Widow's Run

by TG Wolff

  Carlo pointed to the screen. “Celina, he’s drinking it.”

  Tears burned my eyes. I couldn’t see the screen any more. “Keep your eye on him.” I spun out of the chair and paced the room, breathing in, breathing out.

  “Thelan went into the concert. I’m fast forwarding it.” People zipped in and out like ants on speed. “Here he is again. He’s staggering. Is he drunk?”

  “His arm is around his belly like it hurts. What’s the time?”

  “Nine and a quarter. He is going up in the elevator.”

  My phone chimed, pulling my attention away from the screen. “You might as well stop the video. He’s not coming down.”

  A text came in. I know who she is. Call me.

  A dead woman has no friends, so who the fuck was texting me? I paced Carlo’s shoebox apartment, studying the seven digits behind the familiar area code. You might guess it was Ian Black calling, but it wasn’t. He would have left a message on my voicemail with a secure number for a return call. He did not have this number. He would not have texted.

  And thus ended the short list of people who could have contacted me. Or did it?

  A knuckle rap to the contact and…

  How Do You Say “Busted” in Russian?

  “Dixon.” It was the resigned statement you used when a kid straight up beat you at your own game.

  “Hey Diamond.” Chips crunched in my ear. “How’s Italy?”

  “How’d you get this phone number?”

  “I called myself from it last night.” A bag crackled in the background.

  “When and where was I?”

  “When you went to the bathroom. You said make yourself comfortable.”

  I wasn’t gone three minutes, not three minutes. “And you took it as an invitation to steal my phone number?”

  “You know, for emergencies and stuff.” Either he had shoved another fistful of chips into his mouth or he had wadded up the bag into a ball and was gnawing on it.

  “Dix, you put one more chip in your mouth and I’m going to swim across the Atlantic and give you a chip bag colonoscopy.”

  He laughed. “That’s something old people get, right? Something like a camera up the butt?”

  It’s hard to physically intimidate someone who lived day in, day out with violence. You know. Been there, done that, got the black eye. The one he’d gotten for his birthday still had days until it would fade.

  “Yeah, Dix. I hear it comes with good drugs though. So, who is she?”

  This time he glugged liquid, finishing it with a sloppy lip slap. “Who is who?”

  “You know who.”

  “Do who know you?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Dix, you’re making my head spin. You texted me you know ‘who she is.’ Tell me who she is while I’m still young enough to care.”

  “Oh. Her. Ilsa Dumanovskaya. I’m not making it up either. Musta sucked to spell her name in kindergarten. Least her parents gave her a short first name.”

  I leaned against an ice-cold plaster wall, prepared to commence head pounding. “Why should I care?”

  “Because of Doc.” Doc. That was the nickname the kids at the YPF gave Gavriil. He liked the stories I brought home and showed up one afternoon. It wasn’t even “take your husband to work day.” I found him arguing with the science teacher over a chemical equation. They got past their chalkboard differences, created a bouncy-ball polymer, then had contests to see which formula bounced higher. The kids loved it. Gavriil came in once a week for lecture and the occasional spontaneous laboratory experiment.

  “She’s the woman he met in Rome.”

  My chin snapped up. My heart beat in double time. I had her face, now I had her name. I signaled Carlo for pencil and paper. “Give it to me.”

  “She owns a bookstore. I have the address for her store and her apartment. Do they call them flats?”

  “No idea. Give me the address.” My mouth watered with the taste of deep-fried quarry.

  “Three-twenty-one valle Didochachiata.”

  My pencil stayed still. “That can’t be right.”

  “Maybe I’m not saying it right. Three-twenty-one Vya Deedoshakiata. Better?”

  “No. Carlo? Can you figure out this address?” I handed over the phone and recommenced pacing.

  Carlo alternated between speaking and listening. Then he laughed. Of course, he and Dix would understand each other. Gibberish was an international language.

  I took Carlo to dinner at one of family restaurants dotting the streets of Rome. We sat in the window of the twelve-table dining room, which was snuggled into the corner of a square also housing a bookstore specializing in Russian-language books owned by Ilsa Duma-whatever.

  What a coincidence. It’s such a small world.

  The restaurant was clean and modest. Wooden tables had seen years of scrubbing and elbows and plates, leaving once-polished tops worn to virgin material. The chairs had been refurbished at least once. The wood legs and back showed age against the younger, padded seats. The woman running the front of the house was the spitting image of Gavriil’s grandmother. He had a photo of him with her when he had been a boy. She was a sturdy woman, built to endure harsh winters, cook for an army, and dispense hugs to remedy every ailment. Yeah, I said she was sturdy. She had muscular limbs made from hard work, a don’t-fuck-with-me attitude the smile didn’t hide, and she was Russian. Nothing like me. At. All.

  I ordered in Russian. Gavriil and I spoke the language in our home. It started as a way to “eradicate my embarrassing accent” and ended up being one of the threads binding us tightly together. I hadn’t spoken a word in his native language since I kissed him goodbye. Today, it rolled off my tongue without hesitation.

  Carlo leaned back, rocking his chair on two legs as he regarded me as though seeing me for the first time. “Your friend Dixon, he calls you Diamond.”

  The kid talks too much. “He calls me Diamond, I call him Dumbass. It’s a game we play.”

  “I once heard of a Diamond. She was a legend is some circles. I understood she died.”

  Tucking my chin, I let the real me surface. “Are you telling me you believe in resurrection, Carlo?”

  The chair fell noisily to the ground. He wiped his dry mouth, glanced over his shoulder for ears that might be listening. “Of course. Tell me—” He shut up to read a text. “Dixon got us a license plate.”

  I pointed with my chin toward the bookstore. “For her?”

  He shook his head. “For the car that struck signor Rubchinsky.”

  The waiter returned to our table, setting two small glasses of crystal-clear spirits. I poured mine down my throat. Did the same with Carlo’s.

  Carlo’s eyebrow quirked, and, in Italian, he asked the waiter for two more. With the waiter discharged, Carlo leaned across the table, speaking low. “This is good, no?”

  Yes, it was good. Of course, it was good. But how the fuck did a seventeen-year-old smart-ass get a license plate number when a year’s worth of goddamn police work yielded nothing but scapegoats, dead ends, and closed cases?

  My skin was too tight. My fingers itched for action. I couldn’t sit still, and I couldn’t think because thought after thought rammed into each other like vehicles on an icy interstate. How and when and what the fuck!

  “Can you run the plate?”

  “Certamente.” Carlo placed a call. He chattered, I ordered for both of us. He covered the phone. “How much are you paying?”

  “What’s the going rate?”

  Carlo named a price.

  “Add another fifty to forget he ever heard of us.” I planned while Carlo finished the deal. I had toyed with the idea of approaching Ilsa Duma-whatever tomorrow, but the game had changed. Tonight, I hunted. Before dinner, Carlo had encouraged me to return to the hotel and change. I didn’t want to waste the time, but Carlo dismissed my argument. Thanks to him, I was ready for the sudden change in fortunes in sensible shoe
s, black pants dosed with Lycra, a fitted black-and-white shirt in a geometric pattern hidden beneath a windbreaker loose enough to conceal the gun provided by Carlo via Ian Black. Damn, he thought of everything.

  Even now, by Rome’s standards, we were early. The streets, like the restaurant, were just filling with people. The night was young.

  “He will tag me when he has it.” What Carlo really said was “He willa taga me whanahe has it,” but that’s just too hard to read. Just add an “a” or “o” to each word and say it like you’re on a roller coaster, then you’ll hear what I’m hearing. “How long has Dix worked for you?”

  “Seems like only yesterday.” I sipped my water, an excuse to stop talking.

  The waiter delivered two steaming platters. One held two red peppers swimming in a sea of a chunky, savory tomato sauce. The other held a stew made of thick beef chunks and potatoes in a lighter gravy. White dinner plates with a delicate blue scrawl around their edges were set in front of us. Carlo served.

  “The glass Francisco Thelan drank out of, the poisoned one, was it the one recovered from his hotel room?” I knew the answer based on my translated version. I asked for two reasons. First, I wanted to test the accuracy of the translation. Second, I wanted to see if Carlo came to the conclusion I had.

  “Si. It was the same glass Thelan carried into the ballroom. The same one he picked up after Rubchinsky set it down.”

  The minute the tender beef entered my mouth, I felt as though I hadn’t eaten for a week. I chewed slowly to keep from mounting the table and rending the meat with hands and teeth. Work was the order of the night. I had no time for a food coma. “He could have gotten another drink in the ballroom.”

  Carlo considered and then shrugged. “He could have but he wasn’t in there long. The type of glass was the same. I’ll take another look and see if the level went up.”

  “But you don’t think it did.”

  He considered, shook his head, then took a bite of the stuffed pepper.

  “We agree Rubchinsky was the target. What do you think the odds are a man narrowly escapes a fatal poisoning, only to trip into traffic and die?”

  “The odds? It is a long shot. Possible? Mathematically, yes. In real life?” Carlo shook his head again.

  That was my take, too. “How much time can you give me tomorrow?”

  “I am at your service for as long as you are in Rome. Signor Black made arrangements.”

  “Track down the plate. We’re going to pay a house call tomorrow.” I studied the bookstore. Twilight settled into the square, the lights from the bookstore became a beacon, calling me. I dropped my napkin on my plate. “I’m going to do a little shopping.”

  A dainty bell suggested my entrance. It wasn’t bold and announcing. It was soft, as if worried about disturbing the patrons inside. English. French. Italian. Russian. All books smelled the same. A husky combination of aged paper and tanned leather punctuated with the sharp tang of ink. Impregnated with knowledge new and forgotten, the store was a sexy temptress to a man like my husband.

  “Buona sera.” I didn’t follow the words after, spoken by a young woman with full lips, a broad nose, heavy-lidded eyes, and olive complexion. Roman features.

  “Parle inglese?” See? Cramming came in handy.

  “Yes, of course.” She smiled graciously. “Can I help you?”

  “Just browsing. Your store was recommended by a friend. Gavriil Rubchinsky.”

  The smile faded to a frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall the name.”

  “He’s Russian. You’re not, are you?”

  She shook her head. “I am studying Russian at university. I thought it would help to be immersed.”

  I switched to Russian. “It does. Speak it every day and she will become your lover, wrapping around your heart, filling the recesses of your mind.”

  Her eyes grew wide and she giggled, blushing like a woman under the heat of an erotic image. “Ilsa says the same, only differently.” Her Russian was stilted, like mine had been. A language borne of textbooks rather than experience.

  “Ilsa? Is she the owner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps she knows my friend. Is she here?”

  “Oh, yes. She is in the back. A moment.” The woman hurried off, leaving me to pace among Russia’s greats.

  Carlo had searched the internet and found Ilsa Duma-whatever’s website with her photo. She had blond hair and dark eyes, details not captured on the hotel surveillance. She hadn’t jumped aboard the social media train so there were no embarrassing photos or posts with too much information.

  I wondered what her relationship was to Gavriil. The green-eyed monster whispered in my ear, but I shut him down. I had faith in my husband, and it wouldn’t do me any good to act the jealous wife. This was a murder investigation, not reality TV.

  The young woman burst through the door marked for employees. She fell more than burst, as if a boot planted on her ass had been her motivation. “Ilsa is on a phone call. She will be out shortly. Is-is there anything in particular I can show you? In a book, I mean?” Her casual friendliness was gone. Instead she was jumpy, as if she expected a skeleton to explode out of the closet.

  Oh, crap.

  Bolting down the aisle, I shouldered the woman out of my way, blasted through the door, and landed in the store room just as the back door kissed the frame. The narrow street behind the store wasn’t wide enough for one of the ridiculously tiny European cars and yet apartments and businesses opened to it. Twilight made monsters out of mice, casting shadows and trickery across the ancient stone. People milled about, to and fro. Only one ran and I ran after her.

  The streets were a chaotic jumble of knotted spaghetti. Turns happened randomly and at odd angles, cutting the map into triangles, octagons, parallelograms. Who laid out this city? Pythagoras?

  Yes…I know he’s Greek. It isn’t that far away. He coulda had a gig here.

  I turned another corner, hurdled a small motorcycle, then spun around a woman carrying groceries. What the hell was I doing? I stopped, planting my hands on my knees and sucking wind. I pulled out my phone and brought up an app.

  Darkness settled around me, a dear and trusted friend. Many people are afraid of the dark, afraid of what lurks beyond their senses. Vivid imaginings turned squeaks and cracks into monsters with voracious appetites.

  For me, darkness brought clarity. Without all the bullshit of the day to distract me, I could breathe. I could think.

  The door opened. A slice of lemon-colored light cut through my beloved darkness.

  The safety on the gun was off. “Welcome home, Ilsa.” I spoke in Russian. From her overstuffed chair, I didn’t have to lift my hand to have her in the gun’s sights.

  She was alone. I put odds at three-to-one she wouldn’t come home until morning and, if she did, she wouldn’t be alone. But here we were, two women with a dead man between us. Ilsa’s hair had escaped the binding at the nape of her neck. Her dark eyes were wide with surprise and fear. She was petite, maybe five-foot-two. Barefoot. A pair of heels hung from her hand, one with a broken heel.

  I waved her into the room with the barrel of the gun.

  “What do you want? Why did you chase me?” Her chest heaved, catching all the breaths she lost leading me on a tour of the city. She tossed the broken shoes in a corner. “I had to take them off. Cobblestones were not made for fashion.”

  This wasn’t coffee with the girls. “Why did you run? You’re a business woman. I’m sure you don’t normally run when some customer asks to see you.”

  “But then, you are not some customer, are you?” Ilsa melted onto her couch. “I’m sitting. My feet are killing me. Shoot if you want.”

  I turned on the table lamp next to me, shedding light on my disheveled host. More than her hair was a mess. Ilsa’s blouse was half untucked and she’d lost an earring. Her stocking was torn at the knee and she had a raw, red scrape. Blood had risen to the surface
and run, only to be caught in the silk.

  “You’re going to want to put some ice on it.” I wanted to talk, not shoot, so I set the gun down. Safety still off. Still within reach. “My name is Celina Matta. I work for an insurance company and am investigating the death of Dr. Gavriil Rubchinsky. We understand you were one of the last people to see him alive.”

  Her hand went to her throat. Her gaze slid to the door, to the window. This woman’s instincts were to run.

  “Ilsa. I saw video of you attending a reception with Gavriil Rubchinsky at Il Leone on the night he died. We have reports of you visiting him both days he was here.” I took a deep breath, one she unconsciously copied. “I’m not interested in anything you two may have had ‘going on.’” Yeah, I used air quotes. I needed her to move past the flight instinct to get to the tell-what-I-know part. “I’m not the police. My report isn’t public record.”

  Ilsa gasped. “No! Oh no. Gavriil was married. He loved his wife. I could tell the way he told stories about her.”

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Not the moment for an adrenaline spike. “You were friends.”

  “Acquaintances. I grew up in the same town and went to school with his sister. When she learned he was coming to Rome, she remade introductions.”

  I hadn’t met Gavriil’s sister. She lived in Australia and couldn’t come to our wedding. Gavriil never said much about her. Not in a bad way. She just hadn’t been a part of his daily life for a long time. They emailed. A phone call on birthdays, etc., etc. It was plausible she connected Gavriil with Ilsa.

  “You met him at Il Leone the night he arrived?”

  “Since I knew my way around, it was easier. We found we both had a love of books. Once we started talking, it seemed we couldn’t stop. I brought him to my shop on the next morning. He spent hours in my racks.”

  I ignored the euphemism. “The party at Il Leone, you didn’t stay long. What happened?”

  Ilsa rose from the couch, wincing when her knee didn’t bend. Gingerly, she crossed the small apartment and retrieved a mini tray of ice from the apartment-sized refrigerator/freezer. She divided the ice between two glasses and a clean dish towel. Both glasses were filled from a clear, unmarked bottled. I accepted one without asking questions.