A Whisper to the Living ir-16

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  The young woman’s eyes were red and moist. Sasha detected an almost imperceptible quiver in her full lower lip. Olga Grinkova’s eyes kept turning toward the lobby door.

  “Why is she afraid that she might be killed too?” asked Iris.

  “Because,” said Elena, “she talked to you last night.”

  Iris looked at the young woman again and said, “Svetlana?”

  Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was well prepared with reading material this morning. He had his usual Eighty-seventh Precinct novel and two newspapers. The skies had stopped dropping various kinds of moisture, leaving only a dark slush that seeped into the shoes of those who failed to take this weather into account.

  Rostnikov had, thanks to his wife, been well prepared with ankle-high waterproof shoes. The left shoe had proved to be somewhat obstinate. In custom-manufacturing the foot, the craftsmen had made the left foot more than a half size too large. The artificial left foot of all three pairs of shoes that the Chief Inspector owned had been stretched. He kept a special German-made shoe stretcher in the left shoe he planned to wear each morning, but as soon as the device was removed the shoe began to seek its normal shape and size.

  Porfiry Petrovich considered forming a self-help group for people with one leg to discuss all the things that the two-footed never thought about. He considered it, but he was certain he would not be forming such a group.

  One thing he would have put on the agenda of the first meeting, had he actually proceeded with the idea, was the problem of walking. Now he was walking through Bitsevsky Park, pausing from time to time to search for a bird feeder. He found three among the trees at least fifteen feet from the path. As he walked, the policeman displayed only a slight limp, but he felt a distinct growing ache where his leg had once been. He would have to sit very soon.

  People passed him coming and going. He noted but did not acknowledge them. These were people on the way to work as he was. They had no time for pleasantries and barely enough time for small unpleasantries.

  There were few morning chess players. They had been greeted with wet benches and tables. The veterans had remembered to bring towels to dry enough space for them to begin their combat. If these veterans recognized those who had not come prepared, they might allow them to use their towels.

  Rostnikov had planned to make it as far as the ski slope. There would be no skiing today. The hills would be sponges of cold water with puddles of melting ice.

  It was too far and would be too much for his leg. He had not set the slope as a goal because he expected to find anything there. He had no clear objectives. He turned around and headed along the meandering path back to the entrance to the park from which he had come.

  As he moved slowly, he encountered a small bridge over the creek and paused to listen to the rushing water. He went to a bench nearby, cleared a spot for himself with some wadded newspaper, and sat facing the water and the trees, most of which were weeks from bearing leaves again.

  After listening and watching as people passed and birds began to chirp, cry, and caw, Rostnikov took out his novel and found his place. The book was in English. Porfiry Petrovich could understand written English far better than he could understand English when it was spoken to him or he spoke it. It also helped that this was the third time he had read this particular ragged-edged paperback.

  “What are you reading?” asked the man who sat next to Rostnikov after picking up the wadded newspaper and using it to dry a space for himself.

  “An American police mystery,” said Rostnikov.

  “What is it about?”

  “A group of detectives in a mythical city who are trying to catch a serial killer.”

  Rostnikov looked at the man, who was neither young nor quite in the middle of life. He had good teeth, a knowing smile, and the face one sees on hundreds of Russian men every day.

  “I saw you here yesterday,” the man said. “Over by the chess players.”

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov. “You were on the path walking toward Shavaska Street. You were carrying a grocery bag.”

  “Yes,” said the man. “My name is Aleksandr Chenko.” He extended his hand.

  Rostnikov took it and said, “I am Chief Inspector Rostnikov of the Office of Special Investigations.”

  “May I ask why you spend time here?” asked Aleksandr Chenko.

  “Pleasure and business.”

  “The Maniac,” said the man knowingly.

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov.

  “We are all worried about this madman,” said Chenko. “You police have been trying for so long. I hope you catch him soon.”

  “We will catch him.”

  Aleksandr looked at his conservative black-band Swatch and stood, saying, “I cannot be late for work. Well, we will probably be crossing paths from time to time if you keep coming here. I come this way to get to my work, and when I have time I put some seeds into the bird feeders. You might want to try it. The birds, particularly the pigeons, come right down and perch on your arm if you hold up a palm with a few seeds on it.”

  “Your work?”

  “My work? Oh, I fill shelves at the Volga Grocery Supermarket on the other side of the park. I am on my way there now. I had better hurry. I don’t want to be late.”

  “No.”

  “I feel better knowing you are here, Chief Inspector,” said the young man. “Do you play chess?”

  “A little.”

  “Perhaps we could play a game sometime soon, or are you not allowed to play games while you are on duty?”

  “I play games.”

  Rostnikov watched as Aleksandr Chenko moved quickly up the path. When Rostnikov was about to lose sight of him behind a bend of bushes, Chenko turned and waved. Rostnikov waved back. When he could no longer see the young man, Rostnikov took out his notebook and pencil and made the following note:

  Aleksandr Chenko

  Volga Grocery, does it carry Nitin wine? Is there any record of Chenko buying it? Where does he live? Does he drink guava juice?

  ?

  Then Porfiry Petrovich went back to reading his book.

  6

  Tai Chi in the Rain

  “I did not call them,” said Albina Babinski.

  She sat, as disheveled as she had been the previous day when Vera Korstov had come to her apartment. The widow of Fedot Babinski seemed to be wearing the same house dress and holding the same fingerprint-besmirched glass of vodka.

  Vera was certain that the two men who now stood before her were the police.

  She considered stepping back quickly, pulling the still-open door closed, and dashing for the stairway. Vera was, after all, a former athlete who still competed from time to time in park district competitions. She could certainly outdistance the slouching, sad-eyed man who stood facing her on her left. She might even be able to make it down the stairs ahead of the broad-shouldered dark man who stood to her right.

  What Vera did not know was whether there might be more police waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You have my two hundred euros?” asked Albina. “You promised. I trusted you.”

  “Who are you?” asked Iosef Rostnikov.

  “Who are you?” Vera responded.

  “I am Inspector Rostnikov. This is Inspector Zelach.”

  Zelach moved behind Vera and closed the door. All thought of flight was now gone, so she decided to lie.

  “I am a journalist with Sputnik Secrets Magazine,” Vera said.

  “You owe me. .,” Albina muttered but was ignored.

  “You have credentials?” asked Iosef.

  “I can get them,” said Vera.

  “You do not carry them?”

  “I have broken no laws,” said Vera.

  “I am keeping the money you have already given me,” said Albina. “And that is that.”

  “Your identification cards, please,” said Iosef.

  Vera reached into the black cloth bag slung over her shoulder. Zelach stood close by, ready in case a weapon was
drawn. Vera came up with a wallet and extracted several cards.

  Iosef examined the cards and handed them to Zelach, who punched a number into his cell phone. Vera glanced at Zelach and then with a sigh faced the more formidable-looking of the policemen.

  Zelach was far more comfortable with a standard phone, one with buttons, one that looked like a phone and not like a box such as the one in which his mother held her daily pills. In truth, Zelach was not comfortable with any phone. He disliked the silences that he was expected to fill.

  Vera could hear Zelach talking softly on the phone. Albina, the widow, sat mumbling softly to herself. The policeman named Rostnikov spoke. Vera tried to focus on his words, to buy time for Ivan Medivkin, but the policeman was not selling time.

  “You think the weather is really about to change?” Iosef asked.

  “Why do you ask me that?” said Vera.

  “Because I am trying to bring you back to the conversation from the world in which you appear to be searching for a way to deal with me.”

  “I have nothing to say,” she said.

  Iosef looked at the window where a lone cluster of gray ice about the size of a hand was slithering down the glass. He nodded and turned to watch Zelach press the “end” button on his phone.

  “I have it,” said Zelach.

  “Good. Let us go.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Vera.

  “To your apartment,” said Iosef.

  Albina began to rise. Iosef raised a hand to signal to her to resume her seat. She sat reluctantly.

  “I am a widow,” said Albina, examining her now-empty glass. “I have rights.”

  “And which of those rights do you wish to invoke?” asked Iosef.

  The question puzzled the widow, who ran her fingers through her wild hair, allowing her breasts to spread the nightgown.

  “Akardy,” said Iosef. “Call for uniformed backup. Have them pick us up here as soon as possible. We may be walking in on Ivan Medivkin.”

  Iosef looked at Vera Korstov again.

  “Have I guessed correctly?”

  “Let me talk to him,” said Vera. “He will not give you trouble.”

  “We shall see when we get there,” said Iosef.

  “He did not kill them,” she said.

  Iosef said nothing.

  “Ivan will not give you trouble,” Vera repeated.

  Iosef certainly hoped this would be true. He had never arrested a giant before, particularly one who might well become the heavyweight champion of the world if he was not in prison for murder.

  Olga Grinkova bore little resemblance to the woman who had called herself Svetlana the night before. Iris found the transformation incredible, the material of which prizewinning stories are made.

  Olga was no more than twenty, cheeks slightly pink, eyes wide and frightened, hands at her sides, more girl than woman. Her dark skirt hemmed below the knee and her white up-to-the-neck sweater fit loosely. Olga kept pushing her sleeves up and the sleeves kept refusing to cooperate. When she spoke it was with the voice of a shopgirl who had lost her confidence.

  Svetlana had been sultry, dark, confident, almost bored, and carefully made up for the evening. Her dress had been formfitting, with the revelation of promising cleavage. Svetlana’s voice had held a promising huskiness not unlike that of a young Lauren Bacall.

  They were seated now at a table in the hotel’s small breakfast room. There was a buffet of yogurt, cold cuts, hard-boiled eggs, and cheese. A pitcher of water was surrounded by glasses.

  “Room number?” asked the plump blond girl who stood over the table.

  Iris tried to imagine Olga transformed into a sultry prostitute named Svetlana.

  “Room Four-eighteen,” said Iris. “Does anyone want breakfast?”

  “Coffee,” said Sasha, looking at Elena, who met his eyes.

  Coffee was agreed upon and the blond girl moved off slowly. There was only one other person in the breakfast room, a well-dressed man of at least seventy who read a newspaper and ate very slowly.

  Olga Grinkova kept her hands in her lap to hide their trembling.

  “They killed Daniel,” Olga said, forcing herself to speak slowly and distinctly.

  “Why?” asked Iris.

  “Because he spoke to you,” said Olga. “That is why they want to kill me. You have already been told that. It is not right that they should want to kill me. I did not ask to speak to you. It was Daniel who told me to do it. Now. . I am alive only because I mentioned Pavel Petrov and saw the car, the black American car with the little flag on the. .”

  She made a motion that looked as if she were miming the act of pulling a thin piece of string into the air.

  “Antenna,” said Sasha.

  “Yes,” said Olga. “Antenna. I recognized the car parked across the street from the entrance to my apartment building. It belongs to them, the two men who even Daniel was afraid of.”

  And with good reason, it seems, thought Iris, who wanted to pull out her notebook but thought this a time for consoling and not writing.

  “I knew when I saw them,” Olga said. “I knew.”

  “How did you know Daniel was dead?” asked Elena.

  Olga looked at Elena, who touched her arm and said gently, “Go on.”

  “I did not go to my apartment,” said Olga. “I found a cab and went to Daniel’s to ask him why the men in the American car were waiting for me. Daniel lives. . lived not far from where we. . where we work. His apartment is on the first floor. If you work the outside door just right, it will open. I also know where Daniel hid his spare key, under the carpeting on the sixth step at the end of the hall.”

  “You have been there many times?” asked Iris.

  “Sometimes Daniel wanted one of us to visit him,” Olga said. “He liked me as I am now, not as Svetlana. He treated me gently. He treated us all gently.”

  “You found him,” Elena said.

  “Yes,” said Olga. “He was. . He had been. . I do not know. Violated.”

  “Daniel Volkovich had been stabbed at least twelve times and his throat cut,” said Elena.

  Olga closed her eyes tightly and bit her lower lip. She made a small, clipped whimper and shook her head. The blond waitress returned with four coffees and a full hot pot, which she placed gently on an ornately decorated stone trivet. The waitress looked at Olga and then retreated through the door to the kitchen.

  “Tell them who owns the black car with the little flag,” said Elena gently.

  “Pavel Petrov,” said Olga. “He sat in the back each of the four times I saw the car. He sat in the back behind closed and tinted windows while the two men terrorized us. I saw him when the light hit the car windows just right. I saw him. I saw him today. He was reading a newspaper. The two men were murdering Daniel and he sat reading a newspaper. And if they had gotten to me, I would be cut to pieces like Daniel and he would sit there reading the newspaper. Arrest him. I will tell you everything I know. Arrest him and get me out of Moscow.”

  “It will not work,” Sasha said. “She saw no murder taking place, and even if she did, she is a prostitute. Her testimony is worth little. He will not be convicted in any court.”

  “Not in court perhaps,” said Iris, “but I can certainly convict him in print. Remember, I have an interview with Pavel in less than two hours. I will put the needle to him and record his confessions.”

  “He will kill you,” said Olga.

  “No,” said Iris. “I have the police to protect me.”

  She patted the hand of Sasha, which rested on the table.

  Olga Grinkova tried to pick up her coffee with both hands, but they refused to cooperate. She put the cup back down and said again, “He will kill you.”

  Nine police officers, including Iosef Rostnikov and Akardy Zelach, entered the small apartment of Vera Korstov ready for whatever might come from Ivan Medivkin. The blue-uniformed officers, one of them a woman, carried stun guns, electric riot batons, and heavy rubber truncheons.
Iosef Rostnikov and Akardy Zelach were unarmed.

  Iosef had knocked at the door and announced loudly that the door should be opened immediately. The door had not been opened immediately. Two of the uniformed police threw their shoulders against the door, which opened abruptly with a shattering of wood.

  There was no one in the tiny living room/kitchen area and no one in the bedroom. There was, however, a note in small penciled words:

  Vera, I cannot stay. It is torture to pace these floors waiting. I am calling someone who will help. It is better you not know who. I will come back to you when this nightmare ends.

  “How far can a giant run without being seen?” asked Iosef.

  None of the police had an answer.

  “Shall we check every apartment in the building?” the highest-ranking of the uniformed police asked.

  “Yes,” said Iosef, looking at the note one more time before folding it and tucking it into his jacket pocket.

  Armed and very dangerous, the uniformed police hurried out of the apartment.

  Iosef and Zelach could hear the high-ranking officer calling out orders for two people to check all exits and entrances from the building and to secure them. The other four began their apartment-by-apartment search while Iosef and Zelach went down the stairwell and out the front door just as one of the policemen was about to secure it.

  On the way into the building, they had seen people on the lone patch of green and under the only tree within sight. This was not a day to be enjoying nature. A fast-rushing rivulet of melting slush ran along the curb on both sides of the street.

  Iosef and Zelach approached the people, who were all in yellow sweatpants and sweatshirts except for one old Chinese man who appeared to be leading them in some kind of slow-moving dance.

  “Have you seen a giant come out of that building this morning?” asked Iosef.