Last Dance

by Jeffrey Fleishman

  “What’s he like?” says Azadeh.

  “Confident, gentlemanly,” I say. “He’s a swimmer. Barely makes a ripple. Juliette Binoche was sunning herself poolside.”

  “Sounds like a scene from one of his films. I’ve been watching his movies, Carver. You know what they’re all about? Loss. Everyone one of them. Comedy, drama, thriller, fantasy—doesn’t matter. They’re about loss and things taken. Sometimes it’s subtle. Other times it hits you in the face, but every movie is about diminishment and what happens when our desires can no longer feed our soul.” She sips water, pushes a napkin aside. “It’s an impressive body of work when you consider the source. A man who constantly reinvents himself loses who he is along the way. He becomes the lie. The great delusion. He tells the world through make-believe. It’s like the Cold War days when hidden meanings were tucked in books and letters, numbers on postcards.”

  “Film School 101.”

  “Screw you. We do analysis at the FBI. We don’t fly off through the city on whims, chasing nebulous leads, getting people killed.”

  “Ouch.”

  “You deserve it.”

  “I know what you mean though. I got that from him too. He came at me in full. You should have seen him step out of his swimming pool. It was like a director called action. It was for my benefit. To see his vigor, strength. He’s built for an old guy. Relaxed. Suave. They must teach them that. You know, betray-nothing kind of shit. Juliette was a nice touch. It almost seemed cliché but it wasn’t. It was what he’s created. There was a sad nostalgia about him though.”

  Azadeh looks at the menu. The kitchen doors swing open—flame and steam and busy hands, the air sharp with spices, scallions, and kimchi.

  “Why can’t you bring him in?” I say.

  “Too many layers.” She reaches across the table, takes my hand. “You’re not telling me everything, are you?”

  “I may have a few things you don’t have.”

  “No. You have something bigger. You wouldn’t have gone to him without it. You owe me, Carver.”

  She pulls her hand away. I take a sip of water, close my notebook.

  “I’ll give you one thing now and another later,” I say. “I can’t tell you all of it now. I want him for Katrina’s murder. You can have him after. I just want him charged, in the books. You take him after; that’s your business. Don’t be disappointed or pissed. You’d do the same. We’re each working a case.”

  “But mine’s national security.”

  “I know. But he’s not stealing another election for at least two years. I think it’ll be a wrap by then.”

  “A wrap. Really, Carver?”

  “I’m tired, and it fits.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Zhanna.”

  “You met her in Brussels. We talked about that.”

  “I saw her again.”

  “Where?”

  “My bar.”

  “No way. She couldn’t have gotten into the country without us knowing.”

  “Way.”

  “You’re not shitting me?”

  “I am not. She was in disguise. Looked like Madonna. I didn’t recognize her until she spoke.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She thinks Orlov had Katrina killed. She suggested that Katrina is his daughter.”

  “From Maria? Ah, yes.” Azadeh sits back, then leans toward me, lowers her voice. “I suspected that. I did. Reading his files from the agency and other places—a lot of paperwork on this guy if you look. There are bits here and there about his relationship with a linguistics student. They were lovers. Her name is mentioned only once. Maria S. That’s it. We went through old microfilm, university yearbooks, all kinds of stuff. We found one picture of Maria S. from back then. We did an age analysis. It’s the same Maria who today is connected to the oligarchs and Gazprom. Does Zhanna have proof about Katrina?”

  “Not definitive.”

  “Did Orlov know?”

  “He says Katrina came to him with the story a few months ago. Things went well. They met a few times. He asked her to have a DNA test. She got angry. She wanted to be believed, not tested. She stormed out. Days later, she was dead. I think Orlov wanted her to be his daughter. He wanted it to be true.”

  “Why?”

  “The way he talked about her. A sense he had. I don’t know, maybe a connection to that time with Maria.”

  “So why kill her?”

  “She threatened him with something.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the what I can’t tell you now. I don’t even know if it’s true myself.”

  “Carver?”

  “I can’t. Give me a couple of days. I told Orlov we had hair strands and other things from Katrina’s loft that we could do a DNA test with. It was the only time he wavered. Lost his cool. He regained quickly, but the prospect rattled him. He’s leaving for Paris in a few days. I’m going over to the villa before then with a DNA team to ask him for samples. Tell him we want to prove it one way or the other.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Might be a mystery he doesn’t want solved. If he does, and we prove the link, I can arrest him. I at least have enough to get charges.”

  “If he doesn’t?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “His lawyers won’t let that happen. This is a master spy, Carver. I’m thinking he’s a few steps ahead.”

  “Either way, once I confront him on the DNA, I’ll give you what I have.”

  “What you have come from Zhanna? Originally, I mean. She’s the source.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t get played, Carver. This is way beyond you and the death of a ballerina.”

  “What do you know about Zhanna?”

  “You have your secrets. I have mine.”

  Chapter 32

  I head downtown. Eight cranes swing over the city, raising buildings in spaces I never noticed were empty. I stop at Demitasse. Ortiz is three espressos in, wired, and sneaking quick glances at Mariella, the barista.

  “It’s become an obsession,” I say.

  “Mere fantasy.”

  “You won’t . . .”

  “Aw, hell no. But I like that she’s here. Look. She’s pretty, don’t you think?”

  “Jesus.”

  “Don’t act like that,” he says. “We need escapes. Shit that keeps us sane. Little stories we keep inside. She’s my story. No harm.”

  “What do you imagine in this story?”

  “It’s not sexual, which, I guess, is kinda strange. Mostly, it’s just us driving down roads and talking, and me dropping her off at work.”

  “How exciting,” I say.

  “Don’t be a prick.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “It’s imagination, Carver. I don’t really know what we’re talking about. We’re just talking. I hear us talking.”

  “Inside your head?”

  “Daydream shit.”

  I lean closer to him.

  “Azadeh’s pissed,” I say.

  “I got a call from her boss. Everyone up the chain is pissed. Screw ’em. It’s our case now. We’ve got the diary. I have a DNA team arranged. We’ve got Katrina’s toothbrush and hair strands. Should be no problem.” Ortiz looks out the window and waves to a passing uniform talking to an assistant DA. “Orlov’s lawyers called. They want ground rules or some shit. They’re going to try and delay. You think he’ll bolt? He’s going to Paris, right?”

  “He says in a couple of days.”

  “I called Lily. She’s better. Wants in. I sent her over to Orlov’s to watch the villa. At a distance, don’t worry.”

  “She’s still a little banged up.”

  “It’s time, Carver. She can’t sit around thinking
about it. Getting back to work is the best thing. She’s a bird dog, I’ll give her that. Must be all that Ironman stuff.”

  Ortiz waves for two espressos. Mariella winks. She is lovely, the way her hair falls; her brown skin against a white shirt; her small hands moving over cups and spoons.

  “Most guys run up a bar bill,” I say. “But you’ve got a coffee tab. I’ve got to be honest, though, these espressos are too bitter for me.”

  “Bullshit. They’re fine. Okay, maybe a little acidic. But I like the bite. Put an extra sugar in.”

  “You’re weird, Ortiz.”

  “I’m weird? You crack me up, Carver. You’re the weirdest son of a bitch I know.”

  “I’m off. I’ll meet with the DNA guys, and then I’m going to do more reading on Orlov. I need a little sleep too.”

  “Not too long.”

  “At least I know where to find you.”

  He rubs a hand over his face, rolls his neck.

  “I’m starting to think about things,” he says. “Not big things. I’ve already come to peace with those. But the little shit, you know? The cliché stuff. The stuff you’re not supposed to think is important but it is. Like now, you sitting here, Mariella steaming milk. The sounds. The shit that makes life. I’m starting to notice it. Like maybe things have slowed down, you know. I’m taking notice.”

  “Of unimportant shit.”

  “It’s all important. That’s my point.”

  “You getting ready to retire and not telling me?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Could be.”

  “You wouldn’t last two seconds at home thinking about the shit that makes up life.”

  “Maybe not. You think you’ll always be doing this?”

  “For the foreseeable. You’re just having a bad day.”

  “Probably. Or maybe too many bodies, you know. Too many faces. Hundreds over the years. Gone.” He raises and opens his hand as if he were a magician releasing an invisible bird. “Only a few stick out. Isn’t that something? Only a few. I don’t even complain about the paperwork and office politics anymore. That shit’s just part of it, like bone.” He smiles, looks at Mariella’s reflection in the window. “It’s existential.”

  “Ooh, Ortiz is going deep.”

  “I’ve been reading,” he says.

  “I think it’s too much espresso.”

  He sighs and checks his phone. I reach over and grab his hand. I stare at him for a moment. “You’re good at this, Ortiz. You’re just going through it again. What did you call it last time?”

  “Period of doubt.”

  “They pass.”

  “Lasting longer each time though. Which reminds me, you keeping your appointments with the department shrink?”

  “Have one next week.”

  He laughs.

  “If the people of this city knew the weird shit in the heads of the cops protecting them, they’d fucking flee.”

  “I think they suspect,” I say.

  “You better get going.”

  I drop a ten on the table and leave him to Mariella. I keep my car parked on Main and walk past the Independent toward Third Street, up past the Bradbury and through Grand Central Market to Hill Street and home. I call Lily.

  “You good?”

  “Fine,” she says. “Nothing moving here. I’m a couple hundred yards away with binoculars.”

  “Stakeout.”

  “I needed to get back, Carver.”

  “He might take off.”

  “I’ll see him.”

  “Follow but don’t stop.”

  “I know the drill. Hey, Carver.”

  “Yes?”

  “You ever wonder what it’d be like to have money? A lot of money, you know, the villa-no-other-houses-around-you kind of money?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I’m loaded.”

  “If you were, we’d be having a different conversation.”

  She’s quiet for a moment.

  “Hey, Carver.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ll get him.”

  I put on Nick Cave and sit at the piano with a coffee. I play along with “Into My Arms” and then shut Nick off and play alone. I close my eyes and gather unruly notes, but every now and then, I hit a stretch of the sublime. I backtrack, rework it, try to keep it, but it slips away. The coffee’s cold. I add scotch. Just a little. I pull my shortwave radio from the bookcase. It’s small with a silver antenna and rows of numbers and frequencies. I bought it at a yard sale years ago in Alhambra. The guy who owned it once lived in Lebanon. He died, and it made its way to his brother’s home, where it was marked for eight dollars and buried in a box with vases and empty frames. I like its crackle and the distant voices that come in clear and then fade in bits. I catch a soccer game from who knows where. I hear the crowd, the air of the foreign. Then static. I turn the dial and get the BBC, which makes me think of the time before mine—the time of Orlov—when the world came to you through a voice. My phone buzzes.

  “Sam.”

  “Maggie. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. We’re fine. I just put your mother down.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “A little.”

  “Should I come? I have a case, but I could get there in a week or so.”

  “No. But yes, maybe later. In a few weeks.” I hear her breathing. She says nothing for a moment. “It’s disquieting, Sam, to be like this. To be with one person all day who doesn’t know you and can’t care for themselves. I woke up today and didn’t know what day it was. They all run together, you know? Your mother always thinks it’s Sunday. She keeps telling me to get dressed for church. I haven’t gone to church in fifty years, but she thinks we’re children. When she thinks at all. I wonder what she sees when she looks at me. If I exist in some dimension or if I’m just fuzz in her brain. I don’t like to complain, Sam, but it’s tiring.”

  “What can I do? Is it time . . .”

  “Not time for that yet. I don’t want to put her in one of those. I guess we’ll have to one day. I hate the thought of it. I’m just having a weak moment. I’m opening a beer now, Sam. I’m sitting in the kitchen. Picture it. How many times have we sat here over the years?” I hear her sip. “Tell me about a case, Sam.”

  “Are you still reading your mysteries?”

  “Yes. But tell me something true.”

  I tell her about Katrina and Orlov and spies and Stefan and flights to Sudan. “Are you making this up, Sam?”

  “No, Maggie.”

  “Well, it sounds quite fantastical. I remember the Cold War. The Russians were our archenemy. I suppose they still are.”

  “I think so, Maggie.”

  “Tell me about Africa? I always wanted to go and stand on a savanna and let the wind blow over me. It was a dream of mine. I imagine it came from a book I must have read as a girl.”

  “It was dry and sad, but there was a clinic along a river, and children playing soccer.”

  “I never had children, Sam.”

  “You have me.”

  “What’s it like to see a dead body, one that’s been killed?”

  “The ballerina had no marks, Maggie. Her skin was so white it was almost clear. People like to say that the dead—the ones with no marks—look as if they’re sleeping. They don’t. There’s something about them, something unsettled.”

  “That makes sense. I read in the Boston Globe today about all the starving children in Yemen. I wonder if they’ll look like you said when they die. I sent money to a relief organization. How can we let children starve?”

  “Are you okay, Maggie, really?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m just having a moment of weakness. I look at your mother and want to pull what I knew of her out. To find the girl inside I knew. She’s gone. She doesn’t know she’s g
one. But I do. The burden is with the ones who still remember. Do you think of her much, Sam?”

  “All the time, Maggie, all the time. And you too.”

  “I know you do. I just wanted to hear.”

  “How’s that beer, Maggie?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I’ve switched to IPA. The taste is stronger. I like it.”

  “You’re becoming a hipster.”

  “I was a hippie once, you know. I marched on the Pentagon.”

  “The rebel.”

  “You have to be. Look what happens when you’re not.”

  “Tr—”

  “I do not say his name.”

  “How’s the window?”

  “The man came and fixed it a few days ago.”

  “The radiators?”

  “Bled and working fine. Sara helped with that.”

  “Sara?”

  “The nurse I told you about. The one who comes over from the hospital sometimes to help with your mother.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “I want you to meet her next time you come. She’s very good with your mother. She helps me bathe her. She’s quite patient. We had pizza the other night. Sara and I put your mom to bed, and we ate pizza and drank beer until midnight. She’s good at cards. I showed her a picture of you. She thinks you’re handsome.”

  “I’ll meet her when I come.”

  “I feel better now, Sam. Thanks for the talk.”

  “I love you, Maggie.”

  “Your mother would be proud of you. I better go up and check on her. She stirs sometimes.”