
&nbs
p; "Witnesses saw two men on motorcycles shoot at Fillinger with automatic weapons then flee the scene,” Palmer said. “This looks like an ordinary, mob-style hit. I know for a fact that Mr. Fillinger was having a dispute with the local mob and that they had threatened his life. Obviously, Ms. Thorne had nothing to do with the crime. Ms. Thorne is an American citizen. Under the authority of the U.S. Ambassador, I'm escorting her to her hotel."
Davidovsky stood behind his desk. He was a broad man. "Mr. Palmer, I don't care who you are. My interrogation of Miss Thorne is not complete."
The balding man walked over to Davidovsky, spoke quietly into his ear, and handed him a U.S. passport. Iris exchanged a bewildered look with Palmer.
Davidovsky held up the passport. "Until we complete our investigation, I must request that Miss Thorne remain in Moscow. We will retain her passport to ensure that she does."
Iris gaped at him while Palmer voiced his outrage. “You can't do that. You have no authority."
Davidovsky opened the top drawer of his desk and tossed the passport inside. "We will be in touch."
Iris glared at the balding man. He met her eyes. He looked pleased.
Palmer took Iris’s arm and pulled her into a corridor full of crime victims standing in long lines. At too few desks at the front, sunken-cheeked Militsiya officers were making out reports in longhand on green forms.
Outside the aging police station, Palmer told Iris, “Let’s go one street over. We’ll have a better chance of getting a cab there. We’ll probably end up walking to your hotel. Cabs aren’t usually out this late. The drivers are afraid of being robbed.”
They walked through the quiet streets which were wet from rain. Iris was surprised that a city which seemed defined by noise and activity during the day had transformed into something so silent at night.
Palmer shook his head. “I can’t believe they confiscated your passport.”
“You’ve never seen that happen before?” Iris rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Her teeth were chattering.
“No.” He took off his sports jacket and handed it to her. “I’ll talk it over with the Ambassador first thing tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “It is tomorrow.”
Iris gratefully slipped her arms into the jacket. “Thanks. Who was that bald man?"
Palmer nervously rubbed his hands together as they walked. "I don't know."
"He asked me about Nikolai Kosyakov and the Club Ukrainiya.”
He stopped walking and frowned at her. “He did?”
“Who’s Kosyakov?”
He began walking again. "Kosyakov is said to be the richest man in Russia. He bought this run-down mansion and turned it into Moscow's first private club, the Club Ukrainiya. Everyone who’s anyone in the city belongs to it. All men, of course."
"Is Kosyakov Mafia-connected?"
"What Russian businessman who got rich overnight isn't?"
"Maybe he's the one Todd was afraid of.”
"Could be."
“Did you know Todd?” Iris stepped lightly in her strappy high heels. The uneven and broken asphalt, easily felt through the shoes’ thin soles, made her feet ache.
“A little. We frequented some of the same places. I'd heard that he’d stood up to the Mafia. They’re going to be this city’s downfall, if you ask me. Todd had guts. He’s a hero in my book.”
"Davidovsky and that bald guy were interested in this art deal Todd was into,” Iris said. “I wonder why. I wish I could talk to Todd’s business partner, Enrico Lazare. Do you know him?"
“I’ve heard of him, but never met him.” Palmer saw a taxi, a beat-up Lada, with its roof light illuminated. “Finally, a bit of luck.” He ran into the street, almost in the taxi’s path, and waved his arms. He directed the driver to the Metropolis Hotel.
“I don’t have any cash on me,” Iris apologized.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Now that she was safely on her way back to the hotel, she began to weep. “I’m sorry. I just—”
Palmer put his arm round her shoulders. “You don’t need to explain. You’ve held up remarkably well, considering everything that’s happened. You held your own under a three-hour interrogation by the Russian police.”
“Yeah, wearing nothing but a cocktail dress and do-me heels.”
They both laughed. He fished a handkerchief from the rear pocket of his gray slacks.
Iris dabbed her eyes with it. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t shown up.”
Palmer patted her arm. “Don’t mention it.”
The taxi pulled in front of the Metropolis Hotel. A uniformed doorman sleepily rose from where he had been sitting at a desk just inside the glass doors.
“So what now?” Iris asked Palmer.
“We need to get your passport back and get you on a plane to Los Angeles.”
“Do you think there will be any problems?”
“Well, there usually are. Let’s hope for the best.”
Iris shook Palmer’s hand and stepped from the cab. The taxi waited until she walked into the hotel, which she did quickly, cutting a wide circle around Todd Fillinger’s blood.
CHAPTER FOUR
Iris opened her eyes to darkness and felt disoriented. After a moment, she remembered where she was and, with a sick feeling, what had happened. Wooden shutters and heavy drapes across the windows prevented her from seeing whether it was day or night. The bedclothes were only slightly disturbed. She reached out her arm, which felt like lead, and turned the digital clock on the nightstand to see the face. It took her a moment to realize that it wasn’t 1:00 in the morning, shortly after she’d gone to bed, but 1:00 in the afternoon.
She stumbled to the windows, pulled the cord to open the drapes, and cranked open the rolling metal shutters until the windows were half revealed, letting in gray light from what appeared to be a dismal day. She staggered back to the bed, sat on the edge, held her head in her hands, and tried to rub away the dense feeling from her eyes. When she became more fully awake, she tried to blot out the memory of Todd lying on the hotel’s marble steps, covered with blood. It wouldn’t budge.
Hot tears sprang into her eyes and she sobbed, her shoulders heaving. She cried for Todd and for herself. The moment quickly passed, emotion overwhelmed by reality, in the face of which her tears seemed useless. All that was left was a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She toddled to the brilliantly white-tiled bathroom, turned the shiny silver spigots, splashed water on her face, then took the hotel’s luxurious robe from the hook behind the door and put it on.
She opened the doors of a tall armoire, revealing the square, black eye of a Japanese-made television. On top was the remote control. She clicked on the power, finding comfort in this universal technology. Mindlessly surfing the handful of channels, she clicked past an ordinary line-up of news, cartoons, and old movies. Then she was startled to see the familiar, overly made-up faces and big hair of Simply Maria, a Mexican soap opera she’d watched at home. There, her limited Spanish had allowed her loosely to follow the plot, but here the dialogue had been dubbed into Russian.
She clicked the volume down but left the show on and perused the English-language section of the hotel guide. She was starving. As she suspected, breakfast was no longer being served. Even worse, the hotel did not offer room service.
She let out a long moan.
In the walk-in closet, she located her carry-on bag, which had been moved from where she’d originally stashed it. Everything had been slightly rearranged. The thought of the dapper balding man from the police station and his sausage-fingered henchmen sifting through her belongings gave her the creeps. From a zippered pocket, she took the cheese-and-crackers airline snack she’d saved and hungrily gobbled it down. She found a plastic liter bottle that she’d filled with tap water before she’d left and savored the taste of home.
Still bleary-eyed, she sat on a brocade chair by the window and picked up the telephone from a round table near the chair.
She punched the number for an outside line, then the country code for the U.S., and finally the number for Garland’s office in New York. Thankfully, the call went through without a hitch. Garland’s secretary got him off the call he was on to speak with her.
“World traveler!” he exclaimed. “How are you?”
“Umm…”
His bright tone turned somber. “What’s wrong?”
She told him everything, with only a few tears.
“An old fraternity brother of mine has an influential position in the State Department. I’ll call him after we hang up, then I’ll get on the first flight over there. Are you going to be in your room for a while?”
“I don’t think I’ll leave my room. Although I may starve to death.” She rubbed her temples. A dull pain had started behind each eye. “Or die from caffeine withdrawal.”
“It would do you good to drink less coffee.”
“Garland, I love you, but this is not the time for me to begin a moderation program.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and winced. There was only one way to remedy a caffeine headache—simple painkillers had no effect—and there was no caffeine in the room. “Hey, have you heard of a Russian businessman named Nikolai Kosyakov? The police asked me whether Todd knew him and mentioned Kosyakov in connection with Todd’s art deal. Dean Palmer later told me that Kosyakov’s one of the richest men in Russia and probably Mafia-connected.”
“That name does sound familiar. Wait a sec…”
There was the sound of papers rustling. Iris envisioned Garland sitting at his large desk in his Manhattan office which overlooked the World Trade Center and the Brooklyn Bridge. He was probably wearing a starched shirt with a button-down collar, braces printed with a subdued pattern, and a silk tie, maybe one of the more fashionable ones she had bought him in an effort to have him dress less conservatively. She wanted to go home. This was the first time in her life that she wasn’t able to move freely. Tears welled in her throat as she listened to the crackle of her old life that was transmitted through the telephone line. She swallowed them back down. Garland was probably more upset over her circumstances than she was. Going to pieces wouldn’t do anyone any good.