Murder in the House

by Margaret Truman

  “I don’t see any reason why you should be. Unless you want to.”

  “I don’t want to. I think I’ll head for the gallery, catch up on some paperwork.”

  “I’m going to Paul’s office at noon.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Talk to Mondrian. See if I can learn more about the Marge Edwards story. Mondrian says she’s still missing.”

  Annabel’s face took on a worried look.

  “I’m sure Marge has simply decided to lay low for a while, stay out of the spotlight,” he said.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Fifteen minutes later she reappeared in the den dressed to leave. They kissed. “Keep in touch,” she said.

  “I will.”

  He walked her to the door and opened it. Outside, a half-dozen media types milled about. Two uniformed MPD officers in a marked car kept an eye on them.

  “Ready?” Mac asked.

  “Sure.”

  They greeted the press and walked past them, down the street to the garage they rented from an elderly neighbor. Reporters followed.

  “Any comment about the sexual harassment charge against Latham?” one asked.

  “No,” Mac replied. “No comment.”

  “He was your client.”

  “Right.”

  “They say he was murdered.”

  “I’d prefer to wait for the official autopsy report,” Mac said.

  “Mrs. Smith, have you talked to Mrs. Latham?”

  Annabel ignored the question.

  “What’s the mood over there?” the reporter followed up.

  Annabel stopped, started to express her dismay at the question, shook her head, and followed Mac into the garage. “ ‘What’s the mood over there?’ ” she said disgustedly. “Joyous, of course.”

  “Ignore them,” said Mac, opening the driver’s-side door for her. “They’re just doing their job.”

  She started the engine.

  “Drive careful, Annabel,” Mac said, a sudden, fleeting vision of his wife and son being hit head-on causing him to wince.

  “I will. And you take care.”

  Mac went to the sidewalk, where the press stood in front of the open garage door. “Better get out of the way,” he said. “She has trouble backing up.”

  The two FBI agents who questioned Mac that morning were efficient, polite, and on time. Their questions were short, well prepared, and to the point. Mac told them what he knew, which wasn’t much. The only question that piqued his interest was about Marge Edwards. One of the agents said, “We’ve put out an all-points on Ms. Edwards, Mr. Smith. You haven’t heard from her, have you?”

  “No, nor would I expect to. I knew her, but only as someone working in Congressman Latham’s office. His scheduling secretary. I didn’t know her outside of her office capacity.”

  The agent jotted his reply in a notebook.

  The questioning went on for another ten minutes. Satisfied Smith had nothing to offer beyond what he’d already told them, they thanked him for his time and were gone by ten-thirty.

  He again tried to concentrate on research for the Russian project, but couldn’t get more than ten minutes into it each time before the phone would ring.

  His boss, dean of GW’s law school, called “just to chat,” eventually getting around to asking Mac what was really going on in the Latham case.

  A woman from a local library called to see whether Mac would be the guest speaker at an October program. He said he’d be in Russia, but thanked her for thinking of him.

  Annabel called just to see how he was.

  He let Rufus out in the postage-stamp-sized fenced yard long enough for the dog to mark his favorite tree, called for a taxi, and waited in the foyer for its arrival. The phone rang. The cab pulled up. Mac locked the door behind him, waved off questions, climbed into the back of the cab, and told the driver to take him to the Rayburn Office Building.

  Inside the Smith residence, the answering machine gave out Mac’s message: “I can’t take your call right now, but please leave your name, number, and a brief message after the tone and I’ll return the call as soon as possible.” He’d recently added to the message: “And please, either repeat your number, or say it slowly the first time.” Callers who rattled off numbers had joined what was becoming a long list of Mackensie Smith’s pet peeves.

  Marge Edwards listened to Smith’s outgoing message. When it was finished, she slowly, quietly hung up.

  19

  Yvgeny Fodorov had gotten to National Airport three hours before the first Delta Shuttle flight to New York. He sat stoically on a bench until a coffee shop opened, and ordered two jelly doughnuts and tea, into which he poured four sugars.

  He was first in line when the flight was called, his only luggage the small carry-on he’d traveled with from Moscow. As with the flight to the United States, he felt naked without the gun. He had it with him always back home. But one of his instructions before leaving Moscow was that he was never to attempt to carry a weapon aboard any flight. There would always be another weapon, he was assured, at his various destinations.

  The driver of his taxi was a black man. Yvgeny hated black people even more than Jews. Being in America was uncomfortable enough without having to be close to so many of them. There were few blacks in Russia, but too many Jews. You had to get rid of them, or at least keep them in their place, if any country was to be successful.

  He showed the driver the address in Brighton Beach, and settled into the backseat.

  The cabbie, one of New York’s friendlier, more talkative ones, tried to engage Yvgeny in conversation, asking him where he was from—“Soviet Union”—what it was like there—“Nice, good”—and what he thought of America—“Nice, good.” But that was the extent of it. Most of the trip into Brooklyn was made in silence, with Yvgeny staring out the window at the striking visual mosaic that was New York, crossing the river by bridge and proceeding into the borough of Brooklyn, down Ocean Parkway, turning off onto Coney Island Avenue until the outlines of the Cyclone roller-coaster and the rusting, abandoned steel skeleton of the parachute jump came into view. A few minutes later, they were on Brighton Beach Avenue, and soon Yvgeny felt more at home. They passed shops heralding Russian food—kasha, black bread, herring, sturgeon, and caviar—on signs written in Russian. People on the streets looked Russian. There were no black faces.

  The cab came to a stop in front of a peeling, two-story gray building. Yvgeny leaned closer to the window and squinted through his thick glasses to read the sign above the door: BRIS AVROHOM. The driver said, “Here you are, my man,” and pointed to the meter. Yvgeny dug money from the envelope in his jacket pocket and handed it to the smiling driver, who counted off the fare and handed back the change. “Welcome to the good ol’ USA, my man,” he said. “Glad we’re not at war with you guys no more.” He laughed heartily.

  Yvgeny said nothing as he exited the taxi and slammed the door. The driver leaned across the front seat and said, “What’s the matter, man? I didn’t give you a nice ride?”

  Yvgeny stared at him.

  “This is America, buddy. We tip cabbies in America.” He extended his hand, palm up, through the open window.

  “Nyet,” Yvgeny said. “Ya nye panimahyu!” But he did understand what the driver wanted. Before the collapse of the Soviet Union, tipping was rarely practiced. But with the influence of the West, that had changed.

  “Da svidanye,” Yvgeny said, turning away and entering the building, his curt good-bye prompting a loud and vigorous string of obscenities from the driver, ending with “You Commie bastard!”

  The driver couldn’t know how right he was.

  Yvgeny shut the building door against the tirade and looked about the small room that he’d entered. There was a metal desk and two chairs, a long wooden bench along one wall, a four-drawer steel file cabinet, and a small red and yellow braided rug that needed to be cleaned.

  He observed the few pictures on the wall, photographs of Russia, h
e judged, pastoral scenes of mountains and rivers taken in the good weather.

  There was a closed door behind the desk. Should he open it? Fodorov wondered. His question was answered when the door was opened by someone else.

  A slender man dressed in a heavy wool three-piece suit, white shirt, and narrow red tie entered the room. His hair was wet, and combed from ear to ear across a tan, pitted bald pate. He wore glasses tethered around his neck by a black cord. His mustache was a thin line across his upper lip.

  Fodorov greeted him in Russian. The man returned the greeting. “You are?” he asked.

  “Yvgeny Fodorov. Here.”

  Fodorov handed him a piece of paper included in his envelope of instructions.

  The man moved his glasses lower on his nose and read the note. His expression was pained, as though the note had wounded him. He handed it back to Fodorov and said, “Come.”

  They went through the door and up a narrow stairway to the second floor. The man opened a door and stepped back for Yvgeny to enter.

  The room into which Fodorov stepped was as plush as the downstairs had been spartan. The floor was covered with thick Oriental carpets, one on top of the other. The furniture was oversized, chairs with wide wooden arms and heavy brocade red and yellow cushions and backs. The smell of incense and the scent of fried foods hung heavy in the air.

  A small kitchen was off the main room. The shadow of someone in it moved like an ethereal vision across the walls.

  “Sit there,” Fodorov’s greeter said, pointing to one of the chairs and leaving the room.

  Yvgeny tried to see who was in the kitchen, but the shadow prevailed. Then, the open doorway to the kitchen was filled by a hulking man with a huge belly, whose shaved head almost touched the top of the frame. He wore a black T-shirt, brown cardigan sweater secured by a single button, baggy black pants, and carpet slippers. A massive cross sat on his bulging stomach, secured to his thick neck by a leather thong. Large gold rings studded with diamonds on both hands caught the light, tossing their brilliance at Fodorov.

  Fodorov stood, mumbled hello.

  “Zdrastvuitye,” the man echoed in a deep, gravelly voice. He stepped into the room and extended his hand; Yvgeny’s hand disappeared into it. “I am Pavel Bakst. Welcome.”

  “Thank you,” said Fodorov.

  “Sit. Some coffee? Tea? Vodka? Beer?”

  Fodorov asked for tea with sugar.

  Bakst disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later a tea kettle’s whistle sounded. Bakst reappeared carrying a tray with tea, a sugar bowl, milk, and a plate of vetchina, sliced ham, a salted cheese called suluguni, and blini, small, traditional Russian pancakes.

  Yvgeny ate eagerly while Bakst, who’d settled in a facing chair, watched, his thick lips set in an amused smile. When Yvgeny had finished, Bakst said, “So, Mr. Yvgeny Fodorov, you work for Brazier Industries.”

  “Da. But only temporary. On a special assignment.”

  “I see. I am told you are an associate of Gennady Pralovich in Moscow.”

  Fodorov wanted to agree, but was anxious not to stretch the truth. “Associate? Nyet. I am only a soldier.”

  “But he sends you on such an important assignment. He must think highly of you.”

  “I like to think so, Mr. Bakst.”

  Bakst shifted his bulk in the chair. “Well,” he said, “it is our pleasure to host you until you are needed again. We will do everything to make your stay pleasant.”

  Yvgeny felt an inner glow. To be treated with such respect was warming. He suppressed a smile of satisfaction.

  “Do you know what they call this Brighton Beach, Yvgeny?”

  “Nyet.”

  “Little Odessa. Twenty, maybe thirty thousand fellow Russians here. Like being home, huh?” He laughed.

  “It feels good,” Fodorov said. “I do not like America.”

  “Oh? You do not like the land of opportunity?”

  “I do not.”

  “The streets are paved with gold here, Fodorov.”

  Yvgeny’s laugh was scoffing.

  “You laugh. But it is true. We do very well here. Better than in Russia.”

  Yvgeny’s face was serious. “How can that be?” he asked.

  “There is more money here to be gotten,” Bakst said. “We have made excellent inroads in America. Millions from our gasoline-tax projects alone. America is ripe for the taking.”

  Fodorov nodded. “I see,” he said.

  “Of course, we have had to make certain business arrangements with the local Italians. They have had it all to themselves for many years. Now, they have become weak, their leaders sent away. And we are here to step in.”

  “One day …”

  “One day what, Fodorov?”

  “One day when Yeltsin is gone and we are again in power in Russia—when it is the Soviet Union again—there will be gold on our streets, too.”

  Bakst had wrapped a blini around some ham and cheese, and had just bitten into it when Yvgeny issued his proclamation. The large man laughed, coughed, and spit the food onto the rugs. He continued laughing. Fodorov felt anger, but quickly told himself not to show it. He waited until the coughing and laughing had subsided before asking, “I am sorry if I said something wrong, Mr. Bakst.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Bakst asked, kicking the food aside with his slipper.

  “Who? I meant the Communists.”

  “The Communists?” He fell into another laughing and coughing fit.

  Fodorov decided to say nothing.

  “The Communists? An apparatchik, are you, Fodorov? A loyal believer.”

  “Da. Aren’t you?”

  “Nyet, Fodorov. I hold no beliefs for any political party. It does not matter who sits in the Kreml. They call it the Kremlin here. Americans want to go to Moscow to see the Kremlin. For what? To spend their money? To look at something that never worked? Communism. Democracy. What does it matter? It is only the Organizatsiya that matters, my young, idealistic friend. Only us, the mafiya. The Italians call it ‘our thing.’ It is no longer their thing. Now, it is our thing.”

  Fodorov fought himself to keep from extending the conversation. He was confused, but did not want to admit it.

  In Moscow, he and his colleagues worked for the Communists, did they not? Was it not the same here? The Communists paid for his services, for the services of everyone in the organization. He’d been paid by them to kill his own mother. Not directly, of course, but he knew why he’d been instructed to do it. To send a message, the way they’d sent a message by taking away his father so many years ago for his traitorous writings, or refusing to register his mother’s typewriter.

  Killing his mother had been surprisingly easy. He’d hated her for what seemed to be his whole life. Still, while driving back to Moscow after leaving her lifeless body in the dacha, he’d suffered a wave of sadness, even self-loathing. It didn’t last long. By the time he reached the city, an exaltation had consumed him, and he couldn’t wait to report that he’d accomplished his mission, and to receive their praise, slaps on the back, shots of vodka to down in celebration for having taken on such a difficult assignment. That’s exactly what did happen upon his return to Moscow, and he hadn’t felt sadness or self-loathing again.

  “It is very good tea, Mr. Bakst,” Yvgeny said.

  “Thank you. It is time to take you to where you will stay. Tonight, you will join us for dinner. We have some fine restaurants here, Yvgeny. Authentic. Good Russian food and drink. Music. Entertainers. Later, there will be a woman for you.”

  Bakst brought Fodorov downstairs to where the little man with the mustache sat at a desk. He instructed him to have someone pick Yvgeny up immediately, and to take him “to Misha’s house.”

  “I would like to have a weapon,” Yvgeny said quietly. “For protection. They would not let me bring mine.”

  “Of course they wouldn’t, because they are smart. But you won’t need protection here, my friend.” He slapped Fodorov hard on the back. “
We take care of each other. Go now. Rest. There is plenty to drink and eat at Misha’s. Not far from here.”

  Fodorov stood on the sidewalk with Bakst until the car arrived. Many people passing greeted Bakst. He must be very important, Yvgeny thought. A leader. A boss.

  He looked back at the sign above the front door. BRIS AVROHOM. “What is that?” he asked.

  “A fine organization to welcome our Russian citizens to America, help them settle, find work, housing. We are not—how shall I say it?—we are not an official part of it. But we raise money for it. The sign is good, huh? It says we care, to the authorities at least.” A laugh. “We have our own ways to welcome our fellow Russians to this country. The sign? No one tells us to take it down, so it stays up. Ah, here is your car. I will see you tonight, Fodorov. Take a nap. Nights last a very long time in Little Odessa.”

  The party at Rasputin, one of Brighton Beach’s most popular Russian restaurants, lasted until four the next morning. A band played loud dance music, augmented during its intermissions by strolling minstrels. The first course was served at eleven—borscht, containing real red beets, Yvgeny was told, as opposed to the borscht of the old Soviet Union, consisting mainly of cabbage. Crab and shrimp dishes followed, then lamb smothered in a succulent sauce of mushrooms and cranberries, accompanied by stuffed cabbage leaves and rice and potatoes and overflowing green salads. Fodorov had never seen so much food at one sitting, and he took advantage of it, stuffing his face while attempting to engage in the spirited, raucous conversations around him.

  A pretty young girl asked him to dance. He didn’t want to because he didn’t know how. She laughed when he told her that, and said she would teach him.

  On the dance floor, she said in a giddy voice, “My father says you are a very important person from Moscow.”

  Fodorov wasn’t sure how to respond, so he laughed. “Who is your father?” he asked, stumbling over his feet as she led him to the beat of the music.

  “Bakst,” she said.

  “Bakst. Oh. He is your father?”

  “Yes. He says you are here on an important job.”

  “I—I cannot talk about that,” Yvgeny said.