“Such faith,” Paul said, observing them. “Dumb luck?”
“Statistics,” said Nina, pushing hair out of her eyes. “How many tourists die every year, getting swept out to sea by these tides anyway? One out of thousands?”
“You let Bob go out on the rocks?”
“He goes when we walk down here. I yell at him,” Nina admitted.
“You don’t trust the odds, then.”
“If I made all my decisions rationally, would I consider marrying again? I mean, it would be my third time.” Her first marriage, to an attorney in San Francisco, had ended in divorce. Her second husband had died. “Yours, too. The odds aren’t good.”
“Good thing we’re odd, then.”
They laughed and started down the path. “Christina Zhukovsky,” Paul said, holding on to Nina’s hand as they picked their way, “had a lover.”
“I knew it! Great work, Paul! I’m so ready for a break!” Nina’s heels slipped dangerously over the wet rocks. She caught her balance just shy of a twisted ankle. They finally landed on the beach, locating a flat rock that commanded a view of a horizon flicking fire over the mirror water, and gingerly sat down, holding hands.
“And she had neighbors, a husband and wife. Too bad they were out of town the night she died, or we’d have our killer wrapped and waiting for us in the kitchen, with a satin bow tying him to the chair. The husband didn’t like the looks of Christina’s boyfriend,” Paul said.
“Don’t stop.”
The sun sneaked down, coloring the bottom side of the clouds peach.
“The boyfriend’s a Russian man named Sergey Krilov. I got a good description from the wife.” Paul’s voice got high and sweet. “Shiny, scraggly hair, so light it’s almost white, greeny-yellow eyes with brown specks around the edges, a chin you could scoop ice cream with, it’s so sharp, and a really well defined bod.” His own voice returned. “Her husband’s description conflicted slightly. He called Krilov an ugly but strong little runt with a nose big enough to park an SUV in, who didn’t shave as often as he needed to, with the manners of a mutt. He didn’t appreciate his wife’s interest in Krilov or in me, and shut the door soon after we spoke to explain why to her in loud detail.”
“Any time frame on their relationship?”
“They had seen Krilov hanging around for months, then, in the week or so before Christina died, he didn’t come around, as far as they knew. But”-Paul shuffled his position on the rock shelf, trying to get comfortable-“you know Christina organized a conference at Cal State Monterey Bay right before she died?”
Nina nodded. She had seen a mention of it in Klaus’s background materials.
“Well, Krilov showed up there. He went after Christina. They argued.”
“This was when?”
“About a week before she died.”
“Good,” she said. “How’d you find out about this?”
“After talking with our young neighbors, I dropped by the company that catered the conference, Thought for Food. The guy who started the business is only in his twenties, Rafe Barker, a natural- food fan and masterful vegan chef. He says he’s been working at the university since it started, and has grand plans to create the first campus to specialize in healthy eating. Slow food, as opposed to fast. Something different.” The sun slid below the lowest cloud, shooting golden beacons at them.
“Did Rafe witness the argument between Krilov and Christina?” Nina asked.
“No. He overheard two men, one of them Krilov, yelling at each other about it afterward. He got the impression Krilov was supposed to make up with Christina, whatever it took, but she didn’t want to get back with him. This other man was pissed about it.”
“Why?” Nina asked.
“Who knows?”
“Did Rafe know Christina?”
“Only as a person who gave him headaches bringing ‘damn crude foreigners’ around who missed their meat, and let it be known to the administration. He heard shouts that day, the second day of the conference. They caught his attention, and confirmed his negative opinion of all things not American.”
“How did Krilov react to getting dumped by Christina and then criticized for it?”
“With an undignified lack of decorum, according to Rafe. He smacked the other Russian and turned his back on him.”
“Any chance we have a witness?”
“In Russia by now,” Paul answered.
“Don’t tell me Krilov is, too.”
“No record of his departure so far.”
“Find him. Please.”
“Sure thing, boss.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m looking, believe me. Just talked to Rafe today.”
“Don’t call me boss.”
“Okay, my love.”
Nina leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. “I like that. This really could be important. I still think Alex Zhukovsky has to be our killer, but now here’s a rejected lover who gets in violent arguments. That’s an exciting development, Paul. Do you have anything else?”
Paul said, “I wish the sun didn’t do that, dipping below the horizon where we can’t follow it. I hate to see it go, and I’m not sure it really will come back. Let’s walk some more.” They picked their way along the beach. “The neighbor lady said Christina loved to talk politics. Russian politics. She couldn’t believe how ignorant Americans were, and she would cut out news items for them and bend their ears. They had invited her for dinner once, and once was enough, she said.”
“You know anything about it? Russian politics?”
“The Berlin Wall got pulled down, when, in 1989? and the Iron Curtain shredded in ’91. The Russian Mafia got big. Big boys took over a lot of the industry. The average Russian looked around and said, ‘That’s cool, McDonald’s in Moskva, now could I please get paid for a change so I can afford a cup of coffee there?’”
“That’s my impression, too. What was Christina Zhukovsky’s main interest?” Nina asked.
“The future. Post-Communist Russia. Who would rule, according to the neighbors. She bored them to tears, which means I have no idea what was really going on. Not yet anyway.”
They climbed back up to Paul’s Mustang carefully, the darkness another hazard, but also a refuge.
Back at home and sitting on the couch, Nina surveyed some notes, then sat with her eyes closed, awaiting enlightenment while Bob tossed a ball around the living room and Hitchcock chased it. She was still gnawing around the edges of the case, not knowing enough to sound authoritative about anything. Like her father, Harlan, king of blarney, Klaus oozed confidence when he wasn’t even sure where he was-how come she had to know something to sound knowledgeable?
This Wednesday evening’s only enlightenment arrived in the form of a ricochet off the wall beside her that caught her on the head, telling her that ball-playing in the living room, even with a very soft ball, was not to be encouraged. “Homework,” she ordered, pointing a finger toward Bob’s bedroom.
The trial resumed at nine-thirty, Thursday morning. Sitting in court between Klaus and Stefan, Nina remained uncertain about how to approach the cross-examination, so followed Detective Banta’s testimony like any jury member hearing it for the first time.
Banta had added a pink sweater to peek coyly out from underneath her jacket today, and those high-heeled boots would never catch a fleeing suspect. Her laid-back delivery had the jury riding happily along with her.
By ten-thirty Jaime had led Banta to a discussion about the human remains in the duffel bag.
After a few introductory questions, Banta testified that before transporting the bones to the morgue early Sunday morning, she had taken advantage of having Constantin Zhukovsky’s son at the Monterey Police Station and had shown him the duffel. Alex Zhukovsky told her that the remains were those of his father, whom he recognized due to an item of clothing that was still identifiable, a yellow sash he had worn diagonally over his jacket, made of a tough synthetic fabric that had mostly survived its long burial.
“I got Mr. Zhukovsky a glass of water-and he asked me, ‘Where’s his medal? It was pinned to that sash.’ Remembering the metal object we had taken from the defendant, I showed it to Mr. Zhukovsky. He told me it was some sort of military medal from Russia. He told me his father was buried wearing it in 1978.”
“About what time was this?”
“Almost nine-thirty in the morning by then. I then explained about the other body found in the grave. We hadn’t identified it, and I thought it would be worth describing the victim. He became-I would describe him as extremely concerned-and pulled out a cell phone and tried to make a call, but couldn’t get an answer. He demanded to see the body, so I called Dr. Misumi and she said to bring him over to the morgue with the duffel and the remains. She met us and Mr. Zhukovsky at the door. The victim was lying on a gurney covered with a sheet. When he saw the victim uncovered, Mr. Zhukovsky became very agitated.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He fell on the body and sort of lay across it, sobbing, yelling. Doc Misumi and I had to pull him off.”
“And did he identify the body at that time?”
“Yes, sir. He stated it was his sister, Christina Zhukovsky.” Giving everyone time to get that clear, she looked around, then continued. “I took a statement from him. Is that in evidence yet?”
Jaime took a moment to catch up and introduced Alex Zhukovsky’s statement into evidence, as well as a number of photographs and police reports. He handed the photos of Christina Zhukovsky’s body and the crime scene to Madeleine Frey, who passed them around. Frey seemed to be having trouble this morning. She kept rubbing her leg and shifting around in her seat.
A few of the male jurors stared hard at the photos but showed no visible reaction. One of them, a construction contractor named Larry Santa Ana, took his time. He couldn’t get enough of them and passed them along reluctantly. For good or ill, he was one to watch.
A set of the photos lay in front of Klaus on the table. He ignored them. Stefan took his lead and didn’t look, either, but Nina was drawn again to Christina’s face in one of the photos, a proud face even in vulnerable death, with a strong nose and broad forehead, bluish eyelids finally closed on the morgue gurney. Her neck showed obvious signs of strangulation. You didn’t need a pathologist to figure out what had happened to her.
Nina consulted Klaus’s notes. Jaime had one more subject to cover, the introduction of the blood evidence into the case. He shimmied step-by-step through the material exactly as though directed and choreographed by the notes Klaus had given her.
“Did Mr. Zhukovsky provide you with information relating to the residence of the victim?”
“He gave us her address, and he gave us his copy of her key. She lived on the top floor in a condo on Eighth Street in Monterey.”
“What happened then?”
“I took a statement from Mr. Zhukovsky. Then Officer Martinez and I proceeded to the victim’s apartment.”
“What time was this?”
