“I am Sonya Granovsky and this is my daughter Natasha.” Defensiveness and hostility were there, waiting for him to say the wrong thing, for she badly needed someone to attack, to blame.
“I have a son,” said Rostnikov, looking at the young girl.
Sonya Granovsky’s brown eyes looked at him curiously. This was not the conversation she expected.
“He’s in the army now, but I don’t think he likes it. Why would anyone in his right mind except Officer Drubkova like the army?” he said in a whisper.
They fell silent as Rostnikov continued to look at Natasha.
“How old are you?” he said softly.
The mother looked down at her daughter as if she had forgotten the girl was there and was curious about what the answer might be.
“I’d guess you are sixteen,” Rostnikov said.
“Fourteen,” the girl said, without refocusing her eyes.
Rostnikov sighed and spoke even more softly, so softly that it almost seemed that he was speaking to himself.
“My father died when I was fourteen,” he said. “For a few years after that I had trouble deciding whether I had liked him or not. I still have trouble, but I think I understand him better now. It always surprises me to think that I am now older than my father ever was. Did you like your father?”
The mother turned her head fully to the daughter now, definitely curious about the answer.
“I don’t think so,” said the girl. “No…I did like him…I…”
She was almost on the verge of tears, and Rostnikov pushed her a little further, unsure of whether he was doing it primarily for her therapy or to break through to conversation quickly, for once Karpo and Tkach came the approach would have to change and time might be lost. Rostnikov chewed at his lower lip and turned around to look down at the corpse.
“To tell the truth,” he said. “For years I felt guilty about not liking my father. It was only after I became a man that I began to feel sorry for that fourteen-year-old boy who carried all that guilt for something that was not his fault. I felt better about my father after that.”
He kept his back turned to the two women, but he could hear the sound of sobs suppressed, a spurt and then the gentle cry of grief. He had not wanted hysteria and had done his best to avoid it and had succeeded. He rose slowly and took off his coat. There were many questions, many things to do. He felt terrible, he felt wonderful. He felt the excitement of the chase and the inevitable curiosity at his lack of regret over the victim. He almost wished that it would not turn out to be too simple. Before it was over, Rostnikov would remember that wish and regret it.
CHAPTER THREE
“So,” Rostnikov said, “Who would want to do such a terrible thing?” He looked back over his shoulder to see if he would get a response, would break through the sobbing. If not, he would try again. It sometimes happened, actually more times than it did not, that a close friend, a neighbor, a relative committed a murder and those around indeed knew and could provide the name immediately. Rostnikov sensed that it would not be that simple, but not to try would be an error that might come back to haunt him.
Sonya Granovsky held her daughter and turned cold eyes on the pacing policeman.
“You,” she said. “You killed him. One of you came in here and killed him, killed him for what he thought, what he said, what he wanted.”
Grief had made the woman speak out in a way she would never have spoken in a natural state. It was refreshing and somewhat astonishing for Rostnikov to hear such outcries, and he secretly enjoyed moments of honesty, though he hid his pleasure behind a patient nod and sigh. In most cases, Russians had learned to control their outrage or kill it. Complaints were fruitless and could be dangerous.
“I did not kill your husband,” he said softly.
“Not you, one of you, K.G.B.,” she shouted. “They were following him, threatening him.”
“No,” said Rostnikov, wondering if he could ask for a cup of tea, not to keep the woman busy but to have something to do with his hands that wanted to touch objects in the room, the small painting on the wall, or to reach out and engulf the two thin women, to comfort and quiet them.
“No,” he repeated. “Listen, it is not beyond the power of the state to act, but like this? No point. It is not…”
“Clean?” she finished, her body shaking.
“Clean, a good word,” Rostnikov agreed.
“You did it,” she repeated, turning her eyes back to the corpse. “That is what happened, what we will say, what I know. You can kill us, beat us, send us to the Vladimirka prison, but that is what we will say, what we know,”
Rostnikov had seen this look before. He had lost for the moment. She had fixed on the idea, grasped it like a god, a cause, something to exist or be martyred for. She would, at least for now, cling to the belief that her husband had been killed by the state. The three, detective, woman, and girl, all looked at the body. A spot of blood had grown larger, seeping through the sheet. It spread in an uneven pattern, as if it had life, were groping. It cast a spell broken by a knock at the door.
Officer Drabkova opened the door and stood back to let Karpo and Tkach in. Karpo the Tatar looked first at Rostnikov, whose look told him how to act. Tkach looked first at the corpse, then at the two women and finally at Rostnikov, who made a nod to draw the two men closer.
“Officer Drubkova,” Rostnikov whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “will you please take Mrs. Granovsky and her daughter…” and he was at a loss as to where they could go. They certainly couldn’t sit there watching the corpse. “Mrs. Granovsky, do you have someplace you can stay, someplace-”
“Our place is here,” she spat back.
“You can hate me just as well in another apartment,” he countered.
“No,” she said between her teeth, “it is easier here.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Rostnikov agreed, “but I can’t have it. We have work to do, a murderer to find. We can take you to a cell.”
“Fine,” said Sonya Granovsky, straightening her back and indeed, it would be fine with her. Rostnikov knew he had made a mistake.
“Why don’t I take them someplace and question them?” Karpo said, turning his eyes on the two women. Sonya Granovsky looked up at the gaunt, almost corpse-like figure and suppressed a shudder.
“My brother, Kolya, he lives near,” she said, “he might…”
“He will,” Rostnikov added emphatically. “Officer Drubkova will see that you get there.”
Drubkova moved quickly to the two women and helped them up with more gentleness than Rostnikov had thought she possessed. The girl was still crying softly as Officer Drubkova helped her put her coat on. Sonya Granovsky dressed herself and turned to face Rostnikov once more at the door. Her hat was on an angle, a comic angle like Popov the Clown. Maybe with a wisp of hair in her eyes she would look like the dissheveled American actress whose name he couldn’t remember.
“I meant what I said,” she said with a tremor.
Rostnikov nodded and watched Drubkova lead the two figures out.
“Drubkova,” he called when the door was almost shut and the woman hurried back into the room. “You, personally, are to remain with them all night. If they don’t let you stay in the apartment, remain outside as close as you can. Hear what you can hear and prepare a report. You will be relieved in the morning. Tkach, see to it.”
Tkach nodded and Drubkova left, her brown uniform tight with pride.
When the door closed, Rostnikov went to the sofa and sat heavily in it. Karpo knelt by the body and pulled back the sheet.
“Tkach, go out in the hall and tell the man out there to have the evidence people get up here now.” Tkach did as he was told and Rostnikov watched Karpo examine the body.
“You frightened that poor grieving widow,” Rostnikov said with a smile.
