After Yekaterina

by K. L. Abrahamson

  Kazakov met his glare like he would the glare of a suspect. Rostoff had placed too many questions in his head. He waited until Rostoff finally released him and brushed snow off of his coat before starting down the stairs. Kazakov watched him to the car, assessing Rostoff’s actions. This corrupt mu′dak, this ass hole, was the source of the problems. Rostoff was the reason Yekaterina’s and Semetai’sdeaths went unsolved, just like countless other cases—because no one in the squad gave a damn anymore.

  But Rostoff had said that because of the election he could not afford the problem posed by Kazakov. That suggested something more was going on and that someone else was pulling strings… Like Bure?

  Rostoff circled his car and opened the door. Over the roof he peered back at Kazakov in his shirtsleeves in the freezing cold. “I expect that material from your wall in a box on my desk this afternoon along with your collections from the brothels.”

  His gaze carried an earnestness Kazakov couldn’t quite believe. Their friendship had ended years before.

  “Understand, Alexander,” Rostoff said softly. “I am risking things to do you a favor. The alternative is not good for your health—or mine. Now get inside, old friend. You’ll catch your death of cold out here like that.”

  Rostoff seemed to diminish a little. Then he shook his head and slipped into the car. It purred to life, then shouldered its way through the snow in the yard right over Kazakov’s garden plot hidden under the snow. Rostoff’s vehicle disappeared down the lane beneath the arbor of trees.

  The rumble of the car’s engine gradually faded, leaving the silence and the thump of snow falling off branches from deep in the trees. Usually, on winter days like this, he enjoyed the silence and the peace of his dacha. Feeling the sting of the cold on his skin, he blew a breath out as he turned to the door.

  What the hell had that been all about? For a moment Rostoff had looked like a beaten man. Kazakov pushed inside into the warmth of Rostoff’s fire and Maria’s scent of lavender.

  The way Rostoff had acted in the place, Kazakov wondered how many times the man had visited before while Kazakov was away. He looked around his home and nothing looked the same, just as Rostoff had changed during their conversation. The old tingling sensation burbled again in his gut. Something big was happening, but what?

  Maria sat on the couch, Koshka at her feet sniffing her hand. It was a peaceful scene. One he could grow to like, but there was no sense of peace in the dacha anymore—only defilement.

  “That is done,” he said simply and went to the evidence on the wall. The photo of Yekaterina in her pink sweater stared, pleading, out at him. He tugged it from the small tack on the wall and the tack—like his dignity—tumbled to the floor down behind his desk.

  “Are you okay?” Maria asked.

  What could he say? That he’d failed and they’d found him out—whoever they were? That he was an old fool for ever thinking that he could go behind the backs of men like Rostoff or Bure to do what was right? That the investigation was over? But then why should Maria care about it at all? It had nothing to do with her—unless it did.

  He looked down at Yekaterina’s face. She had been so young. As young as the Yekaterina who had written her diary, exposing her heart on the page. This Yekaterina had exposed her heart to Semetai Manas and someone had killed her for it.

  “Who is she?” Maria asked, coming up beside him. “She affects you so.”

  He sighed. “Just a schoolgirl who died. Someone left her body in Potemkin Park, naked and beaten.”And yet her clothes had been folded and left beside her as if someone had cared about her. He nodded at the school photo of a smiling, handsome, dark-haired Semetai and pulled it loose from the wall. “She loved this boy. He was from the old town. Muslim. Someone killed him, too. He was shot as he ran from the town and no one is saying anything—not her parents, and his parents left town.”

  “And you are determined to find who killed them just as you want to find the Collin’s killer. I think you are a good man, Detektiv Kazakov.” One hand clasped his arm as she handed him a cup of newly brewed tea with milk. Steam curled up over its rim, carrying the heavy, earthy scent of oolong tea. “Drink this. It will warm you up and give you energy. I put three sugars in it.”

  Three sugars—his regular amount. How could she know that? He sipped and nodded. “Thank you. But it seems that the case must truly close—according to Rostoff and whoever gives him orders. He wants the evidence in his office—and probably destroyed.”

  He began pulling the papers off his wall and Maria helped him. Autopsy reports. Witness statements, scene photos. Photos of the bodies. He pulled open his desk drawer and withdrew his working file complete with the information he had quietly been gathering about the families. The Manas family had been merchants and well to do by the standards of those who lived in the old city. The import business had been handed down through generations and had stood the test of time and of the influx of Chinese traders who seemed to be muscling out much of their competition. The disappearance of the Manas family had left a void in the import sector that was quickly being filled by various Chinese newcomers. It had also left a number of the Muslim truckers and laborers out of work. Though it had only been a month since the family left, a few of the truckers had banded together to try to recreate the company, but their lack of acumen made their success doubtful.

  On the other hand, the Weber-Bure family had gone on almost as if Yekaterina’s death had not happened. Yes, there had been a funeral and the news had carried Boris and Natania Bure’s sorrow in its broadcasts. After all, Boris Bure was becoming more and more of a public figure. He would run for the fledgling Reformation Party in the spring election. According to the neighbors, the already reclusive Natania Bure had not been seen since the funeral, but Boris Bure—well, aside from time off to attend the funeral and the subsequent reception, Boris Bure had proven himself a dedicated public servant and had not missed another day of work or electioneering. And now Kazakov had seen him at the Red Veil.

  Kazakov glanced at Maria, who was peering over his shoulder at the file. He flipped it closed and tapped Yekaterina’s photo. “You may know her stepfather—Boris Bure?”

  Her eyes widened slightly and she returned to the couch to perch on its edge. She clutched her tea cup in both hands as she sipped. Finally, she nodded. “I know him—I’ve seen him. He was—is—an important man. Frau Zelinka always makes sure that he gets what he wants—and then cleans up after him. He is not kind to women. I was fortunate that I was not his type—it was usually the pale northern girls he preferred.”

  Kazakov leaned on the desk and watched her. She was a lovely, graceful woman, with a swan neck and long slim limbs that belied her curves. Her long dark hair flowed across the shoulders of the simple woolen workman’s shirt she wore tucked into the waist of sturdy workmen’s trousers. Her long feet were enclosed in thick, hand-knit socks and she’d worn thick-soled boots. Either she’d been prepared to run for a long while or someone had helped outfit her.

  Still, unfortunately, he didn’t quite trust her.

  “How often did he come to the Red Veil?” he asked.

  She thought a moment, her head tilting as if she would shake a memory loose. “It was about once a month. Then lately he has come more frequently—about once a week, I think.”

  “How long has he been coming once a week?”

  She thought a few minutes. “I think about three months.”

  So before his stepdaughter died. His visits to a brothel were not because of Yekaterina’s death.

  “And how long had he been coming to the Red Veil before that?” Years, most likely. Men who liked brothels were long-term patrons and a man who came weekly was definitely a long-term patron.

  “Nine months. I am fairly sure. I remember the first time I saw him. It was my birthday and he was such a good-looking man that I joked that he was my birthday present. Of course, he didn’t take me.” She smiled up at him.

  He thought about the informat
ion. Maria had told him that Collin Archer had also been coming to the Red Veil for about nine months. Was it simply coincidence that Bure showed up at the same time? Simply chance that Bure was there just after another body was found? Kazakov thought about the man’s ice-blue eyes and the hardness behind them. Was his willingness to find a connection between the two cases only because he did not like the man?

  “Did Bure and Collin Archer ever meet? Were they at the Red Veil at the same time?”

  She studied the dacha ceiling, the old wood beams complete with cobwebs that, as usual, he had neglected to sweep away for some time.

  “I don’t think they ever spoke in my presence. I remember being with Collin one night when Bure swaggered in.” She glanced up at Kazakov. “Sorry. I did not care for Bure by then. He had already beaten three girls.

  “Collin and I were having a drink and he had just stood up to visit the men’s room. Bure swanned in and acted like he was a king. Collin sat down as if he’d forgotten his need to relieve himself.”

  As if perhaps Collin was meeting someone but dared not with Bure present?

  “Who else was there, do you remember?” he asked.

  “I recall there were two other girls and their dates in the room. They were Leskov and Polunin. Leskov is a businessman.”

  “In railways, yes. I know. And Polunin is a bureaucrat in charge of what passes for security in Fergana. Important men.” With a possible spy at the next table with them.

  “And Prae had just come to check that everything was fine in the room. But she only stuck her head in and left again.”

  “Was this before or after Bure came in?”

  Maria frowned. “Before, I think. Is it important?”

  Sighing, he shook his head. “I’m not certain. But there is something there.” And it filled him with disquiet. Something was clearly wrong and Bure was somehow involved in all of it. It might seem tenuous, but the two cases were somehow connected by more than his imagination.

  He set down his cup and scooped the documents and photos into a file, then headed for his coat. “You stay here. There is somewhere I must go. I should be back in a few hours.”

  §

  By midmorning, New Moscow’s few plows had been hard at work and traffic was moving in the city again. Kazakov’s sedan plowed down as far as the houses and then had clear sailing—almost as clear as the wisps of clouds in the blue sky. They were fools’ clouds, there to fool the unwary into thinking the storm was over, when really they were harbingers of things to come.

  He glanced down at the file and the photos. Rostoff could have them. He would make his own archive—again. At the old town he pulled off and found a printer’s shop on a side street that he’d recalled from a prior counterfeiting case.

  He walked in to the sound of a bell overhead and the scent of ink and dusty paper. The place was poorly lit in the front, but a beam of light came from the backroom. Someone scuffed their feet, presumably in reaction to the sound of the bell. Then a thin, short man in a long-sleeved, white shirt and black trousers came into the shop.

  “May I help you?” he asked. His white shirt had blue-stained cuffs that matched the blue skull cap he wore.

  “I need the use of your photocopier.”

  The thin man pursed his lips and then shook his head. “I know you—polizia. Don’t think I don’t know your tricks. I let you in and then you plant evidence so that you can arrest me later.”

  Kazakov closed his eyes. He’d heard tell of such tactics when the department was under scrutiny for too few successful arrests and prosecutions. For a moment he wondered if such had been the case with the old counterfeiting file.

  “Is your photocopier available or not? It may help solve the murder of Semetai Manas.”

  There. He knew that exposing his purpose could be dangerous, but in the old city he had to think that such information might also lead people to help him. The elderly printer’s gaze narrowed, his lips thinning to a line.

  “I do not want to see what you are doing,” the printer said, looking Kazakov up and down. “I was there when the police came. I remember you, now. You—you are the one who is friends with Khalil.”

  The printer’s knowledge surprised Kazakov a little. To be known as a friend was an honor amongst these people. Nodding, he held up the file. “I am—at least I try to be. Please help.”

  The printer nodded him back behind the counter and into the brightly lit back room. The printer left Kazakov to quickly copy the documents. When it was done, the little man refused Kazakov’s money.

  “Just find those who killed the boy. Please. The old town. It is not like it used to be. Now people are afraid. There are things happening.” He looked over his shoulder in a motion Kazakov recognized as something he did himself—looking to the mountains.

  “Things have changed,” Kazakov said.

  The little man nodded. “Many of us have family who did not settle when the Russians came. They make their livelihood with their herds and bringing goods over the mountains. But many families should have traded this year before returning to their winter places in the lower mountains. So far, they have not come and the passes are closing. There are whispers that something is stirring. People are worried that the war between the Chinese and Ottomans is returning and this time Fergana will no longer be a buffer.”

  Kazakov checked his watch and looked to the door. Tribal legends and rumors of war were not, at the moment, his problem. “Listen, I have other business to attend to and I must get these files to the man who demands them. But if people would be willing to talk to me about Semetai Manas, I would be willing to speak with them. Ask around. Tell them I will check back here at about noon tomorrow. Will that work?”

  Meeting Kazakov’s gaze, the little man nodded. “If this hurts these people, I will find men to kill you. It is too long we have allowed your people to take, take, take from us and our families.”

  Kazakov bowed his head. “We have all lost something. For your people it was your land. For us? I fear Baba Yaga has swallowed our soul. Thank you, friend. I will be here tomorrow.”

  He left in the milky sunlight of late morning, the wispy clouds having joined hands to form a haze over the sun. The temperature had fallen, too, and the wind came from the eastern mountains. It smelled of snow and he wondered again what had brought this unseasonable winter upon them. It was as if the world was intent in weighing them under.

  In the car, he realized that he was hungry. It was many hours since he’d had tea the night before. At the edge of the old city he availed himself of a small restaurant run by a proprietor who looked like he might be of mixed Russian and Kyrgyz blood. Kazakov ordered a thick noodle soup that came mixed with minced carrots and potatoes and small chunks of lamb redolent with grease. He slurped it up under the less-than-friendly gaze of the proprietor whose lunchtime trade vanished as soon as Kazakov walked in. With the soup came a round of what Russian’s insultingly called tribesmen’s shingles—flat bread baked on the side of a brick oven with succulent, chewy crust that he soaked in his soup broth. When he was done, he paid and tipped the owner handsomely for his trouble before returning outside to the snow and wind. With his belly full, he no longer felt quite so cold.

  He steered the old police sedan back to the Red Veil’s location and climbed out. Sighing, he trudged up the stairs and knocked on the red door dreading more of Frau Zelinka’s games. Instead, Prae must have seen him coming, for when the door yanked open she held a small tray of engraved silver.

  “Frau Zelinka says I must give this to you, but I am not to let you in.”

  On the small silver tray rested the same brown envelope he had avoided in Frau Zelinka’s boudoir. Even through his leather gloves, his fingers felt soiled when he picked it up and silently slid it into his pocket. Rostoff’s retirement plan burned like a hot coal against his chest, and there were other establishments in the area to visit. He turned and returned back down the stairs, waiting for the sound of the door closing behind him
. It came when he stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  Head down against the wind for his old hat’s patchy fur allowed in the cold, he made the rounds of three lesser brothels. At each he casually asked about Frau Zelinka and the Red Veil and learned that she had long been feared for her connections to the country’s most powerful men. She had apparently had a meteoric rise from whore to brothel owner that no one could fully explain except that she had quickly filled the void when the brothel’s previous owner had died under mysterious circumstances. None of these other brothels served the upper echelons of government or foreign embassies like the Veil. At each one he asked a follow-up question: “Have you lost many customers to the Veil over the years?”

  Two owners handed over their envelopes of cash with a shake of the head. The third, a thin, wizened woman named Zelda, narrowed her gaze at him. She had penciled eyebrows so rigidly arched that she seemed eternally surprised.

  “Is this about him, then? Bure?” She sat beside a small, scroll-topped desk in a room of dark wood paneling that drank in the light from the small lamp above the desk. Through the dim light, shadows veiled paintings of naked men and women on the walls.

  “Bure? What are you talking about?”

  The woman’s gaze turned cagey, the light catching the angles of her face to show her age. “You know who I’m talking about. Boris Bure. That bastard had that bitch Zelinka steal my girl Katya. I’d just brought her in when Bure decided he was too big for us and started going to the Veil. The next thing I know, two men are here. They drop a few thousand dollars on my desk and then bundle her off. I know it was Bure behind it. He always liked the youngest girls.”

  It took a moment to process this information. Then he frowned at the woman. “How long had Bure been coming here?”

  The woman’s smile was yellowed from too many years of strong tea and tobacco. “What is this information worth to you? You want the dirt on Bure? I have photos.”