After Yekaterina

by K. L. Abrahamson

  He pulled himself up to his full six feet two and almost set the cane away, but there was too good a chance that without it, he’d fall. His strength might be better than it was, but he wasn’t a young man anymore. He picked his way around the house and the sedan’s driver-side door clicked open.

  Out stepped a tall, thin, baby-faced blonde man who looked as if he should still be living with his mother, but who was, in fact, the youngest member of the New Moscow detective squad. Pavel Chelomeyev was the son of a senior member of the New Moscow police, which was most likely why he had been promoted to detective when most recruits were still taking notes for their training officers. He’d been partnered with one of the hard-case detectives on the squad, though he had worked with Kazakov a time or two in the past. One could argue that Chelomeyev was also responsible for Kazakov being alive today.

  “Kazakov!” Chelomeyev’s strong baritone was always a surprise, more so when it echoed back from the thick line of trees. He stood swathed in a thick wool coat down over his knees and black fur hat that seemed ungodly large for his scarf-wrapped neck.

  Kazakov only nodded and hooked his head at the dacha, then thumped up the four snow-covered stairs to his front door. He stepped inside and Chelomeyev crowded in behind him while he lit a kerosene lamp. Koshka, Kazakov’s rebellious female black cat, twined around his legs. The single-room log cabin was comfortably warm and quite adequate for Kazakov on his own or perhaps with another, smaller, person. The place had no electricity and had been built by his father when Kazakov was a boy. After his mother died they had spent many summers here. After his father died and Kazakov’s disastrous marriage ended, the dacha was the only thing Kazakov had held onto. He’d moved in then, and had no plans to move out again, though he was considering installing a complete bathroom to replace the water closet attached to the kitchen.

  At the moment, however, the place did not feel big enough for both Kazakov and Chelomeyev as they removed their coats and hats in the small area between the woodstove that stood against one wall and the table that filled the center of the room. Another, narrow table stood against the wall beyond the woodstove and served as Kazakov’s desk. A small kitchen filled one corner and a narrow bed sat opposite the desk. A small couch filled the final rear wall. It didn’t leave a lot of room for someone whose arms were as long as Chelomeyev’s. As usual, Koshka mewed plaintively for food though she had been given her dinner only a few hours before.

  “Go on with you.” Kazakov used the side of his boot to gently send Koshka on her way as he hung his coat and hat on a peg by the door. In disgust, Koshka leapt up to the shelf above his bed to curl up and hold him in a disapproving glare.

  Kazakov turned back to the young detective in his neat grey suit and expensive tie who was trying to figure out what to do with his coat. Kazakov wasn’t going to help him. He might have invited the young detective in, but that didn’t mean that he’d told the youngster to make himself at home. Chelomeyev settled for folding the garment over the back of one of the two spindle chairs at the table.

  “Why are you here?” Kazakov asked, dispensing with any of the niceties. This was home. If he wanted guests, he’d invite them, but Chelomeyev wasn’t on the very short list of people Kazakov would consider inviting. No one from the police department was, but at least Chelomeyev was polite enough to wait in the car rather than invade the cabin to wait for him.

  Chelomeyev looked back at his coat, perhaps rethinking the garment’s removal. “I—I thought I would check up on you. It has been almost two months. Surely you will be coming back to work soon.”

  Arching a brow at the younger man, Kazakov went to his kitchen and retrieved a bottle of vodka and a single glass, then thought better of it and grabbed a second glass. “You expect me to believe that?”

  He thumped the bottle and glasses on the table and studied the younger man. Chelomeyev sidled uneasily where he stood—nervousness—not a good thing in a detective.

  “You want something, then.” He lifted his chin at the chair. “Sit. Have a Christmas drink with me.”

  Obedient as a school boy, Chelomeyev sat. Kazakov swallowed a smile. The youngster still had some growing up to do. A shame his father hadn’t allowed him to do it the way every other officer matured into the job.

  “How long were you waiting?” Kazakov asked as he poured two tumblers and set the bottle down. The sweet glow from his meal with Agafya had worn off, but then Chelomeyev was an unwelcome intrusion of the real world.

  “About an hour.”

  Odd how he felt so resentful when he should be appreciating the youngster’s patience in waiting—and waiting in the cold, at that. But Kazakov had been waiting for someone from the police force to come to try to change his mind ever since he’d refused the offer of early retirement from Detektiv Chief Inspector Rostoff. He drained his vodka back and poured himself another as Chelomeyev sipped. The slow sweet warmth crept from his belly to his heart and then his arms.

  “So?” Kazakov asked leaning back in his chair. “How are you? I won’t ask about the department because I know it will be fucked up as usual.” He eyed his tumbler, but limited himself to matching Chelomeyev sip for sip waiting as the youngster found his courage. Clearly it had not been an easy choice to come here. His father would not approve and neither would Rostoff nor the other detectives. “Where is Sherepov?” Sherepov being Chelomeyev’s surly partner.

  The young detective set down his glass and drew in a deep breath. He shoved back from his chair and stood to pace around in the cramped room. Kazakov watched him and took another gulp of vodka, certain he wasn’t going to like anything that caused Chelomeyev such consternation. Chelomeyev’s movement stirred the kerosene lamp shadows so the room seemed to expand and contort as if they were inside the old witch Baba Yaga’s chicken-legged house with miraculous adventures awaiting beyond its confines. He knew better—unlike Ivan Mareson from Agafya Ryabkov’s recent telling, there was no one to put him fully back together again when the bullets came flying. He still ached where his one kidney was missing.

  “I’ve been involved in these investigations,” Chelomeyev began. From where he stood in the shadows he looked eternally young, like a tragic figure lost beyond the mythic River Styx who wished to come home.

  He shook his head, his bright blonde head of hair shifting on his forehead. “I don’t know what to do. Sherepov is off on sick leave and one of these is my first murder investigation on my own—like you.” He gave Kazakov a proud, but hopeful glance. Kazakov was the only detective in the department who worked alone, whether because he distrusted his co-workers or they distrusted him, he no longer cared. Clearly, Chelomeyev had come to him as a last resort. Asking for help would be a sign of weakness. Asking Kazakov for help would damn the young detective in the eyes of the squad.

  And just like that, the illusion of safety in the comfortable light and shadow of his dacha disappeared and became only shadows, the outside world intruding.

  He shivered. A piercing knife blade cut through his side and he hissed out through his teeth. Did he want any part of this after all that had happened? He took another gulp of vodka, emptying the glass, and poured again.

  But this was Chelomeyev and Kazakov owed him.

  “What is the problem?”

  Chelomeyev returned to his chair and leaned across the table. “Rostoff has told me to close the files. There is not enough evidence, he says. But my gut tells me that there is something there.” He shook his head, his expression both pained and hopeful. “No one believes me, just like they never believed you.”

  Kazakov closed his eyes against that look. He had seen something similar in Maria’s gaze before she died. He did not like the guilt. “Your superior officer has told you to close the file. To do anything else is a poor career move. Think about it. Your father would not be happy.”

  “You say that now, but listen to the cases—the facts as I know them.”

  A rustle of fabric and Kazakov opened his eyes. From somew
here Chelomeyev had produced two manila envelopes from inside his woolen greatcoat. From outside the dacha came the sound of the wind stirring in the eaves as if something else was trying to come in—or draw him out. Chelomeyev slid the top envelope across the table to him.

  For a moment he almost pushed it away. The lantern light gleamed beckoningly on his tumbler of vodka. Then he tipped the envelope contents onto the table. Police investigation evidence that should be in a police file in the department, not here in his dacha. On top was a photo of a body splayed over strewn documents. Male. In his fifties, though he looked trim and fit. The body wore an expensive-looking blue suit and white shirt, both covered in blood, but what likely killed him was the gaping second mouth in his neck. Blood blackened the edge of a Bokhara carpet, and the hardwood floor under him, but through it you could see the expensive haircut, the manicured hands.

  The man was clearly somebody.

  “Messy,” Kazakov said.

  “His name is Grigori Ivanov. He runs—or ran—an import-export business in New Moscow specializing in tobacco products and in particular expensive American brands. He was found in his home office like this last Monday morning by the housekeeper who comes in three times a week. He was alone in the house,” Chelomeyev said.

  Kazakov slid the photo aside to look at the M.E.’s report underneath. Numerous bruises on the body, but the M.E. confirmed his assessment of the mortal wound. According to the report the neck wound would have required considerable strength, but the bruising indicated a beating that could have slowed the victim down. The document was signed neatly with the familiar signature of Khalil Khan, the lone Kyrgyz M.E. in the country and possibly its only Kyrgyz doctor.

  Kazakov glanced back at the photo. Physical strength, and also a strong stomach.

  He closed his eyes again feeling the old awareness of his country creep back into his soul—something he had been trying to avoid for the past month. Fergana was his people’s second chance after the Ottomans drove Yekaterina the Great out of Moscow. After escaping eastward into Siberia, followed by a long diaspora, they had found the tribal Kyrgyz people welcoming and had settled here—only to do to the Kyrgyz what had been done to the Russians by breeding more quickly, taking the land and then simply by excluding the Kyrgyz from the opportunities of modern Ferganese society. The Kyrgyz might still have the ancestral connection to their traditional lands, but they no longer owned it. It made Agafya’s bitterness understandable.

  He glanced back at the photo. “What about the wife?” he asked. “A bloody death usually speaks of a crime of passion. It would not be so difficult to slit a throat once the victim is down.”

  “Not this woman. And she was out of town visiting friends.” Chelomeyev frowned. “How did you know there was a wife?

  Kazakov tapped the photo. “Rings. Not all men wear them, but this man does. It suggests the marriage was important to him—and the wife. You’ve checked her alibi of course.” He glanced up at Chelomeyev who nodded and leaned across the table.

  His long pale fingers sorted through the documents to a statement. “Hers.”

  Kazakov’s hand itched for his vodka glass. If he was to get involved in a case, it would be a case of his choosing—one that still haunted him.

  The statement of Svetlana Ivanova was brief. She was out of town for the weekend with a friend and then her return was delayed for twenty-four hours due to road conditions in the mountains. She last spoke to her husband the day before she left. She had phoned him at work to tell him that she had decided to accompany her friend, Olga Gruenwald, on a ski trip to the mountains. Her husband had complained a little about her going without him, but he was busy dealing with some crisis or another at work and—as usual—had chosen work over her.

  He glanced up at Chelomeyev. “Her words?”

  The young detective nodded. “As close to verbatim as I could capture.”

  Kazakov turned thoughtfully back to the papers. The phrasing suggested the wife was less than happy in her marriage. But if the case was that obvious, why was Chelomeyev here? Had someone sent him? Someone intent on ensnaring Kazakov in a case again? But surely Chelomeyev wouldn’t do such a thing given how much the young detective had risked to help Kazakov on his last case. On the other hand, perhaps this was his penance to save his career…

  Kazakov kept reading. The wife and her friend had left on Thursday afternoon and traveled by automobile for the four-hour trip to her friends’ dacha in the small mountain village of Biysk, named after another town long lost to the Ottomans. They went to ski and enjoy the clear air and the natural mineral baths. She returned on Tuesday, the day after the body was discovered and was shaken and worried that someone might come after her, too. She could think of no one who would want to harm her husband. He was a well-regarded member of the community. He and she were involved in charity work together. It made no sense.

  “And does it make no sense?” Kazakov asked.

  Chelomeyev shrugged as if it didn’t matter—never a good gesture on a detective, and yet he was here.

  “Her alibi is strong. Her friend and her friend’s employer both confirm her presence at the dacha. It would be impossible for her to get back down the mountain over the weekend, because they truly were snowed in.”

  Nodding, Kazakov pawed through the papers.

  “A mistress?”

  “If there was, they were unusually discrete. His office knew of no one.”

  There had to be something. There was always something. And the death wounds spoke of ferociousness and high emotion that led to the killing. Or the killer was a psychopath.

  He read through the wife’s friend, Olga Gruenwald’s, statement that confirmed the Svetlana Ivanova’s alibi and stopped dead half way through, the sudden surge of memories almost overwhelming.

  Quickly, he fanned out the other papers across the table and found what he had hoped to find: a photo that likely confirmed Svetlana Ivanova’s presence in the mountains. In the photo two women stood arm-in-arm swathed in thick fur coats, their heads encased in matching fur hats that tipped toward each other as fast friends were likely to do. Clearly the wind was blowing for their cheeks were rosy, their furs were blown flat on one side of their bodies, their long hair catching on their faces.

  One woman was dark haired and lean featured, but even swathed in the furs, he could tell she had curves in all the right places, though her body was thin. The other woman was blonde with high Slavic cheekbones and bright, intelligent blue eyes. He knew they were intelligent because he knew her—or at least had met her while investigating his previous case. The case that had killed Maria. The case that had resulted in him being shot.

  He reached for his glass and drank, holding himself to a sip when he wanted to drain the glass.

  “Her.” He tapped his finger on the photo. “Let me guess. That is the friend, Olga Gruenwald, yes?”

  When Chelomeyev nodded, Kazakov leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes fighting back the nausea and the vodka burn twisting his gut. He had spent the past month telling himself that he had done all that he could about Maria’s death, including identifying the murderers, and yet there was something more. Something that connected her death to a rising star politico named Boris Bure. During the investigation a name had come up, but he had never had the chance to investigate further. The name involved was Olga Gruenwald’s employer.

  There was something here. He knew there was. Olga Gruenwald’s employer was a man named Enver Pasha, an Ottoman businessman, a representative of one of the two most powerful empires in the world and one of the empires that sandwiched in the small Russian country of Fergana. The only reason Fergana hadn’t already been swallowed up by the Ottoman Empire was because the Chinese Empire of the Sun was pressed right up against Fergana’s eastern border and would take aggression against Fergana as aggression against their empire. Fergana was the gristle buffer grinding between the two massive entities and both China and the Ottomans were apt to meddle in Ferganese affairs.


  Enver Pasha had been a person of interest in his previous case, both as a possible instigator of a murder, and as a possible target.

  Solving the case had killed the woman Kazakov might have loved and left him minus a kidney. He eased his side and looked back at the papers on the table. And now here was Enver Pasha again, like an ill wind.

  Chelomeyev’s pale face hung like a moon in the shadows of the dacha. Outside the wind had sent a loose shingle tap-tap-tapping like a mad woman trying to get in.

  If he was going back to work, this was a good case to sink his teeth into. If he was returning to active duty, then he could partner with Chelomeyev until Sherepov returned, or until he preferred to work on his own.

  If he was going back to work.

  The trouble was, he wanted the freedom to conduct an investigation that the police department’s senior management would never countenance, not investigate a simple murder even if it might give him grounds to access people he otherwise might not have a right to.

  He inhaled and the muscles in his side sent a sharp stab right through his heart. No. He wasn’t ready yet to make a decision. His injuries were still healing.

  When he could breathe again he shuffled Chelomeyev’s papers back into a pile and stood, leaning heavily on his cane to limp over to his bedside.

  “I can’t help you. I don’t want to be dragged into a case like this.” He sank down onto his bed and would not meet Chelomeyev’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m not ready to return to work.”

  Chelomeyev shuffled the papers back into the envelope and shoved back from the table. Without a word, he hauled on his coat and hat and, with the envelopes, went to the door. “I just wanted your opinion of where to start. All my leads have led to dead ends so far.”

  Kazakov chanced a look in Chelomeyev’s direction and caught the disappointed gleam in the young man’s gaze. Another hero shot to hell. The lad lived in Fergana, he should get used to it.