Ellie heard the door slam against the closed chain and the sound of a friendly holler in Russian. Zoya released the chain for her husband. Vitali – whom his wife called Vitya – fell silent when he walked into the room and saw Ellie. “Detective. I did not realize we had company.”
“Not for long. I was just stopping by to apologize for upsetting your wife the other day. In light of some developments on the case, we don’t think the killings are related to Tatiana’s death after all. It’s probably as you said: Guns change hands. I’m just sorry to have brought up bad memories.”
Vitali nodded and thanked her for the information. Behind him, Zoya stood silently. Ellie apologized once again before leaving.
Just as she had on her first visit to the apartment, Ellie paused outside the door. She heard Vitali wrestle with their son, Anton. She heard Zoya speak in Russian, then an abrupt response from Vitali. Zoya spoke again, more urgently, then Vitali, sounding angry. By the time Ellie headed for the stairs, the pitch had reached full-scale verbal combat.
Ellie wondered if the Rostovs were one of those couples who fought around the clock, despite all that talk from Zoya about how lucky she was to have found a loving caretaker. If not, then something about Ellie had that effect on them, and that made Ellie wonder what kinds of secrets Zoya and Vitali Rostov had hidden beneath their happy veneer.
ELLIE ARRIVED at Brooklyn’s Metropolitan Detention Center just after five o’clock. Evening visitors’ hours had just begun, and a line wrapped around the concrete bunker of a building. As Ellie made a beeline for the security checkpoint, she felt the resentful eyes of wives, girlfriends, mothers, and children fall on the light-haired, light- skinned woman of authority cutting ahead of them in the dark cold.
The corrections officer at the entrance was a young man with a skin-close haircut, probably just out of an enlisted military stint. “I’m here to see Lev Grosha. Special Agent Charlie Dixon should have added me to his visitors’ list.”
The guard checked the computer in front of him and nodded. “You need some privacy?”
“If that’s possible.”
“I’ll put you in one of the attorney visiting areas. Just be advised. The conversations are monitored by the Bureau of Corrections.”
“The defense attorneys don’t have a problem with that?”
“You think John Ashcroft was thinking about them when he changed our regs? Take a seat at one of the tables in the back. Grosha will be right out.”
The man brought out moments later resembled the man in Lev Grosha’s booking photo but had a roughness to him that she had not anticipated. He was thinner, harder, and more wiry than the pale-skinned, pink-cheeked blond who’d entered MDC eighteen months earlier. As he settled into the seat across from her, she noticed the bottom half of a dark green swastika peeking from a rolled-up shirt sleeve. She waited for the guard to leave.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Grosha. I’m Ellie Hatcher. I’m a detective with the New York Police Department.”
“And you are sure you are here to see me?” His accent was Brooklyn, still tinged with a hint of the old Russian. “The statute of limitations must have run out on anything I might have done before my arrest. Two years, right?”
“Sorry. It’s at least five on most felonies.”
“This is what happens when you listen to jailhouse lawyers.” Behind Grosha’s faint smile, Ellie saw a closer resemblance to the photograph she carried in her purse.
“Not to worry in any case, because I’m not here about anything you might have done. I’m here regarding some murders that have taken place during your incarceration.”
“I’d say I have an ironclad alibi.”
“Yes, you do. We’ve had three women killed in the last year, all of whom were using an Internet dating service called FirstDate. Does that company mean anything to you?”
“No. I mean, yes, I think I have heard of it. You know, people saying that’s how they met. Some even in here, so maybe that’s not the best advertising. But it does not mean anything special to me in particular.”
“We have reason to believe that one man killed all three of these women, and we think it might be someone who – well, let’s just say he might be within your circle of professional acquaintances.”
“And what makes you think I would know this man?”
She had to be cautious here not to reveal too much about Tatiana’s connection to his prosecution, or her murder’s connection to the recent serial killings. “A piece of evidence that has come up in our investigation bears some relation to you.”
“What do you mean, a piece of evidence?”
“The details really don’t matter, do they? What matters is whether you can help me find the guy who’s doing this. A multiple murderer compared to the handful of stolen credit card numbers you swiped? I can get you substantial consideration with the government if you point us in the right direction.”
Ellie hadn’t actually run this part of her pitch past Charlie Dixon, let alone the federal prosecutors who would need to make the deal, but she was pretty sure they’d be able to swing it if Grosha proved helpful. She also knew she had Lev Grosha’s attention. He did not look like a man who enjoyed prison.
“All you’ve told me is that some man is killing women, and that a mysterious link ties the two of us together. That does give me a fair basis for helping you.”
“The man we’re looking for hates women. He judges them. He would be uncomfortable with promiscuity, most likely with women generally. He may also think of himself as religious. He is fascinated with something called the Book of Enoch. You might have seen him reading religious text, or quoting spiritual verse. He may do this either because he truly believes it or is a cynic who uses religion to justify the things that he does. We also know that he has an acumen for computers. He uses public Internet connections so he is not traceable. And – this is right up your alley – he used a stolen credit card to create an account with the company I mentioned, FirstDate. Does any of this remind you of anyone?”
Grosha was staring at her with an amused expression.
“I can keep your name out of it. We just need a lead. He’s murdering innocent women.” She placed pictures of Caroline Hunter, Amy Davis, and Megan Quinn on the table in front of him.
“The only thing that sounded vaguely familiar from anything you mentioned was the use of another person’s credit card. That, as you know, is something I am familiar with. But the people I run with? We are what you might call believers in the capitalist system. We break rules to make our way, to make money. These three women, you said they were innocent. They did not buy drugs or steal or con?”
“No.”
“In that case, the men I know? If they saw these women, they might try to fuck them, but hurting them – what would be the point of that, you know? And religion” – he waved a hand dismissively – “I do not know anyone who gives a fuck about that.”
“How about Vitali Rostov? Do you know anyone by that name? Or he might go by Vitya Rostov.”
His eyes were calm, but she noticed a slight left-leaning head tilt. “Vitya is what you’d call a nickname for Vitali,” he explained. “But no, I do not know a man by that name. He is the man you think is hurting these women?”
“No, probably not. Just a name that’s come up. You’re curious for someone who doesn’t even know him.”
“You have me intrigued. A serial killer. Like Hannibal Lecter, no?”
“Without the cannibalism or the bad face mask.”
Grosha laughed, caught off guard by the humor. “Like I said, I do not know anyone like the man you described, nor do I know any Vitya – what name did you say?”
“Rostov. Vitali or Vitya Rostov,” Ellie clarified.
Grosha shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry. I cannot help you. But it has been nice to meet you, Ellie Hatcher. You are the kind of visitor that a man in prison does not mind seeing, even under these circumstances.”
“Well, since you don’t mind the company, and since you asked a question out of mere curiosity, maybe you won’t mind if I do the same.” He gave her a slight nod of consent. “When did you get the ink?” She glanced at the green bars of the swastika on his forearm.
“Three months after the United States government put me here.”
“Looks like pretty decent work for a prison tat. Your jacket didn’t say anything about having white ethnic pride.”
