He forked another large bite of the tender, sticky dish, clearing his plate.
She seemed to ponder the answer to his questions, and a shadow passed over her pretty, guileless face. “No, nothing.”
He took a long draw of coffee and let it wash away the illusory sweetness of having a woman make breakfast for him.
“All right.” He stood, smoothing his tie. “Well, if you do think of something I should know, have Dariya send me a text.” He slid his laptop into his briefcase.
“I did have an idea. What if I call his office, tell him who I am, threaten to expose him? Maybe we could lure him here, coax a confession out of him.”
“Here? Chert, I don’t want him anywhere near Dariya, or you, for that matter. And a confession like that isn’t worth anything. The victims of radiation poisoning need signed legal documents accepting culpability.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” She’d begun to push around bites of blini on her plate, as if her massive appetite had faltered. “That makes sense.”
“I know it’s tempting to jump out at him and yell boo. I’d kind of like the fucker to have to look you in the face too. But trust me—real justice requires we do this by the book.”
“I understand.”
“Katya.”
She looked up.
“We’ll get him. I promise.”
“How could we fail with you on the job?” She smiled that slightly opened-mouth smile of hers, and he had the sudden feeling there was something he wasn’t getting, like before, when she’d been a ghost and he’d refused to believe it. She glanced around the kitchen. “Hey, do you happen to have a toolkit around?”
The puzzling feeling dissolved. “Sure. In the top of my closet. Just the basics—hammer, screwdrivers, a couple wrenches. Why?”
“I noticed that shelf in the pantry is loose again. I suspected my last repair was a temporary fix, but I have an idea for one that will hold.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“No, I want to. I like keeping busy, and it’s not like I can go calling on the neighbors for tea anymore. I think I got it from my dad—we like to keep our hands busy.”
If that was true, it had to be the sole trait she’d inherited from the megalomaniac.
“All right then. Go crazy.” He hefted his bag up onto his shoulder. “Want some cash in case you need something from the hardware store?”
“Go out, you mean?” The ripple in her throat as she gulped reminded him distinctly of Dariya when he mentioned the prospect of going to school.
“Why do you prefer to stay inside, exactly?”
“What if I go ghost out there and blow away?”
“Blow away?” He set the bag down again. “Could that happen?”
“I don’t know. But sometimes it feels like it could—enough to keep me inside all this time.”
Without thinking, he extended his arm, wrapped it around her shoulder, and hugged her tightly. She relaxed into the embrace.
“You feel so real,” he whispered into her hair.
“Yeah.” She exhaled loudly, snuggling against him. “I highly recommend not taking it for granted. The alternative kind of sucks.”
He chuckled. “Then stay inside, safe from Lisko and gusts of wind. Send me a text if you need a certain kind of nail or something.”
She glanced down at her hands and began ticking things off. “I need new brackets, and something to patch the plaster, probably a putty knife too, unless you have one in your kit. I’ll leave the painting to you, okay?”
He found himself grinning down at her, the expression so recently unused that it felt stiff, his muscles reluctant. God, she was cute. What a loss to the world that this woman had died.
When she glanced up from her splayed fingers, she smiled back at him. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
“I never expected the daughter of Svetlana Dvoynev to be a wonder in the kitchen and a handy ma—woman.”
“Right.” Her smiled pulled tight. “Well, I never much cared to live up to people’s expectations about that stuff.” She crossed over to the sink and began running water over the griddle.
His palm tingled to reach for her again, to take gentle hold of her upper arm and draw her into him another time. But that was just foolish. She was dead. She didn’t need comfort about being the unfortunate child of asshole narcissists. She needed justice, and so did all the victims of Lisko Enterprises.
“Thanks for breakfast. I’m off to interrogate our cop.”
She turned her face to him cursorily, without making eye contact. “Thanks.”
Nik grabbed the black felt hat Dariya and Sofiya had given him when he’d taken the culture job, so he’d look more like Clark Kent. He’d surprised them when he’d begun to wear it in earnest. Sure, the vintage style was a little affected, but with a pair of dark glasses, it afforded him some helpful anonymity, and it looked good with his suits.
A quick metro ride later, he arrived at Volodomyra Street. Calling up to the detective’s desk, he recognized the grandmother-receptionist’s voice.
“Inspector Yuchenko, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Somebody he wants to talk to.”
“Mm-hm. They all think that.” But still, a click told him she’d put him on hold to transfer the call.
“Yuchenko,” a man said after another click.
“Any news on Saint Cyril Street?”
“Where are you?”
“Across from the station, leaning on the newspaper kiosk.”
“Be right down.”
When Yuchenko appeared, he said, “Nice fedora. Makes you look like you just walked out of a Hollywood gangster movie.”
“Nice shiner. Tips you over from pretty boy to tough guy.”
The younger man snorted and raised his hand to touch the purple ring around his left eye, shrugging one shoulder in an invitation to walk.
Nik’s investigative instincts never rested. “Did a perp take a slug at you?”
Yuchenko paused at a coffee stand—no, make that a raw, organic juices stand—and held up his index finger for the proprietor. Apparently, he was a regular.
He turned to Nik. “Want anything?” The woman behind the counter slid him a plastic cup of a frothy green liquid that looked like it might have been skimmed off the top of Baba Yaga’s cauldron.
“Eye of newt? No, thanks. I’m a black-coffee guy myself.” He turned a hopeful look to the juice maker. She shook her head.
“It’s wheat grass. Very healthy. Full of chlorophyll.”
“Isn’t that how kidnappers knock out their victims in Victorian mystery novels?” Nik asked to rib the kid, knowing perfectly well the difference between the green compound in plants and the sedative chloroform.
Yuchenko made a sour face like he’d heard Nik’s joke before and then took a swig. “No perp. My brother-in-law landed this punch. I told him something he didn’t want to hear.”
Nik whistled. “Nice guy.”
“Maybe not nice, but a good enough guy. I’m lucky he didn’t give me all he’s got or I’d be laid up with a concussion. He’s got a championship right hook.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That he and his meaty fists couldn’t fix a problem, and he needed to let me help him with it.”
“I can see why he decided to prove the efficacy of said fists.”
“Yeah.” He squeezed the swollen, puffy eye shut. “I might have been more tactful.” He took a swig and wiped a bit of the vivid green juice off his upper lip. “No news on your murder so far, but I’m definitely tapping my fingertips on the cone of silence. Something happened. I’ll just need some more time to figure it out. Stay tuned?”
“What choice do I have?” Nik shook the inspector’s hand, then turned and marched away. Usually, he had the patience of a Siberian tiger stalking its prey, could lie in wait, watch until the right moment, and then strike. B
ut having Katya and her blini around was turning him restive. How long would he share his kitchen with the complicated little ghost. How long would he share his blood?
He pictured her standing where he’d left her at the kitchen counter. One thing was certain. She needed something to wear other than his castoff clothes. As he hoofed it to his office, he scanned the storefronts for a place to do some shopping.
Chapter 12
Katya took Nikolai’s leaving as a chance to retrieve two sets of his clothing from Mr. Kulish’s apartment. Then she finished the breakfast dishes and attacked the broken shelf with a portion of her mara’s fury. She must have woken Dariya with her demolition work.
The girl shuffled into the kitchen, her spiky pink hair looking nearly the same upon waking as it did when she spent hours styling it. “What are you doing here? Wait, scratch that. Why are you smashing up the pantry?”
“Repairs. Want breakfast?”
“Do you have to ask?”
Chuckling, Katya took the pancake batter from the fridge and cooked up a second round of blini. As she ate, Katya told Dariya more about her coursework, the pleasure of holing up every day to learn, her studies taking her outside of her bedroom to every corner of Ukraine and every era in its history. The day she’d been handed her degree on a stage at her graduation, the certificate had felt like the first thing that had ever really belonged to her. She’d begun applying for jobs so she could afford to move out against her parent’s wishes, had even lined up a few interviews when she’d been kidnapped.
After Dariya finished eating, Katya recruited her into another round of chores—tidying up the piles of Nikolai’s newspapers and what might have been relevant paperwork. Then they moved to the girl’s room.
Dariya opened the door and a stack of shoes collapsed into the hallway.
“Oh, wow.” Katya clambered away from the small avalanche.
The small space was a case study in hoarding.
Dariya pulled on a pink lock, wearing a pained smile. “I know. It’s a disaster zone.”
Katya scanned the stacks of American comic books—she’d expected those. But the piles of professional clothing and dress shoes spilling from packing boxes completely clashed with Dariya’s style. “What is all this stuff?”
She knew the answer as soon as she’d spoken the question, and Dariya confirmed it.
“My mom’s. I just… It helps me to have it around.”
Oh dear. No wonder she didn’t want to leave the house. Katya fingered several tangled strands of beads. “I have an idea. What if you pick a few of your most favorite things to keep out? Then we can pack everything else in the boxes. They can stay right here, safe and sound, but you’ll actually be able to walk around the room.”
Dariya nibbled on her lip. “Yeah, okay.”
As they worked, they talked about their favorite Russian soap operas, lesser bands than Femme Fatale, and an occasional personal story. Slowly, something shifted, and by the early afternoon, Dariya began describing the garments and items she touched, weaving little stories about her mother.
When the icy chill of impending ghosthood crept up on Katya, she desperately wanted to ignore it so she could keep listening. But soon, the ache in her fingers and toes became too demanding. Still, she waited until Dariya seemed to have talked herself into a moment of silence. “Hey, we’ve been at this a long time. Let’s take a break. Maybe watch some Adyutanti Lyubvi?”
“Yes, please.” The girl’s shoulders sagged in relief. “I know it’s just clothes, but it feels like we’re moving bricks.”
The weight of grief—if only scientists could quantify it.
“You’ve done a good job.” Katya took a step toward Dariya. The cold snaked around her limbs, threatening to make her teeth chatter. She clenched them until they stilled, then spoke. “I’m sorry to say I can only stick around for a little while longer, okay?”
The freezing grip of death took hold of her quickly, and as soon as Dariya seemed settled and content on the couch, Katya dashed out the door. Like the flick of a switch, she went numb, the clothes dropping to the welcome mat.
Instantly, she ghosted back into the apartment to check that Dariya was okay, though she could hardly help if the girl wasn’t. Fortunately, she seemed to be fine.
Katya considered hanging out, but watching TV with Dariya unseen had lost its appeal. In fact, all her ghostly spying and eavesdropping felt freshly impolite, as it had in the first days after her death. She swooshed through the corridors aimlessly for a while, time seeming to barely crawl now that she was dead again. She grew bored and drifted into the lobby, observing people with no expectation of privacy as they came and went.
What was Nikolai doing now? Writing his Femme Fatale piece, chatting up his friendly cop, or maybe buying her hardware supplies? Now that she was alone, she had a chance to consider what he’d said. “Real justice requires we do this by the book.”
The problem was, if Mr. Kulish’s encyclopedia was right, Nikolai’s plan would sink hers, and might doom Katya. If Lisko was locked up behind bars, she could never bathe in his blood, which meant she might remain a ghost forever.
The front doors of the buildings swung open, and Mrs. Lutsenko waddled in with her shopping; then hunched Mr. Bilous crept in with the pipe he kept in his mouth, even though he never smoked it. When no one else appeared to distract her from the monotony of ghosthood, she hovered over the piles of discarded junk mail under the bay of postboxes and read the advertisements.
A pair of unfamiliar women came in and surveyed the lobby from top to bottom. When their gazes passed over Katya, her ghost particles buzzed.
“I don’t even know where to start.” The taller woman was pretty, curvy, and wholesome in a way that seemed almost old-fashioned. She radiated a natural sort of sweetness, and it made Katya think she would have liked to be friends with her, if she were still alive.
“I know what you mean. She could be anywhere.” The smaller woman took her hand, gazing a second time into the corners of the ceiling. She had the graceful bearing of a dancer, and a loose blouse could not hide a baby bump. She was one of those thin, pregnant types who appeared to be all belly. “Here.” She pointed at the mailboxes—twenty-four all together.
Starting at opposite ends, they ran their fingers over the labels one at a time.
“Not here,” the little one said. “Someone else must have moved in.”
Hovering behind them, Katya skimmed the names over their shoulders. Only a few had changed in the sixteen months she’d occupied the building, in one form or another.
“Let’s go upstairs” the smaller one said.
Katya ghosted behind them as they marched up the stairs. One flight. Two flights. They stopped at the third floor. Katya’s ghostly particles vibrated, growing agitated. No one had moved off the floor, only her and Fedir’s dead bodies.
The taller one turned her head from side to side and then pointed. “This is it. Number thirty-one.”
“Look.” The pregnant one crouched down to where Nikolai’s empty clothes had fallen to the floor.
She picked up Katya’s underwear, and Katya wished she could blush just to burn off her mortification. She’d abandoned quite a collection of panties. Had Nikolai left that other pair in his pocket after the first time she disappeared?
“Now what do these clothes make you think of, Sonya?” asked the pregnant one.
“One perpetually wet nightgown. You?”
“Same.”
“It could be a coincidence.”
“Sergey says there’s no such thing.”
Katya simmered like hot steam, more frustrated than ever about being silent and invisible.
It seemed as if they were looking for her. But who were they? And what on earth did they mean about a wet nightgown?
“Maybe she’s here right now, watching us,” the taller one said.
Katya tried to scream.
“We should have bro
ught Dima,” said the one with the old-timey air about her.
Dima, as in Dmitri? Could they mean Dmitri Lisko? Her frustration turned to instant, furious rage. It began to shake her.
“He’s not afraid of a little ghost, is he?” asked the pregnant one who’d knelt to fold Katya’s clothes into a neat pile.
He should be afraid of Katya. If he came anywhere near—
“Do you feel that vibration?” the taller one asked. Behind her a framed print bounced off its hook and slid to the floor.
“Yes,” said the little one. She spoke into the air, turned about ninety degrees from where Katya stood. “Hi, Katya. If that’s you. My name is Anya, and this is my sister, Sonya. We were once ghosts too. Furious, vengeful ghosts. We heard you were haunting this building, and we wanted to help. We know you want Dmitri, but he is so very sorry about your death—guilt ridden, in fact. When you jumped in front of your boyfriend, taking the bullet for him, it nearly killed Dmitri. He hated himself for taking your life.”
The rage roiled inside Katya, churning up her ghostly particles. What about Fedir? Lisko had killed her white knight, her savior, the man who’d loved her. And he’d sent his women to apologize only for Katya’s unintentional death.
Slowly, the taller sister rotated, searching the corridor. When she stopped, she was staring right into the space Katya occupied. “Shhh. Katya. Be calm, try to breathe. For some reason, it helps.”
Breathe? She had no lungs, she was air itself. But she tried, out of curiosity, and on the ghostly exhalation, she expelled some of the fury.
“Good.” The wholesome woman smiled beatifically. “If you can bring yourself to forgive my Dima, we think you could come back to life, just as we did.”
Back to life? The mara answered with a blast of power, shattering a window at the end of the hallway. Her very existence as a ghost was to make sure Fedir’s killer paid. She cared nothing for her life.
And surely they lied. Mr. Kulish’s books hadn’t said a thing about a second chance. Were these emissaries some sort of trick of Lisko’s, to get her to cease writing his name in mirrors and haunting his dreams? She would never stop—not until the murderous son of a bitch was dead.
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