mind. No one he had met on this case was stupid, and even the women seemed well practiced in duplicity and capable of anything.
A tap at the door yielded silence for a good thirty seconds. When he heard movement, it was a shuffling gait, not the energetic steps he expected. When she opened the door, Raisa was in heels and a tasteful gown. He assumed she had not changed from what she wore to the Russia House that morning.
Invited into the house for the first time, Hannibal was struck by how much the decor reminded him of the Russia House. Not just the paintings but the frames too gave the impression that this woman longed to go back in time and live in tsarist Russia. She seated him at the kitchen table and poured for them both from a china teapot. After taking a long drink, she looked at Hannibal as if anticipating an inquisition and not really caring to avoid it. At that moment, Hannibal had no desire to play the game.
“Mrs. Petrova, are you all right?”
“I am fine,” she said into her teacup. “It is just that, well, she’s gone.”
“Viktoriya?” Hannibal asked. When she gave a sullen nod, he asked, “Gone where?”
“Gone with Dani. Gone from my life.”
Raisa Petrova had the furnace running and kept the house quite warm. That didn’t stop Hannibal from feeling a chill run down his spine. Had she expected them to stay there with her? Was she counting on Gana’s money to support her, or was she simply missing her little girl?
“Never mind,” Raisa said, waving her hand to brush the subject, or perhaps her daughter, away. “You have spoken to Yakov, I suppose, and now have more questions of me about Dani. Well, go ahead and ask them.”
Hannibal nodded and pulled out the same photo he had shown the Sidorovs. He laid it on the table between them and watched Raisa’s face. She brightened for a moment, and slowly reached down to stroke her finger over Nikita’s smiling face.
“This was taken in the Russia House, years ago,” she said. “Where did you find this? How did you get it?”
“I’m a detective,” Hannibal replied.
That earned a genuine smile, and Raisa reverted to the woman he first met. “Yes, of course. You have your sources and all that. Well, thank you for showing me this photo. It takes me back. But why are you showing it to me?”
Cindy’s safety and Hannibal’s privacy depended on his exploring how long Raisa had known Dani Gana and what his relationship was to the others in the room that night. But when he went to point to the photo, his finger moved of its own accord like the pointer on a Ouija board to the central figure. He had to follow his instincts.
“Can you tell me who this fellow is?”
“The big man with the little round belly and almost no hair left?” Raisa said. “That’s Boris Tolstaya.” There was now an edge on her voice, slicing at Tolstaya’s memory.
“I take it you knew him.”
“He was a friend of Nikita’s from the army,” she said, shaking her head. “Big gambler, and investor for the Red Mafyia. Like Nikita, he was one of Yakov’s patients.”
“A tight little group,” Hannibal said, surprised at how casually she was talking about her husband’s mob connections. “A couple of war vets, both tended by the same doctor. And if this Tolstaya was handling mob money, I can see how he was able to support your husband in his efforts to keep things running smoothly.”
“Support him?” Raisa slammed her empty cup down on the table hard enough for Hannibal to fear it would break. “He destroyed my poor Nikita. Between them, those two paved the path to his destruction.”
“I don’t understand,” Hannibal said. He looked at the picture again, hunting for any sign that these men were anything but friends.
“Tolstaya was a gambler,” Raisa said. “One of those jovial men who make you laugh all the time. But he was a gambler who got my poor Nikita hooked on that hateful habit. He pretended to be a friend while he took everything we had, one hand of cards at a time.” Her breathing became halting. Hannibal reached out across the table with a gloved hand and spoke in a very soft, even tone.
“The debt.”
“Yes,” she said, looking up in surprise. “How did you…oh. That’s right. You are a detective.” She had no way to know he had spoken to Rissik, but she seemed ready to trust him. She wrapped a hand around his.
“So Tolstaya took all of your husband’s money,” Hannibal said. She nodded. “But you said the two of them destroyed him. How was Dr. Sidorov involved?”
Her face fell in on itself and Hannibal could see tears in there trying to get out, yet she hesitated. She stared into Hannibal’s face, so he slid off his sunglasses. Her head snapped back in surprise. After a moment, she seemed to relax and a small smile emerged.
“They are so blue,” she said. “Like fine porcelain.”
“Not always,” Hannibal said. “But you were going to tell me how Dr. Sidorov contributed to your husband’s downfall.”
“Not him,” she said, shaking her head. “But he introduced the downfall of our marriage. He never found out that I knew, but I found it just two weeks before the end.”
“Found it?” Hannibal asked. She was rocking in her chair now, clinging tightly to his hand as the tears began to flow at last.
“The letter. The love note he wrote to Anastasiya Sidorov.”
The ring of Hannibal’s cell phone split the air like a lightning bolt, charging the air in the kitchen. Raisa turned with a napkin to her face, and Hannibal pulled his phone out to stop the noise as quickly as he could. It was a new phone that did a lot more than Hannibal needed it to, but the one thing he could do with confidence was to push the right button to answer a call. When he said hello, he heard an unexpected voice.
“Jones. I have something for you,” Anthony Ronzini said.
“I’m with Mrs. Petrova right now,” Hannibal said.
“Well, you sure don’t want to have this conversation in front of her.”
Austin Camacho
Russian Roulette
17
It was difficult for Hannibal to pull away from Raisa Petrova, but he knew that this call could hold the final piece of the puzzle that would free Cindy from potential danger. He apologized for his haste, got to his car, and got on the road toward home. Then he pushed the button on his cell phone to dial the number returning the last incoming call. Ronzini answered.
“Jones?”
“Yes.”
“Delete this number from your phone. I’ll wait.”
Hannibal wasn’t sure what to think, but he complied right away.
“OK,” Hannibal said. “It’s gone.” Was this a way of saying he didn’t trust Hannibal to have his private phone number. Probably. But to take his word for it that he had in fact deleted the number was also an expression of trust.
“Good. I must say this little exercise has been fun. I begin to see why you found this Dani Gana character so interesting.”
“Is he really rich?”
“Could be,” Ronzini said. “My man at the Provident Bank says he opened his account with $256,000 from an account in Morocco.”
“Morocco?” Hannibal swerved to avoid a little Mini whose driver was in a great hurry to get up on the ramp to I-395. “I suppose an Algerian might keep his money there. Of course, so might a Russian mobster. I wonder if we can find out where the money was transferred from to get into the Moroccan account.”
“Not likely,” Ronzini said. “They’re a lot like the Swiss. The Arab Bank of Morocco holds a lot of oil money and a lot of sheik money. And they are very big. Whereas some banks boast of half a billion dollars in assets, the Arab
