by A. Nybo
Thinking about all the times he’d woken from an erotic dream with a hard-on from hell made him wish them together sooner rather than later. The night he’d woken in the middle of an orgasm was the strangest thing of all, as they hadn’t been doing anything more than holding each other. Yet that had been enough to set him off in reality.
Today, the changing pathway of his life had been cemented.
It was disturbing that his thoughts had been totally consumed by Doris Silver Patch when someone was going around killing people. Regardless of how he currently felt about the man, Sergei had to admit Leon Armstrong was easy to look at, with that boyish charm, and he could make the air crackle like eucalyptus leaves in a firestorm.
Chapter 4
BY THE following afternoon, Leon was angry and frustrated with himself. His desire to be away from the powerful sensations Sergei had elicited in him the previous day had enticed him to leave before completing the interview.
The return call from Lars Andersson gave him the necessary cover to return to question Sergei without appearing to be an incompetent tosser. At least this time he’d know what to expect and could prepare himself.
They drove around to Sergei’s place, but the ute wasn’t there, and no one answered the door. “My guess is he’ll either be at his claim”—Charlie checked his watch—“or at Soda Bob’s.”
“Soda Bob’s?”
“The miners’ pub. We’ll call in on our way back. Or even better, check to see if his ute is there.”
Sergei’s orange-dusted ute was indeed parked out the back of Soda Bob’s. The sigh of resignation Charlie issued prompted Leon to ask if there was a problem.
“Just brace yourself,” said Charlie. “We are often the butt of jokes when we walk in here.”
“Who are? The police?” asked Leon.
“Yeah,” muttered Charlie as he got out. “Although it’s only 4:00 pm, so I wouldn’t think there would be a crowd there yet.”
After Sergei’s house yesterday and his hotel room last night, that it was a dugout came as no surprise to Leon, but that’s where the similarities ended.
Soda Bob’s was as rough and ready as the miners were purported to be. The tables and chairs were a mixed set, coming in many shapes and sizes. The way the place was set up, it looked as if the chairs had come first and tables had been made to accommodate the varying chair heights. No two tables were the same, and the aesthetic craftsmanship of most of them left something to be desired. One of them appeared to be a plank of wood set on four fence posts. Leon presumed the fence posts were affixed, as they weren’t falling out from underneath the plank.
A dozen or so men, and several women, were the only clientele, but they all looked like they’d been mining, except Sergei, who appeared as kempt as he probably ever did with that striking orange beard. He sat to the left of two others, and all three were on stools at the bar, talking to the barman.
Someone yelled “Doris!” and every patron turned to look at the door and, with broad grins, began chanting “Dor-is, Dor-is, Dor-is.” There were a few heckles as well, with one man yelling out to ask whether there was a Doris Day available for some extracurricular activity.
Not understanding the jibe, Leon largely ignored it, but knowing it was a taunt of some sort, he smiled and gave a little nod as though bowing to his audience.
Glancing towards the bar, Leon met Sergei’s eyes. Sergei had twisted on his bar stool to watch their advance, a teasing eyebrow raised and a smirk on his lips. He turned back towards the bar.
When Charlie went to the left of Sergei and leaned on the bar, instead of moving to the other side of Charlie and using the big man as a buffer, Leon slipped in between the two. He wasn’t sure why.
The barman was about to speak when Sergei introduced them. Leon supposed it didn’t take a genius to guess they were here to see him.
“Soda Bob, you know local Doris, and this is federal Doris.” Sergei grinned.
“Doris?” Leon asked.
Soda Bob chuckled. “Did you ever watch A Country Practice?”
Leon gave it a moment’s thought and realised the pig in the TV show was named Doris. He turned to Sergei. “I guess that makes you Rasputin.”
Soda Bob’s brow drew down. “Wasn’t Rasputin mad?” he asked one of the patrons sitting to Sergei’s right.
“Mad as a meat axe,” the man with blinding white teeth confirmed.
Coober Pedy was relatively isolated, but was their knowledge of the outer world really that restricted? “He was a mad monk,” Leon offered.
The white-toothed man’s eyebrows shot up. “A monk? I didn’t know that.”
Leon glanced at Sergei who, seemingly ignoring the conversation, stared straight ahead, one hand loosely holding the stubby on the bar before him, the other grooming his beard.
“Nah, he wasn’t a monk.” The redhead who spoke had so many freckles they’d started joining up like overlaid dot-to-dot pages. He added uncertainly, “I don’t think.”
“I don’t know anything about him being a monk,” said Soda Bob, “but whoever gave Rasputin his blasting ticket should’ve been hauled over a bed of shit and left in the shade for the flies.”
His blasting ticket? What the fuck?
At that moment, Sergei turned and looked directly into Leon’s eyes, a smug eyebrow raised and a smile twitching on his lips as if to say, “Well, that went well for you, didn’t it?”
Given he was not in the habit of blushing, when the heat rushed to Leon’s face, it was like lava flowing through the blood vessels in his cheeks. Sergei’s hazel eyes pinned him to the spot like a bug to a board. Leon couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Sergei blinked, and the self-satisfied expression lightened to a teasing and playful gaze that was more captivating than the previous look had been paralysing.
Sergei turned his head away, but his eyes remained playfully on Leon until he was gazing out of their corners from beneath hooded lids. With another blink he looked ahead again.
“Yeah,” said White Teeth. “Tiny was lucky he wasn’t in his pit that day.”
Leon dragged his eyes from Sergei. What were they talking about? Oh yeah, Rasputin and his blasting ticket. Obviously the conversation had gotten away from him completely.
“The man was a menace with explosives,” Soda Bob assured Leon. “He blew up Norman’s washing machine.” He laughed. “It was said that if you wanted a pig to fly, you just had to leave it with Rasputin. He sent most things around him sky high sooner or later.”
Leon assumed Sergei’s soft chuckle was triggered by Soda Bob’s seemingly unintended pig pun.
“Lesson learned,” said Leon, acknowledging that he was the one receiving the education. “Rasputin was a crappy powder monkey.”
“Yep. He sure didn’t get his blasting ticket on a mining site,” said White Teeth.
Sergei stood, pushed his stool back, and squeezed out from in front of it.
“We need to speak with you,” Leon said to him.
Sergei’s eyes met his, and seriousness was replaced with a sparkle of mischief. “I’ll only be a minute.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Trying hard to control his micro expressions, Leon nodded but couldn’t keep his gaze from following Sergei as he walked to the other side of the pub and then down a passage that probably led to the toilets.
Conversation carried on around him, but Leon was lost in Sergei’s ability to evoke emotions that he had never experienced so intensely: nervousness, profound embarrassment—at nothing—and a self-consciousness he hadn’t felt for years.
His interest had left the room along with Sergei. Was that what this was? He was interested in the man in a way other than as a witness or a suspect? Sergei was unusual, of that there was no doubt. Since Charlie had voiced as much, Leon decided not to be overly concerned with his own level of interest.
A girl with black-and-purple-spiked hair had intercepted Sergei at the juncture of the passage and the barroom, and they we
re both looking at something they were holding. The object was too small to identify from where Leon stood. The girl abruptly threw her arms around Sergei and rained kisses on his face. It was the response of someone who’d just received a gift. Sergei lifted his arms from his sides and slid them around her waist.
A stab of discomfort caused Leon to avert his gaze from the intimate moment, and he tried to catch the thread of the conversation, which had somehow transformed from Rasputin and his blasting ticket to Easter Bunny tripping on acid. It wasn’t really clear whether they were talking about a person or the real Easter Bunny. Leon frowned at himself—the real Easter Bunny? This really was a strange place, and it was messing with his brain.
Sergei returned to the bar and pulled his stool out.
“If you don’t mind, perhaps we can talk at that table over there,” suggested Charlie.
Leon tried to hide his surprise. Were they really going to interview him in the pub? He repeated what he’d just told himself—this really was a strange place.
Sergei nodded and snaffled his stubby from the bar. The three of them sat at a table Leon feared he might snag a splinter from, but the smoothness beneath his forearm told him there was indeed a finish on the wood.
“Do you know a man named Pavel Bobrinsky?” Leon asked. He took the photograph from his shirt pocket and showed it to Sergei.
“No.”
Earlier, they’d shown that photo to nearly every business in town, and no one had seen him. The man was a ghost—or he wasn’t here.
“Do you come from Murmansk Oblast?”
Sergei tensed so abruptly, it was like a door had slammed between them. He took a slow sip of beer and set his stubby on the table as though afraid it would make a noise. “Da.” His voice was almost a whisper.
“Is that a yes?”
Sergei nodded. “Is it meaningful?”
“Perhaps.”
Sergei’s brows drew in towards each other. “Is this Pavel Bobrinsky from Murmansk?”
The Russian’s pronunciation was closer to Moormonsk, and it took Leon a moment to understand that he’d repeated the name of the oblast. Never having been particularly keen on Russian accents before, he liked the way the names rolled around when Sergei spoke them. Previously, he’d always thought Russian to be a spiky and abrasive language, but that was obviously a preconceived idea born of ignorance.
“We believe so, yes,” said Leon.
Sergei sat pensively for a moment and then raised strong, square-fingered hands in indifference before letting them drop to the table. “Murmansk Oblast is a big place.”
“Yes, it is,” agreed Leon. “However, I find it coincidental that two Russians from Murmansk should end up in Coober Pedy, Australia.”
“It’s been almost fourteen years since I was last in Murmansk.”
Charlie’s mobile rang, and the others looked at him, waiting for him to answer it. Charlie glanced at the screen and rose. “Back in a minute.” He was already answering the phone as he left the table.
Leon turned back to Sergei. “Have you had contact with anyone from Murmansk? Family or friends?”
“No.”
“What brought you to Coober Pedy?”
Drawing his head back a fraction, Sergei gave the impression of looking down his nose. “Since you’re asking, you seem to think there is a reason beside the obvious pull of possible riches.” Devilry came into his deep-set hazel eyes, and even in the artificial light they seemed to twinkle far too much. He rested his lower arms on the table, which brought him closer to Leon. “Do you know what aboriginals call this place?”
“No.”
“Kupa Piti, and it is variously translated as boys’ waterhole, white man’s hole, or my all-time favourite, man in hole.” He leaned so close that Leon could smell his sweat—a scent he found peculiarly alluring. “And personally, I can think of no place I’d rather be.” Sergei’s mouth grew so wide his teeth were visible beneath his moustache.
He knew.
Sergei knew Leon was gay and had not only just declared his own sexual preference, but also made a pass at him.
Embarrassment flooded Leon. He wasn’t closeted in his personal life, but being gay was something he had tried hard to keep hidden from his professional life. And Sergei had just declared his attempts an abject failure.
“Sir gay!” someone said nearby.
Did every-fucking-one know?
Wincing, Leon thought his heart was about to stop.
Sergei leaned in close to him, and Leon’s skin broke out in goosebumps. “Is all right,” he soothed. “He calls for me. That’s how you Australians say Sergei.” Sergei patted Leon’s forearm, leaving a tingling patch behind. “You are all right. Be still.”
Leon didn’t know whether to turn from the new arrival or face him head on, so he took Sergei’s advice and remained still.
Why the hell hadn’t he thought about how the name Sergei was pronounced? God, he felt like an absolute idiot. A well-exposed idiot at that. And wasn’t he doing a bang-up job of interviewing a witness-cum-suspect. Oh, how he could sympathise with Rodney now.
Sergei waved to the newcomer, who made his way to the table.
“Sirgay, how ya doing? I heard there was trouble out your way.”
Sergei nodded. “Eddie, this is federal Doris. He is in the middle of asking me about it.”
Leon considered correcting him, but since that had ended with Rasputin’s blasting ticket and a tripping Easter Bunny the last time—combined with the considerable drop in his confidence from Sergei revealing something he’d managed to keep hidden for most of his career—he didn’t bother.
Eddie looked Leon over, his gaze lingering on the shoulder flash of Leon’s uniform. “The Feds, eh? This is getting serious, isn’t it?” he asked wryly.
“I’ll come over soon,” said Sergei.
“I’m going to hold you to that,” said Eddie and wandered towards the bar.
“Was that all? Or did you have more questions?” Sergei asked Leon.
Lost for words, simultaneously disappointed and relieved that Sergei ceased flirting, Leon fumbled through the files in his mind for the right thing to say, for the questions that needed answering.
The only question that came to mind was, if Sergei was gay, what was all that about with the spiky-haired girl? Yeah, right, not really an appropriate line of questioning.
“When you reported the murder, you stated that you thought the murderer might still be at the scene,” said Leon. Great, ask something that had already been determined. “What gave you that idea?”
Convinced Sergei’s assessing look could have provided a coffin maker with measurements, Leon tried not to squirm under his scrutiny.
“For you, I can only say that it was a feeling,” Sergei said finally.
“What do you mean, for me?”
“I think you are a man of science.”
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.” Leon hoped Sergei wasn’t going to get all preachy on him.
Sergei shrugged. “Good thing, bad thing, what does it matter? They are all just different ways of seeing.”
“And if I wasn’t a man of science?”
“But you are.”
“Are you saying God warned you?”
Sergei’s mouth lifted at one corner. “I’m not a monotheist. Regardless, I am not suggesting I had supernatural warnings.” One of Sergei’s eyebrows flicked up and down so fast Leon almost missed it. “Beyond the supernatural nature of feelings.”
Leon was sure Sergei was referring to the inability of Leon’s science to explain the nature of emotion. “Are you making fun of me?”
Sergei stared at him unblinking. “Yes.” A slow smile crept onto his lips, and in spite of himself, Leon returned it. Still smiling, Sergei winked. “But I would still welcome you at my home.”
Leon couldn’t keep the grin under wraps completely, so he twisted his mouth in an effort to distort the visible magnitude of the impact Sergei’s invitation had o
n him, hoping the end result was a sardonic smile. “Thank you,” he said.
Charlie was making his way back to the table, so Leon grappled to locate another of the questions he had intended to ask Sergei. “Is there anything in this case, or from what you’ve heard of the other murder, that makes you think it could be related to… ah… animism, is it?”
“To animism?” Sergei asked with surprise. “No.”
“Are we about ready to go?” asked Charlie. “There is a matter at the station I need to attend to.”
“I think we’ve got all we need for now,” said Leon.
Sergei’s eyes filled with a wicked playfulness that Leon wished he had time to investigate. Instead he rose to his feet. Uncharacteristically, he held out his hand for the witness to shake and tried to tell himself that it wasn’t because he wanted to touch the man. “Thank you for your assistance, Sergei.”
Sergei shook his hand and raised an eyebrow. “If you need me, you know where I live.” The smile in Sergei’s eyes left Leon in no doubt it was a reference to the invitation. His cheeks began to burn again. What the hell was up with that? It had been about twenty years since he’d last blushed, and now he’d done it several times since arriving in Coober Pedy. And, he thought belatedly, all in response to Sergei Menshikov.
Halfway to the door, Leon realised he’d been so caught up in Sergei that he hadn’t shown the photo to Soda Bob. “Wait up,” he said to Charlie. “I’ve just got to ask Soda Bob something.”
“I’ll meet you in the car.”
At the bar, Leon showed Soda Bob the photo. “Have you seen this man before?”
Soda Bob took the photo and held it at arm’s length to examine it. “Yeah.” He tapped it with his finger. “His name is Pavlova, or something like that. He came in here looking for Sergei.”
“When was that?”
“Ah.” Soda Bob stared at the bar as his thoughts apparently turned inward. “About a week or so ago.” He returned the photo to Leon.
“Did he catch up with him?”