there might be a Romanov link. “Is there any way you could compare his DNA to that family?”
“Maybe if I had several months, a translator, and a bunch of politicians smoothing the way.”
“Oh. I didn’t know it would be so hard.”
“One of those pretenders to the throne has been trying to compare his DNA with the DNA of one of the Romanov family dukes for years,” Ginger said. “It’s a political thing.”
“I guess the Romanovs are getting sick of all the Anastasia descendants out there.”
“Something else strange,” Ginger said.
“What’s that?”
“I’m forgetting something important. It’s a creepy feeling, like old age sneaking up on me. I had a thought and lost it.”
“You have a concussion,” Nina reminded her.
“Maybe-maybe even an insight. Damn.”
“It’ll come to you.” Nina heard rustling on the other end of the phone.
“The IV’s out,” Ginger said, “and I am out of here. I’m going back to the lab to survey the damage. I’ll call you later.”
“Is the doctor there? Did the doctor say you could leave?”
“Nobody’s here except me.”
“You took out the IV yourself?”
“See, that’s why I work with dead people. They are so much more patient than the living.”
Paul met Nina in front of the Salinas courthouse at nine. “He’s been following the trial,” he said, after moving in for a kiss and receiving a distracted peck on the cheek.
“Who?”
“Krilov. He left the minute he heard there were still bones out there.”
Nina set down her case and adjusted one elegant shoe. “I suspect a political connection to Russia, Paul, and he’s our link. He was Christina’s lover; Father Giorgi knows him; he comes from an important family. We’ve got to find him.”
“Oh, I’ll find him.”
“Let’s assume Constantin was a page to the royal family, as he claimed. Maybe he knew something-important. Maybe he knew something about their deaths. Maybe he was a witness? And Sergey’s family-but why would any of this matter all of a sudden? This all happened nearly a century ago.”
“I hate to admit it, but I don’t know much about Russian history.”
“Take a look at my research, okay?” she said, checking her watch and smoothing her hair. “Sandy has copies. What I told you is a little sketchy. I’ve got to go.”
She turned and left, forgetting to kiss him good-bye. What a relationship, Paul thought. How could she leave without that last kiss? They might never meet again. She should be able to tell the news media, when he croaked that day in a high-speed crash, I told him how much I loved him.
Paul paid a king’s ransom for a large cup of coffee, stopped by Nina’s office to pick up her handwritten research notes, then went to his office, once again conducting an exhaustive study of the paperwork in the case. He reviewed the old reports, and sure enough, found a mention of Sergey Krilov in the report Dean Trumbo had filed with Klaus several months before. At last, he had an excuse to track the bastard down.
He found Deano playing an early racquetball game at the Sports Center in downtown Monterey. In a large glass booth, grunting and sweating, he took on his competition, an athletic sprite who flew from corner to corner, returning every volley, smacking every serve like a pro. With pleasure bordering on the sadistic, Paul watched Deano lose big.
Seemingly undisturbed, Deano shook hands with his partner, even giving him a little congratulatory pat on the arm. Well, you had to expect it. Show me a good loser, Paul thought, and I’ll show you a loser.
“Rotten luck,” he said as Deano caught sight of him, raised the racket for protection, and turned as white as a boiled egg.
“It’s y-you,” Deano said.
“I’m here on business,” Paul said, not wanting to scare him off. The last time they had met, Paul had been compelled to beat Deano almost senseless for trying to steal his business. Judging by the fresh layer of sweat boiling up on his forehead, Deano hadn’t forgotten the encounter.
Deano recovered his cool act fast. “Follow me,” he said, jerking his head toward the locker room. As tall as Paul but dark, with a trim, square jaw and black curly hair, which women found compelling but Paul found effeminate, he led the way, his stride consciously casual but his towel getting a workout on his brow.
“Work going good?” Paul said, adapting his stride to Deano’s anxious one.
“Great! I mean, fine. I’ve got a few pans frying.”
“Such as the one with Klaus Pohlmann’s firm.”
“That job’s finished. I heard you picked up the investigation.”
“Yeah, Klaus told me he had hired a second grader when the graduate was unavailable.”
They reached Deano’s locker. Dean spun the combination lock and opened it. Clothes smelling like dead, wet fur hung on pegs. Pulling out the clothes and setting them into a neat pile on the bench, watching Paul for any sudden moves out of the corner of his eye, Deano said, “You really scared my mom, calling her like that.”
Paul thought about the last time he and Deano’s mom had spoken. He had been pretending to be an IRS agent.
“She thought I was in trouble with the government. Wouldn’t talk to me for months. Was terrified I was gonna get arrested. Thought it might reflect badly on her.” He glowered.
“Now, why would she think you’d be in trouble with the government?”
Deano slammed the locker shut. “Let’s just leave it that you got even, okay? Now what do you want?”
“It’s this report you prepared for Klaus Pohlmann’s firm, Deano,” Paul said. “You mention a guy named Sergey Krilov.”
Deano took the report and skimmed it. “Oh, yeah. He’s nobody.”
“He was Christina Zhukovsky’s lover.”
“Really? I guess that makes sense.”
“How do you know that? You don’t say here.”
“Stands to reason. She went to Russia to be with him. Lived in his apartment, or whatever they call an apartment over there. He followed her back here, at least for a while.”
“I don’t see anything about Christina’s trip to Russia here, Deano.”
He leaned over Paul’s shoulder and shrugged. “Huh. Guess I didn’t put that in there. It was deep background, not relevant. Remember that time she was gone? She went there. Her cleaning lady told me. I don’t think I got around to writing up those notes.”
“What was she doing there, Deano?” Paul asked.
Deano blew air from his mouth, but decided to humor Paul. “Screwing Sergey Krilov, obviously.”
“She followed him there, or she met him there?”
“She met him here. I guess you missed the cleaning lady. Oh, right, Genya was just getting ready to go back to the Ukraine when I talked to her.”
“So did Genya tell you why Christina went to Russia in the first place?” Paul asked.
Deano took his shirt off, revealing a nicely muscular torso gleaming like a spritzed model of youthful perfection. He leaned over the report, studying it. “Well, I don’t say why, do I? Hmm.”
“No. You don’t.” Paul swallowed his anger.
“Guess not, then.” Deano pulled back. From a duffel bag, he extracted a comb, shoes, and fresh socks. “So, why did she go?”
“Deano, how much did the Pohlmann firm pay you? A thousand? Two?”
He looked cagey. “Oh, that was months ago. It’s hard to say.”
“More than you deserved for two hours’ work, wouldn’t you say?”
“Hell, no. I spent at least a day on this.” He appeared truly offended.
“What did Christina Zhukovsky do while she was in Russia? I mean, aside from sleep with Sergey Krilov?”
“I think she was political,” Deano said. “According to Genya the cleaning lady. Genya was a beauty, but what a talker. Talked my ear off.” Paul hadn’t run across any Genya. Months had gone by; Deano had interviewed an important witness, but hadn’t made a report or even noted her name or her interview, and Genya was probably gone for good. It rankled.
Deano sensed criticism in the air. “Genya didn’t know diddly about the murder,” he said. “She was visiting relatives in San Fran when it happened. All she knew was general background.”
“Sergey Krilov is in California. I want to know where he is, Deano.”
“Well…” Deano thought. “Not with Father Giorgi.”
“He’s connected with Giorgi?”
“They know each other, but I don’t think they like each other. Christina ended up tight with the priest and told Sergey to fuck off. Genya really enjoyed eavesdropping on that conversation. She loved listening to Christina on the phone.” He took his stinky socks off slowly and stowed them in the outside zip compartment of a black gym bag.
“Why would Krilov stay?”
“Here’s the thing,” Deano said, pulling his pants off to reveal things Paul never wished to see. “These people aren’t like you and me. They take no pride in their government. They have no money. They don’t have nice houses. They can’t afford health clubs, probably don’t even give a damn about being buff.” He pushed back his hair, looking astonished at the thought. “They amuse themselves by griping about two things, the scarcity of alcohol and the dirty politicians. Well, you can’t blame them. What else is there to keep a person sane in a godforsaken place like that?”
“Where does Sergey Krilov stay when he’s in California, Deano?”
Deano stepped into the shower and turned his innocent, unlined face up to its flowing waters. “I haven’t got a clue, my man.” He shrugged and rubbed soap into his armpit, giving Paul a roguish look. He had decided that Paul was not going to pound him this time.
He started to sing the song Paul hated the most in all the world. “‘Cherish is a word I use to defi-hi-hi-hi-i-i-i-ine-’”
Paul said, “Give my regards to your mother.”
“What? Sorry, my man, this water-”
Paul grabbed him by the throat with his left hand. He just couldn’t help it. With his right hand he turned off the shower.
“Hear me now?” he said.
Deano, a lover, not a fighter, tried to nod his head, his eyes bulging.
“Don’t ever take a job from the Pohlmann firm again.”
Big nods.
