said Rostnikov.
Raisa shrugged.
“We have the records and a newspaper photograph of you carrying your dead son who was killed in a gun battle between the two gangs.”
“I should have protected him with my body,” she said, shaking her head. “I keep seeing it, feeling myself trying to think.”
“There was no man in a coat,” said Rostnikov, “was there?”
Raisa shrugged again and looked up at Karpo. There was no sympathy, no condemnation in the pale face of the policeman.
“No,” she said.
“Would you like to tell us what happened, or shall we keep fishing?” asked Rostnikov. “I fish fairly well, but it helps if the fish cooperates. It is less painful for the fish and the final results are the same.”
Raisa Munyakinova began rocking forward and back, looking at the floor as she spoke.
“I made up the man in the coat and told the night manager of the health club that he was there, and later that he had left. The night manager seems to believe that he saw this man. You want to know why he believes?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“Because I am nobody,” she said. “My son was a nobody. I am a drudge, a woman with no face who cleans men’s hair from toilet seats and mops up vomit and sprays showers that smell of alcohol.
They don’t look at me. They don’t see me. I’m sure the monsters who murdered my little boy forgot about him in minutes, if they ever thought about him at all.”
“Why did you take the body of Valentin Lashkovich to the river and how did you do it?” asked Karpo.
“I knew someday it was possible that a smart policeman would figure out as you have that I was working in each hotel on the night of the executions,” she said. “I wanted to make it look as if he had been killed and dumped in the river, killed somewhere other than the hotel. I’m very strong. The death of my baby made me even stronger. I shot him and he staggered through the door and into the pool. There he died. I pulled his body out of the water and put it in a garbage can, covered it with garbage and a few torn towels, and put the can on a two-wheel lift I knew was in the cleaning supply room. There is an old man named Nikolai at the back door near the loading dock. I am as invisible to him as I am to everyone else. He asked me nothing, even opened the door for me. I told him I was taking the garbage out. I sometimes do that. So did the other women. I hurried, but I did not run. I saw few people on the streets. I dumped the body and the garbage in the river and hurried back. Nikolai didn’t even notice that I had been gone far longer than was needed to dump garbage.”
“The gun?” asked Rostnikov.
Raisa kept rocking.
“The gun,” Rostnikov repeated gently.
“I bought it from a neighbor’s husband,” she said. “I know I paid far too much for it. I didn’t care. He showed me how to use it. He’s a cab driver. He has more guns.”
“Do you know where it is now?”
“I threw it in the gutter on the way home last night.”
“Then you decided you were through killing?” asked Rostnikov.
“I decided I needed a new gun,” she said. “If I go to jail for a hundred years, I will live, and when I get out, I’ll kill every man who was on the street the day my only child was killed. He played the violin. Did you know that?”
“No,” said Rostnikov.
“A little boy who played the violin beautifully,” she said, looking at the impassive Karpo. “Little boys who play the violin should grow up to play in orchestras, concert halls. They should not be shot in the head by monsters who do not even care what they have done. Do they hear music, these monsters?”
“No,” said Karpo.
“No,” repeated the woman. “And now?”
“Now,” said Rostnikov with a sigh as he stood awkwardly. “You come with us to Petrovka. There is a place where you can sleep tonight. Tomorrow, we shall see. Take some things with you.”
Raisa stood up, nodding dumbly. She was standing in front of Emil Karpo, looking into his eyes.
“I did what had to be done,” she said. “You understand?”
“Yes,” said Emil Karpo. “I understand.”
Chapter Twelve
Iosef stood in Director Yaklovev’s outer office. Seated to Iosef ’s right were the soccer coach Oleg Kisolev, Yevgeny Pleshkov, and Yulia Yalutshkin, who sat erect and quite beautifully calm, smoking an American cigarette. Pleshkov, now quite sober, once again the politician, looked at his watch. There were only three chairs in the outer office where Iosef waited with his prisoners. Even had there been another, Iosef would not have sat. He was on the brink of his first real success as an investigator. The suspects were before him. The evidence was inescapable, and though he had no great fondness for the Yak, he did respect his ability, intellect, and ruthlessness. Yaklovev would follow through.
“I have a committee meeting at the Kremlin in one hour,”
Pleshkov said to Pankov, who sat behind his desk trying not to look at Yulia Yalutshkin, or, at least, not let anyone know he was looking at her. “And I have an important speech to prepare. One that will have great consequences for our country.”
“The director will see you shortly,” Pankov said with what was intended as an ingratiating, apologetic smile.
Oleg Kisolev was neither a politician nor a prostitute. He was very bad at hiding his emotions. Now he sat slightly slumped, his tongue running over his lower lip, glancing frequently at the for-bidding door of the director of the Office of Special Investigation.
After ten minutes, the Yak opened his door and stood looking at the three people seated against the wall across from him.
“
The three rose from their chairs, with Pleshkov leading the way and Yulia and Oleg behind him. Iosef started in after them, but Yaklovev held up a hand.
“Wait here, Inspector Rostnikov. I will call you in later. Pankov, no visitors, no calls unless there is a real emergency.”
“Yes, Com. . Director Yaklovev.”
Pankov still had no idea what he would do to determine if something was an emergency. If he believed in a god, Pankov would pray. All he could do was hope.
Yaklovev entered his office and closed the door.
Iosef looked at his watch. He had been running madly through the night, gathering information, evidence, listening to Paulinin ramble at two in the morning. Iosef wanted to be with Elena. He had not seen her since the dog had attacked her. By the time he had arrived at the doctor’s office and rooms, Elena had already left for home. He had no time to go see her, but the fact that she could go home was a good sign. She might be wondering where he was and what was so important, if he really loved her, as he claimed, that he could not get away for a few minutes to see her. No, that was not Elena’s way. Many others Iosef had known would have been hurt by his absence, pouted, complained. Not Elena. At least he did not think so.
There was nothing to be done at the moment. Iosef did what his father did. He took out a paperback, a German translation of three plays by Tom Stoppard. Iosef shared his father’s passion for reading but not American mysteries. Iosef ’s favorites were plays, particularly those by Gogol, all of which he had read many times.
Reading now would not be easy. How was Elena? What was going on in the Yak’s office?
There was no point in talking to Pankov, who had returned to the paperwork on his desk. Pankov was sweating, though it was not particularly warm in the outer office.
