Sasha felt lucky. This was only the second Mark they had tracked down and he was certain this was the right one. But he also felt depressed. The Chazov boys were only eleven, nine, and seven. The young child he had just seen was just a few years younger than his daughter, Pulcharia. He had a sudden vision of his daughter lying with her head crushed by a rock. He pushed the image away, but it mocked him by coming back even clearer.
“What’s wrong, Sasha?” Zelach asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“You work here alone?” asked Rostnikov as he looked around the dark garage, which was about the size of a tennis court.
Three cars were parked in the rear. It was difficult to make out exactly what they were because there were only two lights in the garage, both dim, and two windows, both dirty. But Rostnikov and Hamilton could make out piles of automobile parts. In the middle of the floor was a black BMW hoisted on wooden blocks with four fully extended bumper jacks firmly locked on the undercarriage.
“No,” said Artiom Solovyov, wiping his hands. “I have an assistant.”
The man looked a bit like an ape with a handsome battered face and dark hair in need of a cut. He wore a pair of dark slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt with vertical blue stripes.
“Where is he?” asked Rostnikov.
“Where is he? Boris is home. He is ill,” said Artiom with a sigh, looking around. “And all this work.”
“So you have to do it yourself?” asked Hamilton.
Artiom had tried not to look at the tall black man next to the policeman. The black man had dark, disbelieving eyes.
“What choice have I?” asked Artiom with a shrug.
“Then why aren’t you in work clothes? Why aren’t you covered in grime?” asked Rostnikov.
Artiom Solovyov now looked from man to man in front of him. They had said they had some routine questions about a crime and that he might know the victim. Artiom had emerged from his tiny office with its thin waffle-metal walls. He had smiled and said he had never been involved with something exciting like this before and had pledged his cooperation. But the questions were getting too uncomfortable.
“I just arrived, right before you,” Artiom said. “I was doing some paperwork and-”
“The full name and address of your mechanic,” said Rostnikov.
“Ah … I don’t think I have his address. He just moved. His name is Boris, Boris Ivanov.”
“Shouldn’t be hard to find,” said Hamilton. “How many Boris Ivanovs are there in Moscow?”
“Probably close to two thousand,” said Rostnikov. And then to Artiom, “Alexei Porvinovich.”
Artiom blinked and didn’t answer.
“You know a man named Alexei Porvinovich.”
Fight the panic. How did they find him so quickly? How did they find him at all? They couldn’t have too much on him since they weren’t simply grabbing him right away and hauling him off to the local police station for a “conversation.” Artiom had been the victim of such “conversations” in the past. More than once he had been pulled in to the local station, each time by the same cop, who suggested that Artiom’s garage was a refuge for stolen cars. Each time, Artiom had denied it. Each time, he had been hauled in, placed in a small room, and beaten by the policeman. The last time this happened, Artiom lost part of his hearing in his left ear. He never got it back. The irony was that Artiom did not deal in stolen automobiles. He had insisted, sworn, and endured beatings, but finally he had agreed to pay the policeman a manageable amount each month. The irony had mounted when a local mafia of Chechens also visited him. Artiom had agreed instantly to pay them. If he had not, he was sure, he would have had more than a minor hearing loss. Were he not paying the policeman and the Chechen mafia, he would now have more money. And without the payments and Anna Porvinovich’s demands for him at the oddest of times, he would probably not have considered kidnapping Alexei Porvinovich. And now he had to cope with these two new policemen who knew something.
“Porvinovich,” Artiom repeated, looking up at the rusting ceiling and touching his chin as if deep in thought. “Porvinovich. I think I have a customer with that name. I can check my books.”
“You don’t remember for certain?” the black man asked.
“I have a thriving business. Lots of customers. Some come only once. Some come twice. Some keep coming back.”
“This is the Alexei Porvinovich whose home you called less than an hour ago,” said Rostnikov.
“I made a long list of calls,” Artiom said with a shrug, hoping he was not sweating. He sweated easily. It was something Anna said she liked about him. “You know, with my mechanic out, everything will be running late and-”
“You remember the call?” the black man asked. “You spoke to Mrs. Porvinovich. You’ve met her. You could hardly forget her.”
“Porvinovich,” Artiom pondered. “Ah, yes, that one. A beauty. Not my type.”
“What is your type?” asked Rostnikov.
“Big. Blond. Loud. Not too smart,” he said with a grin.
“Just the opposite of Mrs. Porvinovich,” said the black man.
“I suppose,” said Artiom.
“So?” said Rostnikov. “You called her.”
“Yes, ah, yes. Now I remember,” he said, hitting his forehead with the palm of his right hand. “They were scheduled to bring in their car, a black Buick. I said I couldn’t take care of it. She seemed quite upset that she couldn’t make a new appointment.”
“Mrs. Porvinovich does not strike me as the kind of woman who, if she were upset, would allow herself to display it to a mechanic,” said the black man.
“I’m perceptive,” Artiom almost pleaded. “It’s a gift and a curse from my mother. She was perceptive too. Could see right through to people’s souls.” With this, he laid a palm across his chest in a suggestion of where one’s soul might be found.
“What am I feeling?” asked the black man.
“I never got your name,” said Artiom, extending his hand.
“Craig Hamilton,” said the black man, taking Artiom’s quite moist hand. “What am I feeling?” he repeated.
“I’m sorry. My intuition is hindered by a lack of familiarity with Africans.”
“Then what am
“That I know something or am guilty of something,” said Artiom. “But I tell you, I promise you, I pledge to you: You are wrong. If you’ll just tell me what you want, I-”
“You kidnapped Alexei Porvinovich,” said Rostnikov. “You and your assistant, Boris. If you have killed Porvinovich, you shall be tried and executed, as you well know. If he is alive, life will be hard, but you will at least exist. Look at this bush.”
Rostnikov pulled a notebook from his pocket and opened it to the page with the flowering bush he had sketched earlier.
Artiom looked at the picture. It was not at all badly rendered. “Yes?” asked he.
“Do you know what kind of bush it is?”
“No,” said Artiom. “I know nothing of plants. I know cars.”
“If you have killed Porvinovich,” said Rostnikov, taking another look at the picture of the bush and returning it to his pocket, “then you will never see a flowering bush again.”
“I did not kidnap Alexei Porvinovich,” Artiom cried with sincerity. “I’m an honest businessman. Ask Sergeant Boronov. I run an honest business.”
“And you go to bed with Anna Porvinovich,” said Rostnikov.
“And with her brother,” added Hamilton.
Artiom’s sincerity turned to anger.
“What are you saying? That I’m a homosexual? I am not.”
“Then,” said Rostnikov, “you have had sex only with Mrs. Porvinovich?”
“I haven’t had sex with anybody,” Artiom protested, both hands moving up and down.
“You are celibate?” said Hamilton.
“I didn’t say … What do you want?”
